Gayle Eden (26 page)

The fifth seemed a blur of fury, the horses faster and the blows landing harder, an equal hit that lifted the challengers half out of the saddle and left the lances splintered.

The final pass had everyone on edge. Chargers foamed at the bit, blowing hot breaths and snorting. The crowds were silent, eerily so, and Illara held her breath, her chanted prayers, tense muscles, and pounding heart taking her out of her body. Please, please…

The knights rode toward each other, and almost at contact, it appeared as if Stroth’s lance was going straight for Pagan’s heart. To Illara that tip seemed sharper, lethal, and deadly—though it was the same used throughout, more sinister. Pagan turned in a split second move, and allowed the hit to skim a deep crease across his breastplate.

For a moment, no one knew what else occurred, until Stroth dropped like a dead weight from his horse. Pagan’s lance was in his side.

The Marshal held up his hand and prevented anyone from taking the field in assistance. He knelt by the knight and was speaking, then pulled off his helm.

Illara pressed her hands to her churning stomach.

The Marshal stood and shook his head. A sound, half gasp, half awe, came from the spectators.

The crier ran to the Marshal and spoke, then to Pagan. He took the charger by the bit and led him into the center.

The king’s man came aside and called out, “Hail the victor, the innocent, Thorel of Dunnewicke, Pagan de Chevel!”

Crying and nearly tearing Ronan’s arm off. Illara jumped up and down to the cheers and stomping feet of the crowds. Then she was swept up in her brother in law’s arms for a crushing embrace. They went running down, jumping the wall and running for Pagan.

He was dragged off his horse by his brother first, who hugged him and took the helm off him, embracing him tighter. When he loosed him, amid the shouts and cries, the Marshal came to Pagan and handed him a scroll with the king’s seal. It absolved his family of treason, fully cleared were they all—of any crimes against the crown.

Illara was finally able to meet Pagan’s gaze, as he asked the Marshal, “When was this drawn up?”

“It has been before the king in some form for many years—since I saw both you and Ronan on the field the first time in France—I knew whom you were.”

The man glanced between them. “I wanted to say what your father and my dear friend would have. You will always have enemies, and never more than when you are champion—and rewarded with much wealth. Eadwyn’s happiness with his family and pride in it, made him somewhat forget how fickle friendship is. He was Lord here, and no more knight, but he and all of his family, died no less bravely. Not a one, in their own way.”

He stepped back and bowed to them, then kissed Illara’s hand. His smile bloomed and it transformed what had been until then a serious visage. “To you, dear Lady, I offer praise for your spirit. Not since Lady Anne defied her father’s commands to wed me, and climbed out of the tower and rode some hundred miles, on our wedding day—to come to Eadwyn, have I heard of such bravery, and such love. She defied even the king, who could not settle the matter betwixt us, for Eadwyn loved her, but refused to fight me for her. I would neither fight him, and was in a hard place wishing him to have the woman he loved. You are much like her. It is fitting.”

When he turned and exited, leaving the field completely, Pagan took Illara and sat her on his horse. They stood a moment, his hand on Ronan’s shoulder, watching the litter carry a dead knight away.

“He made me kill him,” Pagan said low.

Illara glanced at him, and at Ronan, who had nodded. She supposed in their experience, Pagan had known what to do, his only choice, and Ronan had seen that split second move and understood it.

Afterwards they turned away, and Pagan, leading his horse with her seated atop it, headed for the castle.

The missals hurled at them now were flowers and other harmless objects. Illara chuckled as she recalled a much different reception not so long ago. However, she did note that no one still got too close to Pagan, even to give praise and well wishes.

She parted with the brothers at the entrance.

Tonight would be a celebration and feasting, and even when she stood on the entry landing, she noticed that all of those guests, who had not passed the gatehouse before, were coming into the castle to share it.

Illara headed up to bathe and dress in her best, to later be seated at her Lord’s Table and share in the salute.

First, she wept.

Upon reaching the solar, Illara fell to her knees, and with her arms across her mother’s trunk, she wept in thankfulness, that her husband was alive, that the darkest part of his life was over.

* * * *

Flutes, drums, timbrals, and laughter overflowed the great hall. Wine, mead, and giddiness, along with pride in their master, reined, so that even Dunnewicke servants were dancing between tables.

Some of Dunnewicke and Sefare’s knights on stick crutches, and a few with bandaged heads and arms were not about to be left out of celebrating. Outside, in every corner of the courtyards, and down the walls, torches burned and knights mingled, sang, and drank toasts.

Illara dressed in her green velvet gown and jeweled cap and sat to Pagan’s right, Ronan on his left. The Marshal was packed to depart, but was persuaded to stay for the meal.

Pagan told Illara of that packet given him upon the Baron’s arrival. It was the new town charter. At the best of timing--since many guests had approached, and requested to settle and rebuild in Dunnewicke.

Illara saw Lylie talking with seven women who would settle with their husbands, knights and guards, who would take up the bigger homes, merchant houses that had been abandoned. Nevertheless, merchants too were interested in moving there, or using it for yearly trade, for it would be a good place for a market before one reached the northern fairs.

She drank it all in and visually found the shield that belonged to the previous lord hanging on the walls. It must have been like this often in Dunnewicke, the music, food and laughter, and it must have been like this—the day everything was ripped from them.

Illara felt Pagan take her hand. Glancing at him, she noted his eyes had followed hers. She leaned over to murmur, “They are here now, sharing the joy and celebration. Do you feel them?”

He nodded. “Aye. I felt them in the tower. And, for the first time, felt them follow me out, to here, this great hall—then vanish.”

Illara had a feeling he endeavored to not be overwhelmed by all that was restored him. And, Ronan too who had a future that impulsively had put Sefare in his world.

She, more than most, observed how these men struggled with their marred bodies—with intimacy, and Sefare knew nothing of what he’d suffered really. She supposed it was much easier to deal with her because she had earned his trust. However, aside from what he had gained, there was much privately he was empty of. She did not know if the nightmares would ever stop for Ronan.

When the Lord’s Table was almost empty, and the Marshal seen off, Pagan and Illara went above to the solar. Sitting for a moment on the window seat, they observed a calm night, hearing the sounds of life and joy in every corner of the castle.

Pagan arose at some point, drawing her up with him, before he turned her and began unlatching the gown, little by little stripping it down her body.

He saw to her hose and shoes. Setting her on the bed afterwards, he pulled the tunic over his head, his brass hued eyes going over her like a lover’s touch.

“
My Champion,” she whispered and smiled as Pagan leaned over, forcing her to recline. Her hands came up and unbound his hair, sifting her fingers through it while he braced his weight on his forearms. Her legs dangling off the bed, his between them. The leather of his breeches too supple to hide his rigid sex.

“
I would never have come to this day, had it not been for you.” His lips brushed hers and skimmed over her cheek, her nose, and forehead. “I thought this dawn, would I even be—would I feel all that I do—had you not touched me?”

Illara gave him the kiss Pagan sought next, feeling both possessiveness and passion in the delving of his tongue that ravaged every inch of space inside, and in the movements of his head while he sought to steal her very breath, yet give her his.

When he lifted his head, Pagan began a journey down her body, his hands, and mouth bathing her with strokes of pleasurable passion.

She arched and moved into his touch. “I love you. With all of me—I love you.”

He made a sound in his throat and rose to discard boots and breeches. Pagan shifted her up in the bed. His warm strength settled between her legs, his silken burning skin, and flexing muscle rippling with sensitivity.

He cupped her face, his gaze intense as he rasped, “I love you, Illara. God’s mercy—I never thought to feel it. Would not dream of it in manhood, and even then, could not know what such a thing would feel like.

His thumb brushed her lower lip. “It is lust, possessiveness, pride, and hunger. It is wanting you, needing to see and touch, and taste you. It is that laughter and smile that sun you shine upon me. The courage—that is greater than your frame and your sex. It’s a soul that I can’t touch, but try to, in your breath, essence, and deepest passions.”

Tears ran from her eyes as Pagan finished, “When your father spoke of you, I amid the camp of knights listening, both craved and shuddered. For such a one deserved beauty, light, and joy. And I had neither.”

Illara ran her hands up his back, feeling the scars and welts, the ridges. She rested her hands upon the worst, her eyes holding his. That he knew her, that her father spoke of her to him—and Pagan carried her in his mind, was amazing to her.

“I was born for you, and you survived for me. In your arms, I am free. Your body brings to me all the passion and beauty of your soul, just as your eyes speak a language of their own. You made me believe in all that I had forgotten before.”

She said hushed, “My parents had a great love until the day they died. I had forgotten until this morning that was the greatest lesson they taught me, without a word. Simply by their strength and devotion in it, the honor they gave to each other. The most significant thing about courage and honor—and what is worth fighting for. It was loving they showed me, and even death holds no power over it.”

He kissed her again and took her hands, holding them clasped with his as their bodies joined. His hard and hers silken, damp, and soft. On a breath of pleasure Pagan whispered, “I want life, Illara. Life with you.” Pagan began to move and make love to her sensually, deeply, and erotically.

She took his strokes, returned his love and passion, with cries and whispers, with her soul and body that worshipped him as he did her.

The night had no end, with seldom-parted bodies, lips that tasted, hands that held tightly to each other. It was freedom with no constraints on expressing love, verbally and physically

On the dawn, when Pagan slipped from the bed. Illara saw his image as he had removed his mask some time in the night. When Pagan was dressed and gone, she whispered, “Beautiful…” and drifted back to sleep.

Chapter Fourteen

Two months later…

Lylie, Pagan, and Illara, along with several knights, stood just before the gatehouse, watching Ronan’s men load the last of the wagons. Ualtar was with him, already astride his horse, with his packhorse behind.

Sefare’s knights were lined aside each of the wagons.

Ronan embraced Lylie and teased, “I would carry you off with me, but I think you are as much of Dunnewicke, as we are.”

She wept and chuckled, “I would go, but be homesick half way. Besides, you will be some time getting your… affairs in order, and settling in your castle, when the rest are dealt with. But we will see each other—often.”

He pressed a box in her hands. “Aye. We will.”

Ronan turned to Illara. He leaned down and softly kissed her lips. He lifted his head and took her hands. “Words will never serve to relay all that I should want to.”

“There’s no need.” She kissed his hands in return. “Take care of yourself. We expect you on holy days. And do not forget …Sefare.”

He frowned and grunted, but managed, “I will send you word soon.”

He faced Pagan, and even Illara could feel the severing hurting the both of them. It was time, and necessary, and it was good, yet it was so profoundly difficult.

They clasped wrists, and then embraced. Illara looked away because she felt the tremble in her husband, the vibrations in him that were part of his deeper emotions. They were the protectors of each other, the like soul and spirit, in a world they could not bear to face unmasked. Though Pagan had love, his brother had only a future filled with unknowns.

She glanced back as the embrace was broken. Ronan turned quickly and hurried to his horse.

He was half through the gates, before she ran to catch up.

Illara jumped up and took the hand he had reached down, and told him, “I’m going to have a baby. Your nephew or niece. I expect you to be uncle and Godfather, so you’d better keep your word, and come back.”

His smile was huge, and his eyes shone as he let her hand go. “Thank you, Illara. And—send word before the birthing.”