Warrior's Song (Medieval Song 1)

She hadn’t liked what he’d told her. Actually, he couldn’t say that he would particularly like it for himself either. And when her breasts began to grow, she had bound herself tightly, ashamed of them because the boys didn’t have them, and hunched her shoulders forward to hide them. It was Egbert, the minstrel, who had achieved the impossible. He had convinced Chandra when she was fifteen finally to wear gowns. Her hunched shoulders suddenly straightened, and to Richard’s profound relief, she seemed to come to enjoy dressing up for their guests and having her incredible hair brushed to her waist until it gleamed in the candlelight. Now she made the transition from boy to lady gracefully.

He knew that he had kept her with him overlong, knew he had, by his own hand, formed her brilliantly. He sighed. He had to admit that he had misformed her as well. She still did not understand compromise, but she was young. Learning to compromise would come. Married to Jerval, she would have to learn to bend. And if she didn’t? No, he wouldn’t consider that. Compromise was nothing compared to the qualities she held in the deepest part of her. Thank God that Jerval de Vernon appeared to both understand and accept her the way she was. Even though he was too young to know much of anything.

Richard said now, “Avery tells me that a ship from France has just put in to the harbor. Why don’t you join me and see the wares the captain has to offer? Perhaps you will find something your bride will like.”

Chandra was sitting cross-legged on a grassy patch above the promontory looking out over the sea, chewing on a blade of grass. It was early afternoon. The sun, finally, was bright overhead, and warmed the earth on which she sat. She felt the sun warm her all the way to her bones and was content. It was the sort of day that didn’t demand that she do much of anything. She turned her head at Wicket’s whinny and saw Jerval atop Pith, riding at a gallop toward her up the rocky slope. She felt a rush of pleasure to see him. He and her father had left so quickly, she hadn’t even had a chance to bid him a good morning.

But now he was here. She’d realized almost at once that with her, he wasn’t coarse in the manner of her father’s men. He never boasted on the exercise field, except of course with her, and that was merely good-natured jesting. He would yell in a man’s face when he failed at a task through inattention, but he was fair. Aye, he was always fair, both in his praise to his men and in his punishments.

There was much joke-telling and laughter among the men when he was about. She smiled toward him, admiring the fall of his simple white woolen tunic and the strength of his hands on his destrier’s reins. His golden hair, thick and curling at his neck made her think again, a lurch of pain passing through her, that he should have been her father’s son. Fate hadn’t dealt kindly with Lord Richard. Jerval wasn’t her brother—nothing could change that—but he was a man she admired, a man she very much liked. It wasn’t his fault that he looked like Lord Richard.

Jerval dismounted and walked to her, tall, strong, the sun shining down on his gleaming hair. When he saw her looking up at him, he smiled.

By all the saints, he thought, staring at her, she was a glorious creature. Soon she would belong to him, every thought in her head, every white inch of her body, every word out of her mouth. His. She would belong to him, to no other man ever. He looked away from her because he wanted to leap on her, and he knew, knew all the way to the soles of his feet, that it was too soon, that with all her skills, all her talents, she was appallingly ignorant in the ways of men and women. It didn’t make particular sense, but it was nonetheless true. He said, “Mark told me you rode up here.”

Chandra patted the grassy ground next to her, and to her surprise, for just an instant, he hesitated before he dropped to sit beside her.

She remembered that Mark had seen Mary’s fear and wondered at it. She must speak to Mary, warn her, urge her not to flinch away whenever a man came near her. “I was just thinking about you,” she said. “How much longer will you stay at Croyland?”

When would he face it? Jerval wondered. When would he tell her what he wanted of her? Soon, he knew, when he felt the time was right. He said easily enough, “My father set no limit. Why? Do you wish me to leave?”

“Sometimes.”

“I don’t like the sound of that.”

“No, it’s not what you’re thinking.” She shrugged, as if it weren’t all that important, but he knew that it was.

“Tell me,” he said. “Tell me what I’m not thinking.”

“I really don’t want to, but you will keep at me, won’t you?”

“Aye.”

“All right. It’s just that you are a man, but you are also much more than that. I find you amazing. You can do everything and you do it well. You are fair. You always know what to say, what to do. Even if one of your men doesn’t perform at something all that well, you do not stint with your praise on what he did do right, or on your encouragement—and you manage to remain honest. Well, usually.”

He couldn’t believe she thought that highly of him. He was amazing? Fair? He always knew what to say, to do? Surely she must love him to see him through such blind eyes. She shrugged again, but he was content to wait. She said, “I do things well, but never will I be like you. I do try to treat people well, but I’ll tell you—if there is a single way to offend, I will find it, very quickly. You do not.”

He was staring at her, couldn’t help himself. He was still stunned at her words, words spoken passionately. “Do you truly see me like that?” His heart was now beating slow and hard.

“Aye. You are so like my father.”

Well, damn. Finally, he said, “I’m glad you see me in such a good way.”

She shrugged. “You are you. There is no other way to see you. You are good. It’s true, sometimes I wish I could be you.”

“Believe me, I am very glad you are not a man, that you are nothing like me. You are, to be honest here, perfect just as you are right this very moment.”

“You say that only because I have praised you, but nonetheless, I will accept that I am perfect, at least right now.”

He wanted to bite her lower lip, then lick it. By all the saints’ sweaty palms, it was nearly too much. “I brought you something from the captain’s ship.”

He handed her a small cloth-wrapped package.

Slowly she pulled the soft protecting wool apart, her fingers trembling just a bit. “I love presents,” she said when she saw him grinning at her. “I have always thought that to be by yourself in a small room, surrounded by piles of presents—nothing could be better than that.”

“How about also having the person with you who gave you all the presents so he could see your face as you opened them?”

“Oh yes, that would be quite fine. But such things don’t ever happen. If I can have only part of my fantasy, then I will take the presents.”