Gayle Eden (6 page)

Turning again, Illara faced the flushed cheeks of a young man of perhaps nineteen. He twisted his leather hat in his hands and bowed. “Milady.”

“Sir.”

He flushed darker. “Not, Sir. I am the Kennel keeper here, my name is Ivo.”

“Good morning, Ivo.” She grinned at him and let him go to his own business because he obviously was in need.

She exited via one of the entry doors, battered with both wintry air and flakes of snow. Whilst she pulled up the hood, Illara stood looking at all the tracks in the courtyard. She had slept late compared to others. She walked down the steps, seeing now the geese and chickens running about, and hearing the faint ring of hammers. At the bottom, she strode toward the stables, her breath misting while craning her neck to eye the castle exterior and over to the wall, observing the guards making their pass.

Her boots held up well during the wet trek, but she made a mental note to sew fur in them. The stables were easy to find as the gaping entries were arched and the center opened for the smith. A plume of smoke rose from a stone chimney. The yard was not paved but muddy where the massive horses were led in and out, some wearing blankets and others full gear and tack.

Aware that the men turned to look at her, Illara nodded and took note of their faces and warm clothing. Most were not helmed, but many wore hats of various fashions. A few had wool over their heads, too. The tunic shirts were fashioned with hoods that kept their neck and ears warm. Still it was interesting, to see their diverse looks, from handsome and tall to squat but powerfully muscled. One had broken his nose so many times it sat crooked on his face.

“Welcome, my lady.” The smith ceased his billows and wiped the back of his hand over his brown brow. “The master is at the rear, through there.”

She called her thanks over the hiss of coals and some yelling from the men behind them to each other. The coals, a round glowing well of them, with a long trough of water running alongside, heated the area so intense that it condensed the scents. Illara walked past stalls, and inhaled the earthy odor of horses, dried grasses, and grains.

She emerged at a back courtyard of sorts, flagged and having an overhanging half canopy. There she spied Pagan half sitting on a wagon bed, which was parked at the edge of the square yard.

Halting, Illara watched him rise, noting he wore tight fitting breeches laced up the crotch, formed to his calves’ and boots. His vest like shirt was leather and laced up over a linen under blouse that fit snugger to his round muscled arms. Pagan wore gloves too, but most notable, he wore a leather helm that hid all but his mouth and chin. Though tied back, she could see his hair was a long ebony black.

Making herself walk to him, and clearing her expression, she could see upon closer view that his skin was deep bronze and that there was a thick scar at his throat, several on his right jaw—but it made no difference in her opinion to the fact that his mouth was quite beautiful, semi full, and somehow sensual.

However, what struck her speechless were the eyes she saw gleaming through the mask. The legend of fire was erroneous, and the tales of him being eyeless—were certainly wrong.

For a moment only the puffs of breath were between them, until he stared down as she gazed up, Illara sensing from his tense posture that Pagan had dared show her that much. She felt he was still waiting for her to turn, and dash off screaming.

“You have beautiful eyes,” she blurt huskily, never having seen such a pure brass hue.

As Pagan spoke, she also noted he had strong white teeth.

“It was my mother’s doing.” Pagan grunted and waved to her sword. “Go though your paces.”

Illara took the strap over her head and handed him the weapon while she untied her cloak. She laid it at his hip, her gaze covertly scanning his powerful thighs and noting how the supple leather molded to muscle, even at his calves.

Pagan had withdrawn the weapon and was eyeing the scrollwork before balancing it in his hand.

The sword was large to her, but in that gloved hand that wielded a broadsword its silver beauty appeared less lethal and more decorative. She knew it was deceptive. It was sharp as a razor and fine balanced.

He handed it to her. “A fine weapon.”

She smiled, nervous suddenly, walking to the center, afraid she had forgotten everything. Afraid, she would stumble and make a fool of herself.

“Relax, Illara. Imagine your father is here.”

She glanced at him, surprised Pagan could read her body language then remembered that warriors survived by doing that. She nodded and drew in several deep breaths, releasing them.

Illara held the blade out, her arm extended. Focusing, she began to turn her wrist, feeling the lack of use in those tendons, working to warm and stretch them. After a time her arcs became wider and she took steps, turned and stepped, and began the routine her father taught her.

She lost herself eventually in the adrenaline of an exercise she loved, in the free flowing and focused movements, and too, the tight turns and lunges. She had been three the first time her father taught her with a stick, and she could fight with hook and dagger in her other hand, so she used it, flexed and pulled back the free hand, whilst doing her pace and turns around the area.

Feeling her skin warm as her muscles did, not minding at all the wind and snow, she controlled her breathing and even when the muscles jerked or protested, she kept going to stretch them.

Nearly two hours passed before Pagan called out, “Change hands or your wrist will swell.”

She changed hands as If her father said it. He oft told her to balance her strength, to keep both arms strong and equalized, although she was less skilled with the left. There was an overturned pail, a lower wall, she leapt there, up on the wall and back flipped down. Illara crouched and turned, then rose and caught her breath. “I am in pitiful shape. My father would be ashamed.”

A soft masculine laugh sounded before Pagan strode to her, blocking out much with his brawn and height. He took the sword a moment. “I think the conditioning must come first. Although, I am impressed.”

She glanced up to see his eyes glowing and a smile teasing his lips.

“I do not claim to be a warrior, only sufficiently skilled enough, to defend myself. I have a few tricks, too.”

“No doubt.” His gloved hand felt her upper arm. “Let us work on these. You will be heartily sorry on the morrow, though. The soreness will set in. It’s best to work through it.”

He strode back to the wagon and sheathed the sword. She watched him go inside the stable. Pagan emerged with two sacks of grain, about five pounds each. He handed them to her. “Take long strides around the area, and swing the sacks.”

She had done that before with stones. Therefore, she did it now. He walked beside her, his legs long enough to take one stride to every two she managed. After four rounds, Pagan had her swing the sacks in wide circles. For the next hour, there were squats and stretching her legs until they felt one constant ache.

Pagan called a halt and laughed again as she went to the wagon bed and fell back. He departed to fetch mead for them.

Illara lay there, watching flakes float down on her warmed face, wondering if being lady like was not the better choice. She was older and her back suffered from the bent over scrubbing at Starling. Muscles used to wield a sword, quick reflexes, and focus, were dulled.

She groaned and sat up, hearing Pagan approach, and taking the mead from him, a large pewter cup full, and drinking long before sipping, ever aware of his hips leaned close to her, and smelling his scent of leather, wood smoke, and herbs—Something he washed his hair in she presumed.

“Are those your only boots?” His voice drew her attention.

“Yes. My father had them made.”

“Then you should keep them, but I will have Lylie trace the size. You need a thicker sole and more lining for winter.”

She held the cup between her palms, idly swinging her legs to keep the muscles from jumping. Illara glanced up as Pagan lowered his cup from drinking, and observed his tongue wipe the liquid from his lips. It made her belly flutter. He swallowed, and despite the scar, his neck was all sinew, muscle, and thick.

Those brass eyes slanted down to meet hers. “Inquire.”

“Inquire of what?”

“About the scar you are staring at.”

She winced inwardly, realizing Pagan would see any staring as morbid curiosity. “Very well, consider that I have asked.”

He waited a heartbeat. “Randulf and I were tied neck to neck and lashed. We were determined to not fall and thus hang ourselves. In order to hold each other up, when our chests and legs were nearly laid open, we had to use our necks. The rope became embedded.”

She felt sick, felt the mead flip in her stomach. “How old were you?”

“Fourteen. Randulf, twelve.”

She wet her lips and looked down over him, seeing only the outline of a well-muscled knight. Illara glanced away. “I am sorry. I was not actually curious. I was noting how strong you are.”

A rooster crowed. Horses thumped and snorted in the stables. Pagan took her cup when she handed it over, and set them back on the wagon bed.

He crossed his arms, which made his elbow brush her shoulder. “What your father taught you is a combination of dance and stealth. It is good for one light and quick. The ducking and steps are escape moves, and the forward are attack. It is not skill that wins in war, so much as it is strength, how long you can fight because battles last for days, and having eyes all around your head. A broad sword, wielded two handed, is the better weapon. Although I’ve a Celt here, who can wield the axe so fast that you can scarcely see his hands.”

“I can use both bow and sling. I have more skill with the bow, however.”

He nodded. “Your hand movements are for dagger and hook. The hook is to pull your opponent to you In order to thrust. Your strengths are your dexterity, speed, and from what I observe, your skill at using your body and making a small target.”

“That is what my father said.” She grinned up at him.

Pagan seemed arrested by that for some seconds, before his gaze met hers, and he murmured, “You’d make a good thief.”

She chuckled.

Pagan grinned slightly. “I would put you on any list of spy or scout. Camouflaged, you’d silently take down any guard.”

“That is good to know.”

His gaze went to her mouth. Illara saw it as much as felt it. It suddenly became warmer under her clothing.

“Pagan.”

They both turned as Randulf strode into the yard. He was dressed like his brother save he wore a cape and wool covered most of his face. Illara caught the merest glimpse of smoke gray eyes as they touched upon her before he bowed.

“Randulf,” she greeted him, sliding off the wagon bed.

“Elli has lost two of the hawks.” He reported to his brother. “Young ones. It appears to be normal sickness and nothing virulent.”

“Breeders?”

“Aye.” Randulf watched as Illara sheathed her weapon and looped the strap over her head. “Doesn’t look as if we will enjoy the sport anytime soon, does it? This is the third pair we’ve lost in a year.”

“Have him clean everything, the whole area. Have you seen Ivo?”

“Aye. He says your mastiffs are begging for a run. I think the bitch is recovered...”

“What happened?” Illara asked, thinking they had awfully ill luck with animals.

“Bear. We were hunting bear,” Pagan supplied. “Tell him to loose her, and the male.”

Randulf nodded, then eyed the two back and forth a moment.

Illara offered, “Relax in my presence, Randulf. I know you are brothers.”

The look he gave Pagan was both surprise and anger.

“She should know. Must, because she is your sister through marriage.”

“Our sisters died.”

“Randulf,” Pagan snapped. Then sighed. “You remain here. I will fetch the hounds.”

Left standing there, facing each other, Illara was again the one to speak first. She arched her brow. “Would you like to see the sword my father gave me?” She reached over her shoulder and pulled it from the sheath, handing it out to him.

He appeared as if he was going to remain stubborn, before he took it in his hand, and like his brother studied the scrollwork, before he balanced it. He was nearly as large as his brother, certainly as strong, and Illara saw that his hair was just as rich black and twisted in a long rope down his back. He handed the sword back to her, meeting her gaze after she sheathed it.

“If you never love him, at least give him neither pity nor pain.” He bowed again and strode away.

Illara felt her eyes sting. Two men, deeper bonded than brothers, suffering untold torture, witnessing the death and complete devastation of their family. Aye, He had a right to his anger, and his words. She would work on gaining his trust.

She began to trek back inside, and before reaching the main hall saw Pagan walking amid the swirling snow with two mastiffs as big as bears themselves. She could detect his deep voice calling as they ran off, whirled, and came back. Finally, he lifted his hand and they flew, racing past her and scattering geese and chickens. After laughing, watching a few men scurry away, she turned and faced him again.