Immortal Warrior (4 page)

“Yes, my lord.” They both bobbed their heads at him and at Brand, and were gone.

Ivo stood, stretched, and shook out the kinks. He had a final sip of wine. He stretched again.

“You delay like those stairs lead to the gallows,” laughed Brand. “Are you truly ready for this?”

Ivo closed his eyes, picturing her as she’d looked there by the door, her color high and her red hair blazing in the torchlight. Brand was right. She was too quick by half for comfort. But she was also fair beyond pretty, and more to the point, she was his. He blew out a long sigh. “I may never be ready for her, but by the gods, I do want her.”

He took the stairs two at a time. Below him, he heard Brand, still chuckling.

CHAPTER 3

SHE WOULD TAKE nothing that was not her own.

Alaida ignored the silk chainse that was part of her grandfather’s court dress and dug to the bottom of the big chest to find her own best sindon chemise. There would be no use for it at the abbey, of course, but the holy sisters could sell it as part of her dower. Her best gowns plus her jewels would surely be enough to buy her a place in one of the wealthier chapters. She would go to Durham . . . or farther south, perhaps. She’d heard of an abbey at Helenstowe in Oxfordshire. He would never find her there.

“Where are you going, my lady?”

She whirled, startled, clutching the soft linen to her breast. Behind her, the lid to the chest crashed down and she jumped. “Oh.”

“I do not bite. At least, not after a good meal.” The amusement in Ivo’s voice made her blood roil. Twice already he had laughed at her, and he had not yet been here one night.

“You startled me,
monseigneur
, that is all. I did not hear you enter.”

“You had your head deep in that chest.”

Presenting a charming view from the door, no doubt. She released her death grip on the chemise and draped it more loosely over her arm in an attempt to look less embarrassed. Or guilty. “Do you want something, my lord?”

“Yes, you . . . to answer my question. Where are you going?”

“Nowhere,” she lied.

“Odd.” He picked his way past the women’s bedding and over to the foot of the great bed, where a stack of neatly folded clothing lay next to a small wooden casket. He picked up the corner of a gown and fingered the embroidered hem, then tipped open the lid of the casket and lifted up the silver girdle that lay on top. “You appear to be packing for a journey.”

“I only thought to remove my things.” Her heart was pounding so loudly, surely he must hear. “The chamber is yours now, like the rest of Alnwick.” She failed to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

“There is no need.” He dropped the girdle back in with the other things. “I will rest in the hall tonight.”

“Tomorrow, then, I will—”

“Tomorrow, you will not need to remove your things. Tomorrow, we will be married. That is what I came to discuss.”

“There is nothing to discuss.”

“You must know the king has gifted you to me along with the land.”

“The king! The king is . . .” She could not summon words to describe what she thought of William. “I am not a chair to be given away so some knight can sit more comfortably in my grandfather’s hall.”

“The marriage will strengthen my claim,” he admitted, running his hand down the heavy green linen that curtained the bed. “But that is not the only reason I wish to wed.”

His meaning was clear, as he intended. She felt the heat crawling up her neck and turned away so he would not see.

Or at least, she tried to turn away.

Her gown was caught on something, so firmly she could move only inches. With his gaze still fixed on her and the color creeping into her cheeks, she reached behind herself, trying to trace the source of the snag.

“Well, I do
not
wish it,” she said, groping about, flustered. “Find some other woman who will have you willingly. You will gain even more land.”

“I have land enough for now.”

“And you have it with or without me, so what difference if I g—” She stopped herself too late.

He jumped on her error. “So you were planning to run. Where?”

“Nowhere.”

Glowering, he started toward her. “Do not lie to me, woman. Where were you going?”

Alaida tugged at the yards of wool. “I will not . . .”

The sentence went unfinished as he reached for her and she jerked away. Her skirts pulled her off balance, and he caught her as she started to fall, one arm around her waist, and pulled her hard against his chest.

She froze, and a long moment of silence stretched, in which she could see the anger in him fading, only to be replaced by something far more dangerous. She wanted to look away, but she found herself trapped by the dark blue flint of his eyes, by the tangy smell of sweat and steel, and most of all, by the warmth of his body, even through all the layers of cloth and mail between them. Or was it her own heat? She was suddenly unsure.

“You are caught,” he said softly.

He threaded his other arm behind her and lowered his head. He was going to kiss her, she thought, and her breath hung in her throat on a soft
ah
.

But no, he kept going, leaning past her shoulder as he reached behind her. There was a groan of metal, and she was free—but not from Ivo. He kept his hold as he straightened.

“The lid had closed on your gown,” he explained.

“M—” She had to swallow to find her voice. “My thanks, my lord.”

“I ask again, where were you going?”

“Nowh—” His arm tightened slightly, just enough to warn her she would not win this battle. “To a convent.”

“I can think of few women less suited to life as a nun.”

“You know nothing of me and what I am suited to.” She tried to push free, but she might as well have been shoving against a wall. “You know nothing of me at all. Release me.”

“You are going nowhere, Alaida. Resign yourself to that fact.” He adjusted his hold slightly, but kept her caught there, so she was forced to look up at his stern face, just inches away. “And as for what I know . . . I already know you have a tongue that can be sharper than a carter’s whip. I know you have a spirit that would fester in a nunnery. And I know that, even though you would deny it, you wonder why I didn’t kiss you a moment ago and what it would have been like if I had.”

“Bah. You are as full of yourself as Sir Neville.”

“Is that his name? Did
he
kiss you?”

She shuddered, just thinking of it. “No.”

“Good,” said Ivo. And then he did, briefly, but enough to send sparks flying through her blood. She tried to keep from showing its effect, but she could tell by his smile that he knew he’d proved his point.

“No convent,” he said.

She didn’t answer, and his smile faded.

“By all that . . .” His jaw clamped as he visibly worked to tamp his temper down. When he spoke, his voice was clipped with the effort. “I would be within my rights to make you wife within the hour, and you sorely tempt me to do so.” He ran a callused thumb across the apple of her cheek as though smudging away some mark. “But I vowed before I arrived that I would give you a day to reconcile yourself to this marriage. Do not make me regret the courtesy. I do not wish to spend the next fortnight tearing down an abbey stone by stone.”

“You would not dare.”

“I would, and not for the first time,” he said darkly, and Alaida knew in her heart he told the truth. He said again, “No convent. Swear it.”

What kind of man was he, to attack an abbey?
The answer was too clear: William’s man. William, who ravaged entire shires simply to prove his power. What would this de Vassy do to prove his? What if he took his wrath out on the village? Suddenly frightened, she gave in—but still she hedged.

“No convent.” There were places other than convents for a woman to find refuge. There must be.

“Good,” he said, and satisfied, settled her firmly on her feet. “Come. I want the men to see you at my side before they sleep tonight.”

It was the last thing she wanted, but resistance would serve little purpose. “Yes, my lord.”

“No argument?” His brow furrowed in suspicion.

“First you demand resignation, and then you question it,” she snapped. “Truly, my lord, you must make up your mind.”

“Ah, there we go.” Chuckling, he took her hand and led her toward the hall.

There he kept her until well past midnight, taking homage from the rest of the household with her at his right, so every man would know she acknowledged his position. Then, as the women drifted back to the solar and the men retrieved their bedding and settled in for the night, he had the accounts brought out, and he and Brand pored over them, asking her and Geoffrey and Oswald countless questions. By the time he finally released them to bed, she was so exhausted that she fell asleep as her head touched the pillow.

Even then he harried her, though, filling her dreams with kisses and her nightmares with visions of burning abbeys and ransacked villages. By the time she woke, well past midday, she knew she could not run—even if she somehow did manage to think of a place to hide besides a convent.

So she summoned Bôte and Geoffrey and told them to prepare for a wedding.

“We already prepare, my lady,” said Bôte, beaming.

Geoffrey confirmed this. “Lord Ivo said we are to be ready for your wedding feast when he returns.”

“Returns? From where?”

“He rode out before dawn with Sir Brand, my lady. He said to expect him late, likely after sunset.”

“And you are to be married then,” added Bôte. “Though I’ve never heard of a wedding at night. In the morning it should be, with the feast to begin at a proper hour. Odd, it is.”

More than odd, but nothing about this situation was usual. “He’s gone? For the entire day?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Up all night and still riding out today to see his lands,” said Bôte. “I tell you, he will make a good lord, if we must have a new one, and a good husband, too.”

For one brief moment, Alaida considered hieing off to Helenstowe while he was gone, but pushed the thought aside. She would not leave Alnwick and its people to the whims of this new lord—but neither would she sit here and listen to Bôte prate on about his virtues.

“Do what you must. I am going for a walk.” She retrieved her purse and yanked her cloak from its peg.

“’Tis foul out there, my lady, and cold as a dog’s nose,” said Bôte. “You will catch a chill.”

“Then I shall sneeze my vows.”

“But you must prepare, my lady,” said Hadwisa. “Which gown will you wear?”

“God’s truth, I do not care,” said Alaida, and she escaped.

 

THERE WERE TIMES , Ari thought, when he wished he could be a raven by day. Like now. It would be most convenient to be able to fly up to the lady’s window and see what plots she was hatching. Of course, as a raven, he wouldn’t be able to stop her from hatching them, but at least he would know.

He was having a hard time believing she had bent so easily to Ivar’s will, yet the buzz of activity as the household prepared for a wedding told him otherwise. Women had swept the dirty rushes from the floor and strewn fresh, mixed with rosemary to make the air sweet. A rider had been dispatched to Lesbury for the priest, and boys had dragged in boughs and vines to garland the hall. Fresh torches and candles perched in their holders, ready to be lit, and the tables, already on their trestles, bore enough fresh white linen to provide sails for a dragonship.

And all of this done since Ari had arrived at mid-morning—a ruse to convince watching eyes he had ridden in from Morpeth. Nearly every man had still been snoring when he’d entered the hall, and most yawned even now.

It was no wonder, as late as Ivo and Brand had kept them up. With so little time to live as men, they had all learned to make do with little sleep, and often with none but what their beasts snatched. The people of Alnwick would quickly adjust to their new lord’s hours, Ari guessed, staying up unnaturally late and thus sleeping later as well—which would suit Ivo perfectly. The fewer eyes open to see him and Brand ride out each morning, and Ari ride back in, the better.

But today the manor folk could only scramble to make up the lost time. For his part, Ari stayed out of their way, lounging in the hall while he waited for Ivo’s lady to appear. He had been waiting a long time; he’d composed most of a wedding poem in his head.

He was considering the final verse when a door slammed. Ari looked up, spotted Alaida at the same instant she spotted him, and came to his feet. She stopped. Her eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“Lady Alaida, I take it.” Ari stepped forward and knelt. “Good morrow. I am—”

“If you’re another bachelor come to try to win me, you’re too late,” she interrupted, her voice as tart as a quince. “I will be married in a matter of hours.”

“Ah, I would try to win you, fair lady, but Ivo would have my manhood for my efforts, and I have grown most fond of it.”

“You are his man, then? You are too bold.”

“I am. I am. And I am Ari,” he said, rising. “My lord’s steward for the castle.”

“Good. Then stew.” She swept down the stairs, out the door, and across the yard toward the gate.

Laughing, Ari went after her. He signaled to one of the guards at the gate, who stepped aside to let them pass. “Where are we going, my lady?”

“Are you steward or jailer?” she demanded.

“Jailer is a harsh word. Let us say . . . escort.” Tiny shards of sleet beat against his cheeks, and he thought of the bear and the eagle freezing in the woods.

“I need no escort. I will not run.”

“Good. Then we may enjoy a pleasant walk together, if there is any pleasantness to be found in this weather. Where did you say we’re going?”

“I didn’t say, but if you must know, I’m going to the village to remind myself
why
I will not run.”