Ronan's Bride (4 page)

There was not much to supervise however, until the men began bringing in nuts, wheat, wine and goods. She had discovered that Ronan had ordered a bed brought into the other half of the solar, padded with a down mattress, and fitted with hangings he himself possessed.

Sefare did as he commanded nonetheless, and stayed away from him. Even though she was aware of where he was, and what he did, through talk of the servants.

It was a week past his arrival when she donned a brown gown with snug sleeves, split panels below the waist, to allow room for riding. There was another sturdy skirt beneath it. She did not intend to ride yet, but had been biding her time, having watched the people in the courtyard, and marking the female of about twenty-two years, who was apparently the Smith.

She felt she had done well inside and had confidence the cook and staff knew the routine. Most were better able to make decisions than she, given they were familiar with the countryside—and the types of game and preparing it. She had not decorated the castle beyond seeing to beds and trundles, making sure the females could sew linen, checking the buttery and stores, the laundry, before leaving them to tasks.

Sefare had lived amid the opulence and riches in her husband’s château and the castle at their family seat, and admired none of it. It meant nothing if one was not safe and happy. This castle was meant to house an army, and it seemed that Ronan’s men were as adept at setting up barracks, seeing to stables, and all else, just as proficiently. Ronan and all those around him were strictly disciplined.

Sefare did discover that Ronan did not sleep in the chambers next door until the bed was prepared. She heard via the lad called Daykin, that he was in the north tower, where his friend, the Celt, had his chambers.

Ever since she had walked in whilst he had been bathing, Sefare had struggled to get the brief image of him from her mind. In truth, it was murky. He had been clear across the room. However, there was an overall blend of pitch hair, long and silky—dark skin, brawn, well chiseled, and thick sinew. In addition, that she had seen his eyes many times, yes his mouth too, which when not held in tight anger, was sensual. It did not sit well with her that she traded the image of him in mask and cowl with icy gray eyes in her mind, for one of him in ocher light with wet skin gleaming. She was positive he looked nothing like that. His covering of scars proved it. However, it did not seem to banish that intimate perception at all.

Because seeing to the staff went so smoothly, she had enough time to think on other things. Whilst he and that image was one, there was another she wanted to see through. Thus, when she donned the brown and headed out to the busy courtyard, she had hopes of success.

* * * *

Keeping her eyes peeled for Ronan, she nodded absently to those who passed her, leading horses, carrying hens by the feet, armed and armored men going about various duties. It was another mild spring day. She gleaned from the staff there were men turning up ground in the back herb gardens and planting seed. As to the courtyard, there were booths and hewn structures, where men and women busily went about repairing leather, scrapping hides, and all manner of craft.

She reached the Smith, who was housed in the arched stone structure, between the stable and barracks. Standing a moment, Sefare merely admired that a female mastered the craft, and was employed at it.

The woman was almost six foot in height, full figured, but dressed mannish in rolled sleeved linen shirt, leather vest, and boots, breeches. She wore an apron that reached her knees. Her hair was braided and down her back, a deep wine red. She wore a cloth under a round studded cap, around her head to keep sweat at bay. She guessed rightly that the woman was young, handsome, but there was a maturity to her features.

After the bellows stopped and the woman finished her current task and stepped back to wipe her brow, Sefare drew her attention by saying, “Your skill is quite amazing.”

The woman glanced at her, dropping the hand from her brow and looking Sefare over with tawny eyes. She nodded respectfully. “I thank you, My Lady. My name is Isola.”

Sefare went forward and clasp her wrist. “I am Sefare.” She released it and motioned to the other section of the shop. “I have been observing you for some days and noted you also have skill with weaponry.”

The woman smiled. “A Smith must know how to repair or fashion most anything. But aye, much of that I do on my own time.” She walked to the section and invited Sefare to come with her. She picked up a sword and Sefare noted the bands at the woman’s wrist and the sureness in which she handled the weapon.

Isola said, as she lifted it and balanced, “My uncle brought many weapons from his travels. My father had no male heirs, only me to instruct in this profession—but Uncle and I would slip out in the forge, and try to duplicate them.”

Those eyes met Sefare’s. “Being younger and unfettered, Uncle was able to travel and to apprentice under the best, both artisans and craftsmen, and he would teach me what he knew. However, father never considered it a serious trade. It is more the nobility who decorate their swords, but sometimes, famed champions of the Tourney do. And in some countries—the sword itself can be the prize.”

She set it down carefully and went on, “However, warriors need their shod steeds, spurs, and armor, their broadswords… ‘Tis that, which feeds a Smith.”

Sefare nodded and touched a beautiful sword, made of some cherry wood, obviously a pattern that a steel one should be designed from. “You have an artist’s gifts. One supposes you test the weapons you make for balance, and must be able to wield them?”

The woman’s brow arched. “Assuredly.”

Sefare held her gaze. “I too can fight but I’m terribly rusty. I have need of someone to spar with, and to exercise with. Would you be willing?”

“Should we not put that matter to Lord Ronan first?”

“No.” Sefare did not look from her. “We shouldn’t bother my husband with it at all.”

A slight smile curved the woman’s lips, and her handsome face showed she understood Sefare perfectly. “I haven’t but two hours perhaps, just after the noon bell.”

“That is perfect.” Sefare set the sword down. “I have my own weapons, and will bring the rest to show you. For your helping me in this, you may choose from among them. Most were my father’s collection, picked up from the battlegrounds in the Holy lands. But there are one or two that traders auctioned in the merchant cities for high prices.”

The woman was obviously eager to see them. She said dryly, “We must find a place to hold these exercises.”

Sefare stepped away and they walked to lean inside the archway, looking out at the grounds and castle, the lay of everything.

“There” Sefare pointed to an alleyway between the old chapel and main keep. “That looks perfect.”

“Aye.”

Sefare glanced aside and up at her again. “I have yet to pick a steed, and know not even if my husband has one to spare.”

The woman said, “He has your white charger, with his own, in the stables. I overheard his telling the Groom to keep the mount from the others as yours seems to be high strung.”

Sefare laughed softly. “Not high strung. He misses me, no doubt. And not even my… the man I wed before, could do much with him.”

The woman was silent, and then Isola said, “The men from Dunnewicke talk as much as others housed here, My Lady. All know of Pagan and Ronan from their fame, and even I have served the tourney circuit many years and have seen them. I was under my father for many of those, but they were our champions—everyone’s champions—who sensed they fought for more than glory.

All know of Lady Illara and her brave deed, also her donning armor to ride at her husband’s side. You will find, My Lady that they know you are her friend, and that your knights came to Dunnewicke’s aide. There is little people do not know, and 'tis needed acknowledged, because of why you fled to England.”

Sefare looked out, watching one of the guards help one of the females draw water from the well they had repaired the day before. “I see.”

The woman’s hand came to touch her shoulder, and Sefare turned to look at her.

Isola offered quietly, her eyes somewhat clouded, “When my father died and his protection went with his death. I was naive, thinking my skill and men having known him, respected him, would lead to my simply carrying on what I was born to do. It did not happen thus. I was a mere seven and ten, and was followed, driving my wagon through one of the port cities.”

That hand dropped and the woman looked away. “I was fortunate in that I could have my case heard in the courts and see them punished. However, that does not bring back my innocent youth and trust, nor does the attitudes and actions of others since; prove that safety and respect are granted me. I survive My Lady, and I live with scars, as you must, where few see them.”

Sefare nodded and confessed, “I was never not brave and fearless. But lived too long in a malicious world where retaliation was not possible. Not even defense. I sometimes think that is harder to live with—that I could not do so.”

“Aye. Given a chance, a sword, I could have likewise.”

Sefare stepped out, and then turned regarding her again. “I think that Lord John, Illara’s father, was wise, being over so many men and in that world, he understood the need of a female to protect herself. However, he had also seen them ride bravely to battle.”

“‘Tis likely why my own father taught me to fight.” The woman nodded.

Sefare smiled slightly. “You miss him…”

“Aye. Daily.” However, the woman straightened and looked beyond Sefare to the castle and sentry. “He would be proud to know who employs me now. He would have served Ronan or Pagan given the chance.”

After they parted, Sefare walked unhurried through the inner bailey, marking faces, observing, and seeing some of her own knights, who greeted her as they passed. She noted the gates were down, and beyond, the drawbridge lowered. She was watching when a party of four crossed, and entered, large hounds yapping and bounding by the warhorses’ sides. Ronan was on another mount, a reddish hunter, and without armor, dressed in green and brown hunting leather, a hide cloak, and a supple brown mask.

She stepped to the side as they rode past, noting the two men in the rear, each had a roe tied to the saddle, and sacks were bulging with small fowl and squirrels.

They rode toward the stables. She witnessed a pair of lads grab the hounds and lead them toward the kennels. Grooms came for the horses, and still more men took the sacks and deer toward the castle.

Ronan spoke to the men. She could not hear but could discern they were proud of their hunt. The one knight led the others off toward the barracks. Ronan turned, striding in her direction.

Sefare assumed he headed toward somewhere else. She had seen his friend, the Celt, with other knights atop the wall with a spyglass.

The closer he came, his muscled legs long and defined through the parted cloak, the more she told herself to go toward the keep, and not stand there as if waiting for him to speak to her. Yet Sefare stared as his hood fell back, and though masked, his deep black hair shone under the sun.

She caught a flash of his strong white teeth when he spoke to a lookout who detained him in passing. In addition, she heard his deep tones, not quite as rasping as she recalled Pagan’s, but holding that same timbre.

Sefare had no notion why she cared—even why she would risk his wrath, by lingering to see if he would speak to her.

His knee-high boots were dusty and scratched. He finally did pause a foot from her.

It was those boots she stared at, even whist hating that it made him think her a coward, to not look at him. Those were not the reasons Sefare chose not to, at first. It was that she could see his smoke gray eyes in her sleep already. And—that disturbed her. It had nothing to do with his masks and scars, and everything to do with her own inner ones.

“You were in need of some assistance?”

“No,” she answered his enquiry. “I was merely enjoying the Spring day.” She wet her lips. “I understand my horse has been brought here. Will it be possible for me to ride—”

“I will arrange to be available to escort you for riding. Perhaps after the noon bell—”

“No.” She jerked her eyes upwards swiftly. “I mean to say, that is not the best time for riding, is it.” She mentally calculated the time it would take for practicing with Isola, and suggested, “Either at sundown, or in the morn, after breaking fast?”

His gray eyes bore into hers. “The morn, mayhap.”

“Thank you.” She looked back down, somewhere at his thighs, as the cloak fluttered back on his shoulders. Afraid she was acting rather odd in her secret, she asked, “Would you not perhaps like to enjoy your kill at the Lord’s Table this eve?”

“I had planned to.”

She chewed her lip then glanced away, around, anywhere but at him. Think, Sefare, quit your staring and think of something normal to say.

“I am sure venison stew will be on the menu.”

“I expect so,” his murmur was dry, almost she thought, amused.

Sefare wiped her hands down her skirt and then nodded. “I shall see you at the meal.” She headed off toward the castle, feeling he had not moved. Ought but his eyes, which followed her.

* * * *