Warrior's Song (Medieval Song 1)

Actually, he had no idea. He was aware of Chandra’s every movement from the corner of his eye. He saw also that Lord Richard was holding himself perfectly silent as well, listening.

“Men should not do that,” she said finally. “She was an innocent. You should not have made her love you.”

“Ah. Is that what you think I did? Chandra, I was her father’s squire. You know what that means. I was on the practice fields until I was so sore and battered, I could scarce walk. Then I had to serve Chester, remove his armor, polish it, bring him wine in the middle of the night. I even had to rub his damned feet once when his wife refused to.”

She blinked, then laughed, a full laugh that had everyone slowly turning to look at her, and still she laughed, holding her sides now, and soon everyone was laughing.

He leaned over and slapped her back just at the instant she began to choke.

Finally, her tears of laughter dried, she said, “You did not then lead her on, tell her that her eyebrows moved you profoundly, sent you to the priest to confess your man’s lust?”

“Not all that often.”

“Men are rotten. You included.”

“And woman are always angelic and virtuous? You are a woman. So think carefully before you reply to that.”

She didn’t reply at all, just presented him her knife, a slice of very tender beef speared on the tip.

“Just so,” he said and ate the meat.

The evening was far advanced when Richard motioned to Cecil to bring Chandra her lyre. “Whilst I was sitting there having my hair dried, I practiced,” she said. “For you.”

She moved to sit on a small, round stool, the huge fireplace at her back. She set the wooden instrument lightly on her lap and gently touched the strings, testing their pitch. She tried several chords, and their haunting echoes filled the hall.

Jerval sat back, the rich sweet wine lulling his senses, his eyes on her hair falling over her shoulder as she leaned over the instrument.

Chandra lightly flicked the high strings again, then turned to face the company. “This is an old Breton legend,” she said, her voice clear. “Behold the faithfulness of the lady as she laments her dead lover.” She began to sing, her voice sweet and dark as a moonless night.

Hath any loved you well down there,

Summer or winter through?

Down there have you found any fair

Laid in the grave with you.

He was pleased. He found himself sitting forward. The firelight cast a halo about her.

Is death’s long kiss a richer kiss

Than mine was wont to be

Or have you gone to some far bliss

And quite forgotten me?

He wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life, even more than he’d wanted to win his spurs, and that had burned very deeply inside him.

Hold me no longer for a word

I used to say or sing;

Ah, long ago you must have heard

So many a sweeter thing.

For rich earth must have reached your heart And turned the faith to flowers;