Immortal Champion (3 page)
Nearly smoke-blind, he peered down, trying to recall how far it was to the floor. Too far and he’d break his legs and they’d both lie there as the building burned around them. The window . . . but a glance over his shoulder showed him a chamber now fully aflame. There was no way past the blazing bedding and roiling vapors.
“Loki, you dog piss of a god, help her if not me.”
He jumped, landing bent-kneed to take some of the force, then twisting to put himself beneath the girl as they fell. Pain sizzled through his back as the coals beneath him seared through his clothes. He forged to his feet with a roar and charged blindly toward the door and out into the blessedly cold night.
Men swarmed around him, yelling as they covered him with damp blankets. Hands dragged him farther from the burning building; more hands reached for the unconscious girl. Gunnar heard her gasp of breath as they pulled her from his arms, and he nearly sobbed with relief. His legs gave way and he collapsed to his knees, dragging at the clean air, then hacking and spitting as his lungs tried to clear themselves of soot.
“You are sore hurt,” said the duke after a moment.
“No. I am fine.” Gunnar blinked and scrubbed at his stinging eyes. “The girl?”
“She may live, thanks to you.” He hauled Gunnar to his feet. “Go. Have your wounds tended.”
“My wounds can wait, Your Grace. You need men on the fire.”
The duke’s jaw worked as he gave Gunnar a nod. “Then take up a bucket.”
His Grace turned back to his duty, shouting instructions to the men to clear the horses from the stables. Gunnar took another moment to catch his breath and clear his sight, then ripped a soaked hide away from a lad too slight to wield it well, sent him to help in the bucket line, and stepped toward the fire.
The bower was lost from the first; they all knew that. The fight was to keep the flames from spreading to the rest of the compound, and in that they succeeded, though just barely. The keep proper and the main hall were in little danger because of distance and their stone walls and lead roofs, but the kitchen and stables were threatened more than once by flying embers, and flames licked parlous close to the armory before the duke’s men beat them back. Fortunately, it was a quick blaze, the bower being well over a hundred years old—Gunnar had visited Richmond the year it was built—and so dry that it burned like a straw man. The building soon collapsed, and once they’d beaten back the cloud of sparks thrown up by that, it was largely a matter of keeping up the stream of buckets until all that was left was a mass of steaming coals.
Gunnar was still flailing at the edges of the fire with his hide when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to find a grimy-faced man, black as a collier.
“Rest now,
monsire
. You have done more than enough tonight.” Only the man’s hoarse but recognizable voice told Gunnar it was the duke, now wearing a cote and boots, though they were every bit as black as Gunnar’s own. “My own men can handle the rest of it. Go have those hands tended, lest they fester.”
monsire
. You have done more than enough tonight.” Only the man’s hoarse but recognizable voice told Gunnar it was the duke, now wearing a cote and boots, though they were every bit as black as Gunnar’s own. “My own men can handle the rest of it. Go have those hands tended, lest they fester.”
Gunnar glanced down toward his hands, the backs of which glistened with open burns. And his back stung like the very devil. He fingered a sore spot on his shoulder and found a hole where an ember had burned clear through. He flinched as he touched the open wound below.
“That will pain you tomorrow.” The duke tugged the hide out of Gunnar’s hands and handed it to a passing man, then tipped his head toward the keep. “Go and have it seen to. Go. I command it.”
Gunnar glanced toward the east to judge how long he had until dawn. He was surprised to see it was snowing again; the weather had been the farthest thing from his mind while he’d been fighting the fire. Assured by the blackness that he had enough time, he nodded. “Yes, Your Grace.”
He turned toward the stone keep, quietly cursing the fire. Now he was truly in the duke’s notice. Snow or no, he and Jafri would have to head back out into the wilds and pray the gods would help them find some shelter.
Horses, still frantic with fear, milled around the upper bailey along with pigs and cattle that had been moved from the barn. Gunnar spotted his horses amongst the others and pointed them out to one of the boys who stood watch. “Catch those two and have someone find the gear I left with the stable master. I want them loaded and ready to leave within the hour.”
The boy’s eyes widened in the flickering torchlight. “In this weather,
monsire
?”
monsire
?”
“Aye.” Gunnar glanced back toward the fallen bower to make sure the freshening breeze wasn’t making things flare up. “A man does what he must. Even in this weather.”
Gunnar watched until the stableboy caught his packhorse and started after the rouncey, then turned and climbed the slight mound toward the tower keep, where the women had set up a station to care for the injured on the first level. As he entered, someone recognized him and spread word of who he was and what he’d done. In moments, his smoky, singed clothes had been stripped away and his hands were soaking in cold buttermilk while a stout old woman sponged yet more soothing buttermilk over his back and several maids stood by fawning. He gave himself over to it, enjoying the fuss. It had been a long while since he’d been hailed as a hero—it had been a long while since he deserved it—and it felt good, even if it meant he was correct about the need to be away.
The old woman had just tied a cooling poultice in place over the burn on his shoulder when a page came up and bowed slightly. “Her Grace would see you upstairs,
monsire
.”
monsire
.”
“You cannot go to her undressed,
monsire
,” said the old woman as he rose. She held out his shirt, grinning. “Much as she might enjoy it. Aye, you’re a fair sight of a man, even with that back.”
monsire
,” said the old woman as he rose. She held out his shirt, grinning. “Much as she might enjoy it. Aye, you’re a fair sight of a man, even with that back.”
Gunnar grabbed for the shirt and quickly dragged it over his head, suddenly uneasy even though neither the old woman nor the others had given any sign the scars disturbed them. He had never seen his back, but he knew from the comments of various wenches that it was bad. He bore all the scars of a warrior who’d lived far too long, plus the terrible, raking marks of lion and bear and wolf and dog.
Before they had resigned themselves to mostly solitary lives, all of the crew had suffered with attacks from the others as they swung back and forth between beast and man. Gunnar had been hunted as both human and bull in those first terrible years, and in the centuries since, he had more than once defended innocents from Jafri or Steinarr or Brand or one of the others. They were honorable scars, but to people who knew no better, they looked as though he’d been lashed as an outlaw. Or worse, as a slave.
“You will want to clean off some of that soot, too,
monsire
, if I can say it,” continued the old woman, paying no heed to his discomfort.
monsire
, if I can say it,” continued the old woman, paying no heed to his discomfort.
More heat rising beneath the grime, Gunnar reached for the damp cloth the woman wrung out for him and quickly scrubbed his face, then pulled on his singed gown, buckled on his belt, and slipped his sword into its scabbard as the boy waited.
“Your name,
monsire
?”
monsire
?”
“Sir Gunnar of Lesbury.” He gave the name of the estate near Alnwick that passed from man to man amongst the crew, and then followed the lad out and around to the stair that led up the outside of the keep to the main hall. From there, they climbed up the inner stair to the solar, where the duke’s lady sat in her tall-backed chair, surrounded as always by the score or so of young noblewomen who fostered with her. Now, however, she guarded a flock of dirty pigeons, the girls’ linen kirtles gray with smoke and their smudged faces streaked by tears. As the page announced his name, Gunnar glanced around, unsure which one was the screaming Lady Eleanor.
Suddenly he realized the women had all come to their feet. He frowned as the duchess stepped forward and dipped in courtesy.
“Ah, no, Your Grace,” he protested. “I am only a poor knight.”
“You saved us, Sir Gunnar,” she said, her voice cracking with emotion. “We owe you all honor, as well as eternal gratitude. God must surely have brought you here tonight.” She dropped still lower, then rose and stepped back as the younger women similarly knelt and murmured their thanks.
God had sent him? Perhaps. But surely a different god than the one who had let a fire start at night in a chamber full of sleeping women and children.
Gunnar shook his head. “Any of your own men would have done the same. I was simply the first out the door.”
Gunnar shook his head. “Any of your own men would have done the same. I was simply the first out the door.”
“And the last out of the bower,” said Her Grace. “You are too modest. Our castellan told me what you did for Lady Eleanor when his men bore her in.”
“I could hardly leave her to die. Or the other one either. Her, um, serving woman?”
The duchess shook her head. “More maid-in-waiting than servant. A bastard cousin to Lady Eleanor from her father’s brother, come to serve her during her fostering.”
“A brave creature.”
A furrow creased the duchess’s high brow. “Lucy? Truly? I would not have thought it.” She crossed the room, and a servant hurried to pull aside a tapestry and open the door behind it. “Come. Lady Eleanor wishes to thank you herself.”
He had little interest in the lady’s thanks, but he could hardly tell a duchess no. Mostly, though, he wanted to see how the brave maid fared. He followed the duchess up a curved stairway and down a short hall to a tiny chamber. A bed occupied one entire end of the room, and from behind the draperies issued great, wracking coughs, as though someone had the lung sickness.
As he and the duchess approached the bed, a maid hurried out of the room while another, standing near the headboard, pushed the draperies aside and stepped back. As she murmured her thanks and dipped in courtesy, Gunnar recognized the girl from the hall.
Then he caught sight of the occupant of the bed and stopped dead.
Another one?
He glanced back and forth, confused. They were so similar, they looked like twins, with their midnight hair, ivory skin, and gray eyes. But the one in bed had her arm propped up on a cushion, a poultice covering a burn just where he’d put out the flames on a sleeve. So . . . the brave one was the noblewoman and the screamer was the bastard cousin. But which one had been pestering him earlier? And why had he not noticed there were two of them?
Another one?
He glanced back and forth, confused. They were so similar, they looked like twins, with their midnight hair, ivory skin, and gray eyes. But the one in bed had her arm propped up on a cushion, a poultice covering a burn just where he’d put out the flames on a sleeve. So . . . the brave one was the noblewoman and the screamer was the bastard cousin. But which one had been pestering him earlier? And why had he not noticed there were two of them?
The lines of pain around Lady Eleanor’s eyes faded as she looked up and saw him. “Here is my rescuer.”
“Lady Eleanor de Neville, I give you Sir Gunnar of Lesbury. Do not linger too long,
monsire
. She needs to sleep, but would not, until she saw you were well.”
monsire
. She needs to sleep, but would not, until she saw you were well.”
Gunnar bowed to Lady Eleanor, and then to the duchess. “By your command, Your Grace.”
The duchess backed away, and motioned for Screaming Lucy to join her by the door.
“I owe you my life, sir,” said Lady Eleanor. “I am told you charged up the burning stair then leapt with me to safety. And here I worried that you sat too near the fire.”
Aha.
It had been her. He thought back to how he’d spoken to her earlier and flushed. “’Twas more of a fall than a leap, my lady.”
It had been her. He thought back to how he’d spoken to her earlier and flushed. “’Twas more of a fall than a leap, my lady.”
“Perhaps that is why I ache so.” Her voice was husky from the smoke but still managed to carry a ring of good humor. “Well, no matter. Leap or tumble, I will take it over burning. I wish to kiss your hand in thanks.”
She held out her hand and looked at him expectantly. It was disconcerting, being under such close examination by eyes both so wise and so very young. Hardly more than a child—and yet her tone and manner were those of one used to having her requests honored by lessers. Aye, he should have heard that earlier, would have heard it, if he had not been so intent on chasing her off. She was noble for certs. And that she was called “Lady” meant she was married. Frowning at the thought of a girl so young being married off already, he glanced toward her hand. But her fingers were bare of rings, and the duchess did seem to be treating her like one of the fosterlings. Unmarried, and yet called “Lady”? And a
Neville
. How did he know that name?
Neville
. How did he know that name?
Puzzling over it, he took too long and made her frown back at him. “Your hand, Sir Gunnar. I cannot reach it.”
He abandoned trying to sort out who she was and offered his hand.
She started to take it, but hesitated at the sight of the blistered skin across his knuckles. She glanced at her arm, and gently turned his hand over to examine the matching burn on his palm. “I thought I remembered . . . No wonder you did not want me to kiss your hand,
monsire
. You should have spoken.”
monsire
. You should have spoken.”
“’Tis nothing, my lady.”
“Still, I would not hurt you further for the world. And yet I would kiss you.” She squinted at him in the candle-light. “Your right cheek is unmarked, I think. Let me kiss you there.”
“Your thanks are enough, my lady.”
“You saved my life, Sir Gunnar. I owe you a kiss, at the least.” She pushed herself upright with a slight wince and crooked her finger at him. “Bend close.”
Shifting uncomfortably, he glanced toward the duchess, who nodded and smiled. “Let her kiss you, sir. I know her well. She has it in her mind, and she will not rest until she does, stubborn creature that she is.”
“I suspect you are correct, Your Grace. I saw her amid the flames.” He turned back toward the girl and scolded gently, “Brave to the point of foolishness.”
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