Dragon Tree (14 page)

She saw two
pairs of guardsmen talking by an arched bridge that led to the
outer ward, and two more strolling leisurely along the battlements
high above.

Behind her,
the gray stone walls of the castle rose steeply into the sky and
she had to tip her head well back to see the tops of the
crenellated towers. On the far side of the arched bridge, she could
just catch a glimpse of the long stretch of grass that comprised
the outer bailey. Contained therein, along with the practice field
and training grounds, would be found the smithy, tannery, abattoir,
and stables.

For the ten
months she had lived at Belmane Castle she had grown accustomed to
seeing everyone come to a complete, utter standstill until an
imperious wave of her husband's arm set them free to go about their
tasks again. Eyes were cast deliberately downward lest unwanted
attention was drawn, and women clutched small children to their
sides to keep them from being kicked out of the way. Odo had kept a
full garrison of men-at-arms, most of them rough, crude mercenaries
who raised fists to their breasts like Roman centurions in the
presence of their overlord.

By sharp
contrast, when Tamberlane stepped out into the sunlight, the men
who saw him nodded and tugged on a forelock, some even called out a
greeting. The children scrambling in the dust continued to chase
the chickens and the older women who were gathered around the well
nodded to show respect but did not skip a word of their gossiping.
Most of the curious looks were directed at Amaranth. Many had seen
her carried in, as gray and cold as death and her appearance would
undoubtedly stir up more whispers about Marak's magical powers of
healing.

For the
moment, however, Amaranth thought there was nothing more magical
than wriggling her bare toes on the sun-baked stones. Her feet had
not lost their chill in all the time she had been at Taniere Castle
and the heat was as welcomed as the scent of lavender that grew in
dusty little patches around the base of the walls.

A low whistle
brought the two wolfhounds bounding past her skirt and with the
dogs leading the way, Amie and Roland walked behind Tamberlane as
he crossed the bailey and went beneath the arched bridge to the
outer ward where the flat, grassy common followed the shape of the
island. To one side was the archery field, with two straw butts
leaning against the far wall, the straw painted with rings in three
colors. Farther along was a line of posts and bars used as a mock
jousting run.

At the moment,
two young guardsmen were waging a battle against one of the
quintains. Their shouts were echoing off the walls as their wooden
swords bashed and stabbed at the swinging balls of stuffed canvas.
Several children hung on the bars watching, cheering when an
obvious strike against the Huns was made. Amie recognized Jibril
among them, his small wooden horse clutched under his arm.

When she
ventured a small wave, he looked down at his little brown toes and
did not look up again until Tamberlane came close enough to issue a
soft rebuke. It was delivered in a language Amie did not
understand, although when she glanced sidelong at the knight, he
switched immediately back to Saxon English, the language both he
and Marak had used to converse with her from the outset. Neither
had assumed a common village girl could speak aught else, although
now that her brain had been fattened on venison, it occurred to her
that Marak had addressed her in Norman French, that morning, the
language of the nobility. She also recalled that he said she had
spoken while in the grips of the fever, which would have betrayed
her bloodlines far quicker than smooth skin and a lack of calluses
on her hands.

Oh, he was
a clever one!
She had not even noticed him tripping her up on
her own tongue.

“Practise your
words, Jibril,” Tamberlane was saying in English. “Bid good morning
to the lady and ask how she is faring.”

The boy
murmured a shy greeting, heard only by the carved wooden head of
the horse that jutted from under his arm. The instant he was
finished, he turned and ran away as fast as his legs would carry
him.

“Do you often
have that effect on children?” Amie asked.

“Only the ones
who know me.”

A fleeting
smile appeared and briefly softened the lines of his face... a face
that was near impossible to read insofar as to determine what
thoughts were upon him. Such deliberate shielding might be
unsettling to some, but to Amie, who, by necessity, had learned to
keep her own thoughts and feelings to herself lest they earn her
extra lashes from tongue or whip, it was strangely appealing.

They looked
away from each other at the same time.

Against the
far wall of the bailey was a long row of covered stalls, most
filled with drays and rouncies, the workhorses of the castle.
Several of the stalls had been enclosed with wooden planks to
protect the more valuable beasts against the elements of weather.
One warhorse would be worth fifty drays, a hundred if it was
battle-trained. And a knight would sooner sleep out in the open
himself than subject his destrier to rain or sleet.

It was to this
end of the stables that Tamberlane walked and as they drew closer,
the air grew thick with the pungent scent of horseflesh and fresh
manure, a combination that gave Amaranth a strong reminder that she
was barely a day out of her sickbed.

Her face must
have reflected the gentle wave of nausea that flowed through her
body, for a moment later, she felt the strong grip of a hand
cradling her elbow.

“There is a
bench by the wall where you can sit. Or Roland can take you back,
if you prefer.”

Amie managed a
weak smile. “I would, indeed, prefer to sit a moment if it please,
my lord.”

Tamberlane led
her to the low stone bench set against the base of the castle wall.
A swath of fragrant pink wisteria grew halfway up the stonework and
a small blot of shade was provided by a scrawny beech tree. She
sank gratefully onto the seat, taking a moment to catch a breath of
the sweet air and settle her stomach. Tamberlane beckoned his
squire to her side and offered a brief, polite bow.

“Roland will
remain with you, and when you have rested enough, he will escort
you back to the keep.”

“My thanks
once more, my lord, for your kindness.”

Tamberlane
looked for a moment as if he wanted to stay and share the shade,
but in the end, he offered a slight bow and backed up two steps
before he turned and carried on down toward the stables.

Amaranth
leaned against the stone and watched him pass from shade to
sunlight. His shoulders were certainly broad and square, his legs
long, his steps confident and sure. The hose fit his calves and
thighs snugly, the dark blue surcoat fell to just below his hips.
He was gloveless and hatless, and as she watched, he raised a hand
in greeting to one of the guards high on the outer battlements.

Her eye
followed the wall-walk around to the enormous twin barbican towers
that guarded the equally enormous arched gates. The draw was down
and the iron portcullis was up allowing villagers to come and go
from the castle across the wide moat to the village. There were two
huge winches just inside the gates used to raise and lower the
drawbridge. Cables connected the draw to the portcullis so that one
would slam down as the other was raised. The outer walls were a
good forty feet high, sloped outward at the base, crenellated at
the top to give archers a good defensive position to fire down on
any enemy.

Whoever had
built Taniere Castle had intended it to stand solid for many
centuries and she could almost believe Marak when he said she was
safe within its walls.

“...Amaranth?”

She looked up
and gave a little frown.

“That is your
name, is it not?” Roland asked.

She shifted
slightly on the bench, for her shoulder was burning, her head was
pounding, and she was not entirely confident of her ability to walk
all the way back to the keep.

“Yes. Yes, it
is.”

“Then that is
what I shall call you.”

He smiled and
tipped his head in a way that Amie suspected had sent many a
maiden’s heart fluttering within her breast. Young and handsome and
earnest, with a full set of teeth that flashed whitely in a smooth,
square jaw, Roland was already well bulked across the chest and
shoulders. His eyes were blue and sparkled with mischief as he gave
her bosom a thorough inspection.

“You are only
a small wisp of a thing, are you not? I warrant I could carry you
back to the castle with one arm if your legs lack the
strength.”

Amie smiled
tightly. She had no doubt he had carried more than his fair share
of swooning wenches when their knees were too weak to support
them.

“My thanks,
Sir Squire, but I only require a moment or two to catch my
breath.”

He rested the
flat of his hand on the tree trunk. “For a beauty like you, I would
happily rob you of breath every time I had the chance. Nor would
you regret it,” he promised with a wink.

“I am certain
I would not,” she said dryly, returning her gaze to the stables.
Roland followed her glance and chuckled.

“If you were
hoping to win a better offer elsewhere, you will only be wasting
your saucy glances. Lord Tamberlane has no interest in a pretty
little minx with doe eyes and soft bosoms.”

Amie turned,
astonished by the accusation. “I assure you, I am not glancing
saucily at Lord Tamberlane... or indeed, at anyone else.”

“Many before
you have tried to be sure," he said, ignoring her protest. "But not
a one has succeeded. You are aware, are you not, that he has taken
vows of chastity. That he was trained and schooled since boyhood
for the Order of the Knights Templar. I grant you, he no longer
bends a knee to the dictates of the church, but he is still a monk
in his own mind. One who takes every vow he makes... or has made...
serious unto death.”

Admittedly
curious to know more about the enigmatic knight, Amaranth feigned
the ignorance a village maid might possess. “What do you mean, he
no longer bends a knee?

Roland leaned
in with a conspiratorial whisper. “He was defrocked. Cast out of
the Order in disgrace and excommunicated by the pope himself. He
bides here only by his uncle’s good will and generosity—some of
which I wish had been accorded to me before I was bound into his
service.” He held up a hand. “Nay, read nothing untoward behind my
words, for he is an excellent master and teacher with unparalleled
skills. A warrior the likes of which I have never seen before. But
alas, who do we train to fight? Squirrels and deer, ferrets and
boars? He has not ventured more than a few miles beyond the gates
in over three years. He will not even seek out a tourney where the
mere name of the Dragonslayer would cause men to bash their heads
against their own shields in a panic to avoid answering a
challenge.”

“Perhaps he
seeks something other than glory or riches.”

Her words
caused him to puff out his chest with indignation. “There is no
greater glory for a knight than to win battles and bring honor to
his name.”

"What of the
other knights I have seen in the hall?"

Roland
shrugged. "Where do soldiers go when they have no wish to soldier
any longer? When the alternative is to beg their bread in the
streets or hire themselves out to slit throats? They come here by
twos and threes, sometimes alone, and they do not seem to mind the
solitude, the very thing that makes my feet itch to leave this
place. Some are simply war-weary. They stay for a time and then
leave when they feel whole again."

“And Marak?”
she asked.

Roland nodded.
"A Saracen, bleached of color. He has a wizard's way with healing,
as you know yourself. And not just with wounds that you can
see."

“A Saracen
would seem an odd choice of companion for a Templar. Even a
defrocked Templar.”

“I am not
privy to the entire history of their friendship, though I know it
began in Outremer. It was Marak who saved him from being skinned
alive and carved up like a goat's ass by desert Turks. Whispers say
that he cast a spell on them so that Lord Tamberlane could escape.
He knows the secrets of alchemy and—” he lowered his voice as if
the birds might carry his words to other ears— “sorcery. Indeed, I
have seen proof.”

“Sorcery?”
This made Amie smile, for what impressionable young maid would not
have instantly thrown herself into the squire’s waiting arms
seeking protection from such a word?

When she did
not, he frowned.

“Disbelieve me
if you wish, but I have seen him work his magic and conjure things
with mine own eyes. A ball of common lead was transformed to pure
gold. A noisome child was turned into a piglet for a full
afternoon. A blind man was made to see again.” The squire’s voice
dropped even lower. “What is more, he is neither a man nor a woman
beneath those robes. I am told he lacks that which makes the one,
and has no pouch for the other. Not a eunuch proper, but not an
epicene either. So you see,” he straightened and added by way of
conclusion, “if you had hopes of finding yourself invited into
either bed, consider yourself well advised not to wait too long for
the fires of hell to freeze over.”

“The notion
never once crossed my mind,” she said evenly. “I have had enough of
men to last me this lifetime and the next. That would include you,
sirrah, so if
you
had a hope of luring
me
behind a
haystack, you may regard it here and now as being a fool's
errand.”

Roland only
grinned. “High airs for a milkmaid, minx. And we shall see about
that. We shall just see about that."

Amaranth
expelled a sigh and pushed to her feet, having had enough pointless
banter. She had taken but a step or two into the sunlight when a
high-pitched scream rent the air. Roland froze as he was leaning
over to grasp her arm. With a muttered apology and an order for
Amie to remain on the bench, he broke into a run and headed for the
stables.