Gayle Eden (3 page)

There were two arched chambers before the main solar was reached, one was familiar to her from her childhood, the tiles likely having come from Arab countries, as their designs were familiar too, those being used to line a bathing pool with copper spigots. Designed like the open spas. A faint scent of herbs and spices hung in the air. She saw great carved candleholders and incense burners, as well as baskets flowing with herbs and soaps.

The next chamber had the beginnings of a library, something rare in English castles, but identified by the shelves and large scrolled tables and chairs. A hearth graced it, as well as hunting tapestries. It was a masculine chamber, but the sort she had once been at home in, as her mother was oft reading books and scrolls, teaching her from them.

The men exited the main solar and bowed to her on their way out. She was intending to question Randulf, but he appeared in a hurry, and she supposed he was busy.

Entering the rooms that would be hers, Illara stood for a moment, struck dumb by the lavish beauty of it, and finding her eyes stinging as she recognized hues and patterns that would have fit in their fortress in Egypt. Here, even with the stone walls, were the warm colors of sun and sand, of sea and fiery sunsets. The bed was massive and covered with fur, tasseled pillows in bold crimson and gold stripes at the head. The windows were large and under them ran a half moon shape seat, padded with leather, and cushions were scattered about.

Walking further in, she eyed a mirror with decorated iron on the edge, full length, massive, reflecting the bed and windows beyond. There were rich carpets on the floors; in sienna and red, gold and warm bronze. A series of candlesticks rose from their scrolled bases around the chamber, inlaid with gold and made of cedar. Her trunks had been placed at the end of the bed, but there were other elaborate ones in one corner, and when she looked up, noting the scroll work on the plaster ceiling, she saw the delicate designs of leaf and pomegranates, figs and exotic birds.

She longed to bathe and shed the heavy traveling garments, but first Illara walked to the window, putting her knee on the bench and opening the shutters to look out. There was a courtyard in the back, leading to what must have been hedges and gardens, and though not full, a long square pond that would stock fish, decorated on each corner with lions holding massive urns of now dormant vines. There were benches and statues, the guards she noted, walking the walls, not realizing that until then that she had feared no one would live in the mysterious knight’s castle but the two of them.

She allowed her gaze to swing left, making out the back of the round tower where Pagan had ridden. The barracks were in that direction. On the right was a chapel. It became apparent that though the main fortress had been huge, there had been more added to it over time. Still, as a faint gold light glowed in the tower windows, she wondered what Pagan expected of her here, wondered how a man who shrouded himself expected them to be man and wife?

Closing the shutters, Illara went to her trunks. She opened one and felt under the lid for the key to the other. In starling castle, it had not been unlocked and thankfully undisturbed. After lifting out a low waist winter gown, of green velvet, she closed the lid, unlocked the other, and went down on her knees to sift through it.

Here were her father’s gifts to her over the years. An elaborate dagger and sword, a handsome saddle and tucked beneath were her leather breeches and shirt, a pair of knee length riding boots. The scents brought back her best and most painful memories. There were two other trunks, one with gifts her mother gave her, another larger one, which held all of the life she had known with them.

She sighed and found a small satchel with her silver comb and a corked bottle of jasmine oil. She proceeded to the bathing chambers, hearing sounds below; scrapes, faint voices, while she pulled the screens around the pool and started the taps, so that water from furnaces on the upper floor somewhere began filling the pool.

Illara found soft toweling and a cloth, a bowl of soaps and after sprinkling herbs on the water, she began to undress. The day was passing, and it had never lightened to any degree, so she lit a series of candles around the room, finding the amber glow helped warm the hues in the tiles and lessen the vast feel of the chamber.

The steam rose, but with the chill in the air, the heat would be welcome. She stripped and lay the garments aside with her boots and hose. She waded into the bathing pool, finding that the depth descended on one end, so that it could be filled to her breasts. Knowing how precious water was, she filled it only to her knees, and sat down in it with her soap, first submerging her body completely, then rising to wash her hair and rinsing it, before washing her body.

After the journey the water felt so pleasant, that she lay there half propped against the side, watching the light play on the screens when done. The trickle from the spout echoed, joined by an occasional hiss from the candles. When the ring of spurs sounded, Illara glanced around in panic a moment, before realizing that when whoever it was saw the screens they would turn and leave.

Yet her back pressed more against the rim and muscles tensed as a massive shadow passed the first screen, stopped and turned his head toward the pool.

Illara knew it was Pagan. Part of her anxiety was suspended, because Pagan was not armored. His cloak a lighter one. Though the screen blocked details, she could see, thanks to the candles, enough to note waves of long hair and just the hint of a human face, strongly outlined. A brawn laden male form dressed in shirt and snug leather breeches, boots with crisscrossed straps, studded and spurred. Pagan was the tallest man she had ever seen.

Her skin chilled under the water with anxiety—given his size, and his perpetual shrouding, but her lips parted and her breathing seemed amplified, because she wondered what he would do. Moreover, she wondered what she would do, when it came time to submit to her vows.

“Did you find all that you needed?” His deep voice hung in the thick air.

Illara wet her lips again. “Yes. My thanks.”

Still Pagan lingered and though his gaze could not see her, she felt that he could.

“I will leave you to your privacy and rest afterwards.”

“Wait...” she called as he turned, watching him stop, his profile now showing. Illara wondered if she was mad, but heard herself ask, “What happened here, to the castle and family?”

His body stiffened, and she saw it as if ropes were tightened about him. In rough tones, more rasping than his already normal speech, Pagan supplied, “The family was accused of treason, and two of them… sent to the tower. The castle razzed and burned, along with the lands, by those who believed such lies...”

“Lies?”

“Aye,” he spat low. “Lies.” Then, he seemed to shake himself. Pagan went on in a colder tone. “The servants were abused and any of the blood—punished—sentenced to death.”

“But Randulf said….they were your blood.”

“None else, outside himself and Lylie know of the connection. But aye. I am their blood.”

“How is it that you—”

“Survived death?”

She felt her stomach tense. “Yes.”

“Perhaps I didn’t,” he murmured, but said on, “In the fires of hell I made a deal with the devil. Is that not what you have heard of Pagan de Chevel?”

A shiver worked down her spine. Illara answered softly, “What one hears is seldom the truth.”

“Aye, Madame. But what one knows, can often be more frightening.”

She tried to dissect that, but said, “I am a de Chevel now. If this is to be our home, and you my husband, as you say, I must only answer to one Lord. I am prepared for the truth from him.”

Pagan shook his head but said only, “Your loyalty and your determination will be tested in the future, Illara of Thresford. Though you think yourself ostracized before, you will find few now, as my wife, who will meet your eyes or give you welcome. Even were I not legend or their mythical beast, this castle and those who inhabit it, are said to be friends of evil.”

She had discerned that before they exited Starlings lands. “It matters only what you think.”

His head lifted and she saw him look toward the screen before he said simply, “Aye,” then turned and slowly departed.

Illara released a long breath and waded out of the pool to dry. Instead of donning the gown, she wrapped the linen around her and went to the chamber, fetching instead a supple, long sleeved flannel under gown from the trunks.

She sat on a fur by the fire while her hair dried and she worked the comb through it. Her mind was on the castle, its master, and the dark past. She had no friends here, in this land either. She had some idea how Pagan must feel, to be master and yet not lord, in the true sense. It occurred to her that his life must be a lonely one. Yet Pagan had Randulf, obviously, and his castle woman, who seemed loyal enough.

Placing the comb on a bench, she lay on her side there, looking into the flames, musing on what sort of life she would have with a man who spoke to her through shrouds and screens, a fierce man, a skilled knight and indeed—a legend.

* * * *

Randulf poured another pail of steaming water over Pagan’s head and then tossed him a slab of soap. He sat down on a rough-hewn bench. While his brother bathed, Randulf scanned around, having disliked these lower chambers for many reasons, mostly because it reminded him of his years of imprisonment.

Having bathed before Pagan, he lifted a square of flannel over his brawny shoulders and muttered, “If you are going to make a habit of bathing down here, the least we could do is build a fire next time.”

“The water here is deeper.”

“And cold enough to freeze ice on my arse.”

A faint low laugh escaped before Pagan went under the water and subsequently emerged.

Randulf said, “You’ve just about finished the south tower, mayhap we could use the bathing chambers there next time.”

“You are growing old and soft, brother.”

Randulf’s lips twisted slightly, “You are two years beyond me. Moreover, it is not softness that causes such moaning, but rather that my balls have yet to emerge after that bathing. At least for you, I heated a pail.”

“And you have my thanks.” Pagan had stayed in the shadows but now waded close to the torch light, which spread over the bench Randulf sat on, and half the cistern. Though his body was likewise scarred, Randulf winced mentally at the view of them on his brother before Pagan bent and scooped up toweling, wrapping it around his hips. He stepped out and was in the shadows once more while he dried and dressed.

“Are you going to your bride tonight?”

“Nay.”

“But you must consummate the union.”

There was a moment before Pagan answered, “Aye. And in time, I will.”

“I heard what was alleged…”

“I take it you mean the Lady Starling and the priests words—”

“Everyone believed them.”

“Do you think it would matter to me if she had lain with a man?”

Randulf watched that figure in the shadows as Pagan, now dressed in breeches dried and combed his shoulder length hair. “No. I know that you cared for Lord John.”

“I respected few more. Nevertheless 'tis more than that. And, since I know the truth of it from her own lips, it is no matter to ponder one way or the other.”

“She is quite handsome, in an unusual way.”

“Um.”

“In fact there is something—“

“Your scrutiny of my wife is not necessary, Randulf.”

A smile flittered across Randulf’s face. “Ah, so you do find her comely.”

“As you say, she is handsome. But even were she not, it would not matter overmuch to me.”

“No. I deem that you half believe your own legend, Pagan, and doubt any woman would take you for a husband.”

“You are intent on discussing irrelevant subjects, are you not?” his brother’s tone was arid.

Randulf grunted. “I am allowed, since I am your brother, and I too have given up any normalcy because of circumstances. You vowed to never wed. We both did—”

“He would have sold her, Randulf. You know this as well as I. Had there been no one to champion for her, Starling would have given her to any knight or mercenary who would take her. And because of her blood and the rumors, she would have been more abused—”

“More?”

Pagan told him what she had confided.

“Sblood," Randulf growled. “We should kill them.”

“Aye. Nevertheless, we cannot. To many it is a worse thing that she is my bride. At the moment, I expect it is to Illara also, though she says otherwise.”

Randulf grunted again and arose, going to his own clothing and dropping the linen, exposing his flesh to the light and revealing a honed body of compact muscles and bronze skin. As he pulled on leather breeches and a soft linen tunic, he said, “This is what we get for choosing to live, eh, brother? Had we given in to death, perhaps sometime in the future, they would have uncovered the truth or cleared our names.”

“Now you are dreaming.” Pagan pulled on a similar shirt, lacing the tie from mid-chest to the round neck below his collarbone. It was a garment worn under a leather or velvet doublet most times, or a shirt of leather without sleeves. Given he lived in armor during the Tourneys and stayed cloaked when not, it was welcome to have something less weighty on his body.