Warrior's Song (Medieval Song 1)

She learned very quickly.

CHAPTER 7

When he was sitting in a large steel-banded bathing tub late that afternoon, Jerval realized that she had never thanked him for saving both her and Croyland. They’d immediately gone after each other’s throats. Well, he’d simply tried to explain a man’s honor to her, but he hadn’t succeeded. Ah, well, doubtless Lord Richard would have her say all that was proper to him this evening. He wondered if she would do it well, if she would be gracious and mean it. He sighed and slid down until the water covered his head. Life, he thought as the water enfolded him in its calm silence, had strange byways. He wondered what he would be thinking now if she had turned out to be a little princess, with soft hands and softer words.

When his head cleared the water, it was to see her standing by the tub, staring down at him. She was still dirty, her hair in tangles about her face. He wanted to kiss her until she was wild for him.

“Did you come to scrub my back?”

“No.”

“Do you want me to scrub yours? It would take a very long time.”

“No. I realized that I hadn’t thanked you.”

Now this was something, he thought, and kept quiet. He was hard, but the water covered him, thank God.

She smiled down at him and lightly touched her hand to his wet shoulder. “Allow me to thank you on my own. Later—well, that will be formal and not between us.”

“All there is between us now is this tub of dirty water.”

She just shook her head at him.

“Have you rehearsed something for me?”

“Be quiet. Listen to me now. This is important. It comes from the deepest part of me, so to me, it is vastly important. If you had not come to Croyland when you did, if you hadn’t managed to come up with such an excellent plan, if you hadn’t been strong and brave, your men as well, then I would have been wedded to Graelam.”

She actually shuddered as she spoke the words. He had the sudden thought that perhaps she would give an equally distasteful shudder if she’d been forced to marry him.

From the deepest part of her? He was brave and strong? “You’re welcome,” he said finally. “I am glad that I was close by, very glad that one of my men found out what had happened. If I had come too late, well then, so much would have been lost. I might not even ever have met you.”

“Yes,” she said, and smiled at him, a lovely white-toothed smiled, filled with relief. “Actually, you wouldn’t have met me at all because Graelam would have murdered me by now—that, or I would have managed to slip a knife between his ribs.”

Or perhaps Graelam would have taught her to bend to him, to admire him, to . . . “I would offer you my bathwater, but it is nearly as black as you are.”

He watched her pick up her long braid and give it a yank. “Always dirty,” she said. “Father won’t let me cut it. It would be so much easier. Look at you. You simply stick your head in a bucket of water, rub in a bit of soap, and it’s all done.”

“You have beautiful hair. I wouldn’t let you cut it off either.”

“How would you like to have to sit still whilst someone had to brush your hair for an hour to get it dry?”

“I shouldn’t like it at all, and that’s the truth. However, when I look at you—your face, your hair, all of you—it gives me, a simple man, great pleasure. It would please me if you would continue to sit quietly for that hour to dry your hair.”

“Now, what does all that mean?”

He laughed. “Nonsense, all of it is nonsense. Your hair pleases me, that’s all. Now, would you like to dry me?”

She cupped her hand in his bathwater and spurted him in the face.

The Great Hall was bright with the light from countless mutton-fat rush torches, the air thick with laughter and conversation. Sir Andrew, Sir Malcolm, and their men lounged about the long tables, waiting for the servants to serve up the thick slabs of roasted beef and casks of wine.

Jerval sat to Lord Richard’s left, impatient that Chandra had not yet come into the hall. He knew that he was being studied, his worth to Croyland weighed and discussed. Lady Dorothy sat at the far end of the dais. There was no expression at all on her face but the ravages of time, of perhaps a bitterness felt so long that it was etched into the shadows in her eyes. He didn’t know. But whatever had made her what she was at this moment, sat deep and heavy on her face. Why did she so dislike her daughter? He raised his goblet, and a serving wench hastened to fill it.

“You threw my daughter in the water, then threw her yet again over your shoulder. I saw that move only once before, done by an Italian boy.”

How did the man know that? Did he have spies everywhere?

“I watched the two of you,” Lord Richard said. “I assume she pushed you over your limit and tossing her into the water was her punishment?”