The Barbarian (9 page)

After a moment she
reached for the blanket folded nearby. "Are you done now then? The water
will soon be cold and I'd like to bathe."

Stryker leaned
back. "I have a thought in my head."

"Treat it
gently," she quipped, "'Tis in a strange place, no doubt."

He ignored the
slight. "Why don't you climb in here with me, my lady?" He would like
that, he thought—to have her naked there with him. He could wash her hair for
her. This was a strange idea to come into his head for he'd never felt such an
urge as that before, but his imagination dwelt on the image, took a liking to
it. He would unravel his tightly bound lady, bring her down from her lofty,
superior height. Touch by touch, inch by inch.

She clutched the
blanket to her chest. "I would rather bathe alone."

Slowly he smiled.
"You are quite safe. I just spent. My cockerel sleeps content."

Still she stared,
unsure of him, wary as a wild animal.

"I will not
take your virginity before the wedding. There, you have my word."

"I still
would like my own bath."

"No more
water will be heated tonight," he assured her. "Bathe with me or not
at all." Was it his dirty water that made her object? Or his presence?
She'd just have to get used to both, he reasoned.

She tipped her
chin up. "Then I will forgo the pleasure. Thank you."

"You don't
trust me?"

"After what
happened in the forest, why should I? Trust is earned."

She had a point,
he supposed, chagrinned. Perhaps he had been too rough with her, too anxious to
show off in front of Ifyr.

But she was not as
delicate as she looked, nor was she so frigid. Her juice had flowed just as
readily as her curses when he had her on her back and worked her oyster open
with his tongue. She was tightly bound up in distrust and suspicion. Stryker
was frustrated, but with himself as much as he was with her.

Suddenly the doors
groaned open and a gust of wind blew through the cookhouse, almost knocking the
wooden screen over. "They're here! They're here! The whores are
here," Ifyr's excited voice rang out. "My lord, the whores from
Marazion are here."

He glanced up at
his bride-to-be. She stood beside the bath, holding the fleece out for him.
"It seems you have company."

Awkward. Although
why it should be he couldn't imagine. Whatever signs there had been of any
softening in her expression were now wiped away. Her portcullis was lowered,
her drawbridge raised again.

Chapter Four

Thus she spent her
first night in her new home, listening to the raucous celebrations in the great
hall, while she and Villette were shut away for their own "good" in a
small private chamber adjoining the main building. It was little more than a
cupboard and smelled strongly of wet dog. A brief perusal of the place by
candlelight turned up scattered remnants of armor, a few dented shields, a
rusty mace hanging on the wall and a row of helmets that looked as if the
person who last wore them had not lived to tell the tale.

Two small, narrow
pallets were laid out for them, covered with furs and fleece. It was an attempt
at comfort for "ladies" in this place of mostly men. Ami wondered how
many discussions it took for his counselors to decide upon the number of
fleeces two dainty women might require.

Villette, peering
through slits in the wooden door, kept her abreast of the action, whether she
wished to know or not. Apparently the whores performed a dance of sorts to the
accompaniment of drums, while the men sat around and enjoyed the vulgar
display.

"I do not see
Stryker Bloodaxe," Villette exclaimed at one point.

Relief cooled her
head like a sudden, unexpected shower of rain. But she shook it off. Why should
that matter to her? She was Ami the Unbreakable. Nothing he did would dent her
armor. She'd known him less than a day and what experience she had of him was
not exactly a sterling reference.
 

Ami made a fuss of
re-arranging her blankets before lying down and then called Villette away from
the door. "Blow out the candles," she muttered.

The maid took her
time, lingering at the door crack, but eventually she came to her bed, dragging
her feet. It was as if the long journey and the events of that day were already
forgotten and now she had a fresh burst of life.

"I saw
heather on the moor, my lady. I shall gather some for you."

"Make sure
you take a guard. That moor is not a safe place for a girl alone."

"Yes,
mistress." After a pause she chattered onward. "The wedding is to be
tomorrow, my lady. He has brought it forward."

"How do you
know this, Villette?"

"I'm sorry,
my lady," the maid replied. "I listened to gossip as you told me not
to. I fear it is a bad habit not easy for me to break."

"Gossip from
whom?"

"The kitchen
maids, my lady."

She wondered what
else those giggling girls might have told Villette. But she would never ask. So
he had brought it forward. Why? He was anxious for her bridal purse of course,
foolish question.

"The wedding
was to be a week from today, but he has ordered it for tomorrow. A monk from
Exeter
is to perform the
service and the neighbors are to come—a Norman knight and his wife. I hope your
wedding gown is not too wrinkled, my lady."

"I'm sure
whatever state it's in, the gown will suffice."

Villette snorted.
"He'll probably rip it off you at night in any case. They say he is a
lusty beast. You shall not be cold tomorrow night, my lady."

Ami shivered and
curled up under her blankets, pulling them tight to her chin and over her chilled
ears. Tomorrow night. She had thought often of her wedding night, of course,
having come close to one four times already. Never had the idea set such a
whirl of anxiety spinning in her mind. The duties of the marriage bed were a
mystery to her and tonight she cursed her naïveté.
 
She did not like handing control over to
anyone and yet Stryker Bloodaxe would take it from her tomorrow. Just as he did
under the bare trees in the forest.

Oh, don't think of that, you fool woman.

Her pussy
moistened at the swift recall of his clever, insistent tongue and its dastardly
magic.

Well, there was no
getting out of it. This husband wasn't sending her back. She hadn't been able
to frighten him off, but then she hadn't tried particularly hard. In fact, she
hadn't wanted to.

Suddenly Villette
spoke up again, popping her head out of the blankets like a wriggling grub
emerging from a cocoon. "They say he never got over Elsinora
Gudderthsdottir."

She stilled.
"What?"

"Elsinora,
the neighboring landowner's wife. She was supposed to marry Stryker Bloodaxe,
but she chose another. It broke his heart."

Ami curled her
fingers around the blanket and loosened it from beneath her chin. "Who
told you this?"

"That
soldier, Ifyr, my lady. 'Tis well known hereabouts. Elsinora is a great beauty
and he was in love with her. Funny to think of a great big man like that one
head over heels in love, isn't it? But Ifyr says your dowry shall make up for
it."

She listened to
Villette's gossipy chatter, staring into the dark, her heart thrusting hard and
angry. Might have known there was something amiss. This husband wasn't at
death's door, or too young—but he was in love with another. She'd been through
this twice before. It should no longer bother her. It should not.

Turning over to
face the wall, she sniveled into her kerchief and felt her eyes sting as they
watered. Damn cold. It was the worst time in the world for her to get sick. Her
eyes would be red and puffy come the morning. What a sight she would be.

No matter. This
was a marriage of convenience, as he'd said. He wanted her dowry and she needed
rescue from spinsterhood. What sort of idiot was she, to look for a straw of
hope and think she'd found one? His easy charm and the way he joked with
her—told his self-effacing stories of adolescent failures—had momentarily
blinded her to the truth of their situation. Thank goodness she hadn't let down
her guard and laughed at the thought of him landing face first in a cowpat.

Amusing as it
might be.

She heard rustling
and fussing in the pallet next to her. "My lady? Are you
laughing
?"

Was she laughing
or weeping?
 
A little of both perhaps at
first. But her dark sense of humor soon won out and chuckles shook the entire
length of her body. No point weeping over spilled milk, was there? In the dark
she could laugh to her heart's content. She'd save the tears until later for
there would surely be plenty married to that barbarian.

****

Stryker convened
his counsel early the next morning. Many of them suffered thick heads from a
night of carousing, but Stryker had not participated in the revelry so he was
wide awake, bursting with a sunny vitality that made his counselors grimace and
groan.

"I see we
have not done as much as we could to make this manor suitable for my
bride," he exclaimed, banging his fist on the table. "There should be
more comfort for her here."

His oldest
advisor, Rolf—a remnant of his father's time—looked up slowly and yawned.
"But we built the lass a new privy."

"Aye, with a
fancy wooden seat," one of the others chirped up, clearly annoyed at being
roused so early from his drunken sleep.

"And we
cleaned up the pig shit from the hall," said another.

Stryker leaned his
knuckles on the table and looked around at their dour grey faces. He'd been up
half the night too, but not drinking and playing with whores. He'd sat up in
his hayloft and thought about Amias of York, his high-born lady. When he first
heard that King William was sending him a bride, he'd viewed this new woman as
the king's attempt to appease him. She would be poor reparation for
Elsinora—the wife he'd lost to that Norman villain, Dominic Coeur-du-Loup.
  

But that was
before he met her and saw how she came bravely into his territory and faced him
without flinching. She held mystery in her rich brown eyes, treasure he would mine.
His compensation prize was sexually alluring in a way he'd never expected. She
was a challenge. Amias also held his interest as no other woman ever had. Stryker
realized that he wanted to impress her.

And so far he had
not, that much was plain.

"Rolf,"
he snapped impatiently, "do we not have a tapestry of some sort for the
wall. I remember something from my father's day. Tapestry with a crest upon
it."

The old man
screwed up his face to think and then replied, "That ol' thing? It was
moth-bit and stank o' mold."

"But where is
it? Surely it can be cleaned."

"It was
buried with your father. His corpse was wrapped in it."

Well, he couldn't
very well dig his father up, could he? "Do we have nothing else to
decorate the walls?"

The men looked at
one another and grumbled, all slouching in their chairs, some with bloodshot
eyes and drool-encrusted mouths.These, he thought sadly, were his twelve best
men. Six were elderly and valued for their vast experience; six were young men,
needed for their new ideas, but who could also learn from the others and carry
the knowledge onward. Today, when he counted, they were a man short.

"Where is
Ifyr this morn?" he demanded.

"Probably in
the arms o' some whore," one of the men grunted. "Or three. Last time
I saw him he was balls-deep, still going by first light."

"He knows I
called a meeting?"

Rolf nodded.
"He knows."

Stryker's temper
mounted. Clearly he gave Ifyr too much leniency. "Then he's due for a
dunking in the rain barrel and a few hours in the drunk shed. No more whores
for him until I say so."

That made a few of
the men sit straighter and make greater attempt to look alert, propping
themselves up with elbows and knuckles.
 

"My wife can
make a few bowers of greenery for the great hall," Rolf volunteered.
"For the wedding feast. Her fingers aren't so nimble as they once were,
but she can show the cookhouse girls how to twine some willow and wind it with
ivy."

"And we've
horns from the stags we hunted yesterday," another man suggested.
"They've yet to be washed and hung up."

"Women like
soft things," someone muttered disapprovingly. "Feather pillows on
chairs."

Stryker nodded.
"Better. I want to see more effort about the place. More candles and
things that smell sweet."

The men looked at
him blankly.

"Herbs,"
he snapped. "Flowers."