Warrior's Moon A Love Story (8 page)

“Why should you be ashamed that a good man fought for your honor and safety?  ‘Tis what good men do, daughter.  God himself would want it.  Honor and virtue and life are truly the most precious of anything on earth.  No good man would hesitate to defend them.  And why should Peyton not kiss you?  He loves you dearly, as you love him.  It’s no wonder he’s troubled today.  He would never forgive himself if you were harmed.”  She smiled again.  “He’s devoted a good portion of his life already to keeping you safe from harm.  I doubt he’s going to stop anytime soon.”

“No.  I doubt that as well.  He’s already made me vow not to come out of the kitchen until he comes inside to get me from now on.”  She finally smiled a true smile back at her mother.  “I accused him of having watching over me branded on his forehead.”

Her mother nodded with satisfaction.  “That, young lady, is why your mother trusts him so with her daughter.”  She
leaned and smoothed back the tendril curls that had escaped to caress Chantaya’s cheek.  “Still, you do need to have met lots of young men so you can know for sure who you love.  If you settle down, even with the right man, without getting to know others, you may always wonder if you made the right decision.”

             
                                        
 
SSSS

Peyton came back in the afternoon and he and Chantaya went to see Mordecai.  Peyton was strangely quiet on the walk there and even while they visited, and finally, on the way home, Chantaya questioned him, “Peyton, are you truly vexed at me?”

He gave her the grin that had been so markedly missing this day.  “What have you done now, girl, that I should be vexed over?”

“Well, nothing more than usual, but you didn’t even get after me when I let Bartok gallop before I was fairly in the saddle and you took leaves out of my hair and smoothed it without saying anything.  Are you well?”

He chuckled.  “Oh, so what you’re saying is that something is amiss because I’m not vexed at you.  Is that it?”

Somewhat sheepishly, she grinned back at him.  “Perhaps it is.  You didn’t answer me.  Are you well?”

The smile left his eyes and she could’ve sworn he sighed quietly as he said, “I am.  Still feeling guilty every time I look at the bruises on your face, but well otherwise.  Are you?”

“Well, or guilty?”  She looked sideways at him with a small smile.

“I already know you’re guilty.  You’ve fair admitted it.  Are you well?”

She nodded her head positively.  “Yes.  Absolutely well.”

“Absolutely well enough to go cook for the Bealles tonight?  Or should I speak with them?”

“I will cook.  In fact, I shall cook something fair tempting just to prove that I am well.  Would you like to come have supper at the tavern?  That way, you’ll have a wonderful meal as well as knowing you’ve watched over me.”

He slung a long arm
round her shoulder as they walked.  “Indeed, I will do just that.  You can’t get into too much mischief that way.  And I shall look forward to supper.”

                                                       
Chapter 5

Peyton lingered long over a tankard of cider after his meal and stared into the flames of the fire as he waited for Chantaya to finish for the night.  For the first time in his life, he was at an impasse.  Typically, his life was as simple as putting in an honorable day’s labor working with his father, then going on to find something to pass the few hours he had to himself and finally falling into bed tired and starting the next day.  Lately, however, there was a problem.  And last night, that problem had grown exponentially.

Ever since he’d become close to Mordecai, there had been a knowledge that he needed to do more with his life than become a simple peasant thatcher.  He’d known it for a couple of years now as he and Mordecai trained for some future service to someone, somewhere.  For a long time with Mordecai, Peyton had assumed he would stay in the village and assist with protecting the village, but yesterday Mordecai had spoken of Peyton becoming a squire, then becoming a knight for the king.  There was swelling unrest in the realm and the king had great need for honorable, capable warriors behind him to stay the hands of those who would try to overthrow him and harm his loyal subjects.  The ever rumbling young Lord Rosskeene was a clear example of that.

While the suggestion of becoming a squire had instantly thrilled Peyton, his first thought was to look over to where Chantaya was just then grooming Mordecai’s striking new piebald horse with the wild splash of white across its shoulder.  Would it matter if he could have a chance to leave his peasant station behind and possibly become ultimately far more wealthy and well known than a village thatcher, if he had to walk away from that beautiful girl over there?  And what would become of her?  She wasn’t your ordinary village maid.

She was prettier and smarter and far better educated than most girls.  And what of that sweet intrepidness that so appealed to something deep inside Peyton?  With another she was more than likely to be tagged as peculiar or worse, hailed as a witch and cast out.  People didn’t know how to deal well with a free spirit like Chani’s sometimes.  She would be squelched at best and Peyton hated to even wonder at a worse turn of events.

Always, Peyton had known that someday, in the future, he wished to settle down with a good wife and have a handful of children at his knee.  Since he was about eleven, those hoped for children all sported dark, silken curls and Chantaya’s smile. 

It hadn’t truly sunk into his mind until now that knighthood and marriage might not meld together very well.  And last night, seeing that man standing over her threatening her.  And then Peyton holding her in his arms as he tried to comfort her.  It had brought a whole new dimension to his dreams of someday. 

In his life, he’d teased her and tormented her and even hauled her around from time to time, but never had he hugged her like that and it had done something to his very
marrow.  After holding her last night and being so angry over another man’s rough treatment of her, Peyton had become painfully aware that his someday wasn’t all so far in the future.  It couldn’t be.  First off, he’d die if he had to keep from holding her again after finding just how sweet it had been, and secondly, she was too strikingly pretty.  He needed to marry her soon if only for her own safety from other interested men.  Most would leave her alone if they knew she had a husband, especially one destined to become a knight.

But she was only fifteen.  For that matter, he himself was only nearly twenty, but somehow, that sweet, curly headed three year old he’d plucked out of that violent storm all those years ago had grown into an exquisite woman who had become more than his best friend.  She’d grown and entwined her life around his until she was part of his soul.  He loved her like he’d never known was possible and had absolutely no idea what to do about it. 

There was no way he could walk away from her for a mere chance to become wealthy.  And yet in that, he knew that indeed some things, like fighting for the good of the land, were more important than life itself.  Possibly even more important than true love, although when he was striding close enough to Chantaya to smell the sweet herbs she gathered, that seemed impossible. 

Worst of all, knighthood aside, she thought he was just a big brother.  How did he make the leap with her from childhood playmate, to her being the mother of his handful of children?  She was so sweet and innocent she probably didn’t even understand yet how children came to be.  She was hardly more than a child herself, although to look at her, you’d never know that.  She’d grown to an incredibly
desirable young woman.  How under heaven could he even speak with her of what he wished to become to her?

He took another swallow of his now lukewarm cider, pushed the tankard aside, glanced
round at the now deserted tavern and cocked his head to listen.  She was singing in the kitchen as she cleaned up.  A clear, sweet song he’d heard before about a lonesome warrior on a far, lonely battlefield.  ‘Twas fitting enough that it made him groan inwardly.  He stared into the flames for another long minute as he prayed silently for the guidance he suddenly felt in desperate need of.  He needed far more wisdom than he knew how to scrape up for this one.  He needed God’s guidance more than ever in his young life.  Too much was at stake here, no matter what he chose to do.

Finishing his prayer, he pushed the bench back, picked up his tankard and took it into the kitchen where he put it into her dish pan of warm, soapy water and commenced to wash it and the other last few dishes that awaited her attention.  She looked up from where she was wrapping up the vegetables she hadn’t used, broke off her singing and smiled at him in surprise.  “Peyton, pray tell, what are you up to?  You mustn’t come in here and do that.  Mrs. Bealle will skin me if she thinks I’m making the patrons wash up.” 

He smiled a lazy smile and reached for another plate.  “Mrs. Bealle knows her streak of prosperity would come to a slashing halt if she skinned her marvelous and pretty cook, Chani.  I think you’re safe after that fine meal, even with me in the kitchen.”

Chantaya laughed, but then she came to him and looked up into his eyes for a long moment before reaching up to lay a gentle hand against his cheek.  “What has stolen your smile,
Pey?  Last night seems to have troubled you even more than me.  Or is it something else?  Can the cook know?”

He gave her a sad smile and turned back to her wash basin, wishing he could indeed talk to her about all that was on his mind.  She was smart enough she’d probably be able to figure out a solution to it all, had he dared tell her.

That night, after he took her safely home and went back to his parents’, they were discussing what was to become of the villagers with Lord Rosskeene constantly raising the rents and harassing his tenants as he was.  Peyton climbed the ladder into the little loft that now felt incredibly crowded as large as he’d grown, and sprawled down next to his already sleeping younger brother.  Would that he could be as carefree as Tristan still appeared.  He obviously wasn’t overly concerned with the state of the kingdom or alluring girls, snoring as he was.

             
                                        
 
SSSS

Chantaya spent another restless night what with memories of being accosted and then wondering why Peyton had pulled away from her so obviously.  She wasn’t sure if he was vexed with her, or just fatigued from worry and two late nights, but he wasn’t his usual happy self and it in turn made her feel inexplicably irritable.  She couldn’t help but wonder if he was deeply regretting his kissing her head when they were upset.  She hoped not.

She’d thought a lot about what her mother had said during their conversation about romance and that last comment about being acquainted with lots of young men had struck a chord with Chantaya, especially after how Peyton’s kiss had effected her and now he’d pulled so hard away.  Maybe her thoughts about Peyton becoming more than
brotherly were exactly opposite of what he was thinking or what he wanted.  She had no way of knowing except to know for sure he wasn’t happy with something just now.

Deciding that at fifteen, it was certainly time to begin the process of making sure she knew what she preferred in a husband, she finished her morning chores and decided to go into the village and do some studying on just what kind of man she desired to marry.  She stopped at the Wolfgars to see if either Peyton or Tristan were around to go with her, but both of them were out helping their father with a thatching job over east, so she pulled the hood of her cloak up and set out on her own.  After all, she was already older than her mother was when she’d met her father and they’d met in a village.  At a shoemaker’s shop, if Chantaya remembered correctly.

She started at the millers and picked up flour, but there were only the miller’s sons and she knew from long experience she definitely wasn’t interested in ending up one of their wives, not in this lifetime certainly.  They were shy and backward and nondescript and she hated the way they wouldn’t ever look at her when they said something.  She couldn’t sit across a breakfast table from that for life, that was a sure notion. 

Moving on to the smithy, she dropped off the kettle that needed repairing and paused only a moment to admire the brawny shoulders of the apprentice there before she noticed the trouble the young man had with a skin condition on his face.  No doubt, the constant heat and perspiration from the fires made his skin worse, but nevertheless, she didn’t think he was the one for her.  Not when Peyton and Tristan were both incredibly handsome and had superior shoulder muscles anyway.  She wondered if she should tell the smithy’s
apprentice about making a balm of bitterroot to smooth on his face of a night.  ‘Twould certainly help with those lesions if she could figure out a way to bring the subject up. 

Shaking her head at the thought, she turned next to the cobbler two shops down.  She had no notion if there were any young men here, because she so seldom purchased shoes, but her mother’s needed repairing and Chantaya had to have a new pair for winter anyway. 

Stepping into the door, she looked up and into a beady pair of eyes and was at once wishing she had Peyton with her.  The cobbler had to have been twenty five years her senior, but that didn’t stop him from looking her up and down and then grinning up at her almost leeringly.  She quickly left the shoes to be repaired, then stepped back out of the little shop where she paused on the stoop to roll her eyes and take a deep breath.  Heavens!  Growing old alone like Mordecai was looking better by the moment.  This was the least enjoyable morning she’d had in months.

She shifted the heavy bag of flour to her other arm and flexed the elbow that had begun to tire.  She was only going on to the market.  This inventorying of potential husbands was dreadful and made her shoulders ache.  She should have picked up the flour last. 

Stepping inside, she selected a packet of needles, a spool of darning thread and some lamp oil before glancing around the store in a half hearted attempt to take stock of any young males, then rolled her eyes and even crossed them. 
Land of Liverpool!
  The clerk was easily as wide as he was tall and he smiled up at her with thick lips that bulged under a sparse collection of stringy, intermittent, apricot colored whiskers.  He pushed off of a low stool to stand, set aside the pastry he was eating, wiped his hand on his trousers and asked if he could be of assistance. 

Oh, gracious!  She’d forgotten the Larimer’s son.  He never even attempted to speak to her when Peyton or Tristan was with her.  She wanted to put a hand to her forehead just at the thought o
f marriage to this rotund young . . .  She wasn’t even sure what to call him.  Fellow maybe?  He seemed nine years old, but then he had those odious whiskers.  What had she been thinking to come in here on a husband scouting excursion. 
Oh, Chantaya!  Spinsterhood it is for you! 
Utter loneliness would be better than this.

Quickly, she paid for her purchases and nearly leaped out the door and headed for home.  This was more than enough getting to know the available men.  She’d stay unmarried for the next several decades at least after this morning.

She met Peyton coming down the cobbled street and she finally took a deep breath.  My, but he was the most refreshing sight she’d seen in ages.  Tall and fit, bold and handsome.  Oh!  And distressed about something.  She finally took in his grimace and wondered what had upset him as he strode up to her.        

He carefully took her bag of flour and glanced her up and down as if checking to see if she was well and whole, then asked, “What are you doing, Chani?  I’ve been near all over the village looking for you.”

“I’ve simply been making my needed purchases and errands.  Pray, whatever is wrong, Peyton?”

People were watching the two of them and she turned and headed back down the way toward their homes as his grimace deepened, and he asked, “I was just concerned.  You’ve been making purchases from every possible merchant
in town?  The blacksmith, Chani?  You don’t even own a horse.  And alone?  What’s gotten into you?  I thought you hated this kind of venture.”

She sighed and rolled her shoulders.  “Don’t I indeed.  It’s been dreadful.”

“What has?  Has someone offended you?  Tell me who and I’ll speak with them.”