Warrior's Song (Medieval Song 1)

And warm wind stolen, part by part,

Your soul through faithless hours.

Jerval watched her eyes clear, watched the small smile on her mouth. She rose, bowed slightly at the waist, and handed the lyre again to Cecil. Jerval remained still in his chair, not heeding the loud clapping and cheering from the company.

His eyes met Lord Richard’s.

“She was taught by our minstrel, Elbert. She sings more sweetly than he did, poor fellow. Ah, were you surprised, then, that she sang a song of love?”

“Yes,” Jerval said. “But, withal, she is a woman.”

“Aye, she is.”

Chandra was beside him then, and she said without guile, perhaps even a bit shyly, bringing him firmly back from the dream she herself had created, “Did you like my song?”

“Perhaps,” he said. “A bit more practice, while your hair is being dried, and in ten years or so you will be acceptable outside your own hall.”

She laughed, punched his arm, and sat down beside him. “I like the words, the way they sound to the ear, the way they feel deep inside me.”

“Yes, I did too,” he said, and he knew now why Chandra had played. Her father had insisted that she do so. Her father had wanted him to see the passion in her.

When all of the rush lights had been extinguished, only a spread of candles left to light the way, Jerval said good night to Chandra, lightly touching his fingertips to her cheek, nothing more. He remained in the Great Hall with Lord Richard. He said without preamble, “I believe our two houses must be joined.”

Richard nodded. It was difficult to smile at the beautiful young man standing before him, but he finally managed it.

CHAPTER 8

Sir Mark nearly walked into Mary, grabbed her arms to keep her upright, then bade her a good morning. She stumbled back several steps from him, her face paling, her white hand fisting against her chest. Then she simply turned and slithered back into the chamber she’d just left.

“Good morning,” Chandra called out to him, wondering why he was just standing there, staring at the closed door, his fingers stroking his chin.

“Good morning,” Mark said, adding, surprise in his voice, “She is such a timid girl. I said nothing to alarm her, but she was alarmed nonetheless.”

“Who is a timid girl?”

“Mary.”

“She has a right to be,” Chandra said.

Mark fell into step beside her. “Why? What happened?”

She paused a moment, anger at Graelam nearly bursting the words out. Oh, God, she had to keep her mouth shut. No one could ever know. She said, “You’re right. She is shy, very shy. I know she meant no offense.”

Mark didn’t believe that for an instant, but he was too kind to pry.

She pulled away then because she saw Jerval in the inner bailey, speaking with her father. They were probably speaking of the Welsh bandits, their last round of bloody raids, the number of men they’d managed to kill, the cattle they’d stolen—just like the Scottish raiders, she thought, who plagued Camberley to the north.

Yes, they were speaking of strategy. They were speaking of how best to attack the bandits, whether or not it would be worth their while to take prisoners for ransom.

Jerval said, “I will teach her what it means to be a woman.”

Richard said, “Since I have taught her the ways of men, I suppose it is right that her husband teach her the ways of a woman.”

Although the words came out smoothly enough, it was an effort for Richard to actually say them. Jerval teach her to be a woman? This damned man who was far too young, far too inexperienced to know anything about how to treat a woman? Ah, but that was the point. He was young, strong, bursting with life and health. The thought of him with Chandra, knowing her in ways Richard never could, rubbed and grated, even tore at him, deep down, but he knew there was no other way. She was his daughter, of his flesh, and there was no changing that.

He remembered clearly the day some five years ago when Chandra had run to him, her face white, sobbing low behind her fist. It had taken him a while to fina

lly get her to admit to him that she was bleeding. She believed she was dying. She hadn’t done anything. Please, Father, she hadn’t. She swore it on Father Tolbert’s Bible. And now she was bleeding to death and it wasn’t fair. She had always come to him, never to Dorothy, and now, he understood why Chandra hadn’t gone to her. He remembered he had tried, carefully, and with some tact, since he loved her and didn’t want to frighten her, to explain what the bleeding meant.