Warrior's Song (Medieval Song 1)

“Chandra,” Mark called out, Mary at his side, “what were you doing outside the keep walls? Jerval was very worried about you. Were you hunting?”

“She was playing with this damned hound,” Jerval said, pointing to Hawk, who was not supposed to be in the Great Hall, but when he was trotting so happily next to Chandra, Jerval hadn’t had the heart to kick him out.

“By all the saints’ rigorous prayers, that curdles the blood,” Mark said. He started to stick his hand out toward Hawk. The hound growled at him.

“Chandra gets along well with most animals,” Mary said. “It is a gift.”

“Lady Avicia won’t like the hound inside, Jerval,” Malton said, watching Chandra hug the hound again, his slobber wetting her arms to her elbows. “By God, but he’s a good beast. He is known as the scourge of all enemies of Camberley. I don’t like the look of this at all.”

“Don’t fret, Malton. She won’t tame him,” Jerval said. “I will have Dakyns fetch him soon.”

“More’s the pity,” Chandra said. “Dogs belong in the Great Hall, by the fireplace.”

All the men agreed with her, but kept silent.

Lady Avicia swept into the hall, her sweet memories of Lord Richard and his wicked compliments faded from her mind during the long, bone-jolting journey back to Camberley. She was tired, impatient for a bath, and if the truth be told, itching to discover how Camberley had fared in her absence, with Chandra at the helm. She hugged her son, searching his face for a moment, then nodded to her daughter-in-law, all the while looking about for signs of disorder. She soon found a collection of dust on her beautiful trestle table. She ran her fingers over the table surface.

“You have been at Camberley a week, Chandra,” she said, holding up her dusty fingertip.

Chandra eyed her in absolute amazement and said, “Six days, actually.”

“Nearly seven. It’s almost afternoon.”

Jerval shouted for wine and honey cakes to be brought into the hall, then turned to greet his father, leaving Chandra alone with his mother and Julianna. He had mentioned to his wife several times that she should at least give the keep servants instructions, but she had shrugged indifferently, and he had let her be. It had been Jerval who had told the servants to carry on, but they were used to his mother’s sharp eyes and attention to every detail, and he knew the wenches had grown lax in their duties. He decided to let Chandra fend for herself, at least for the moment.

“You look tired,” he said to his father.

“I am too old for such journeys,” Lord Hugh said, heaving his bulk into his great chair, “and this damned gout hasn’t given me a moment’s peace.”

“All the good food and wine didn’t help. Did you leave Lord Richard and Lady Dorothy in good health?”

“Oh, aye. Even Richard looked ready to take his ease by the time his vassals left. Sir Andrew broke one of Richard’s ribs in the tourney—the one you didn’t stay for.” Hugh glanced over toward Chandra, who stood stiffly beside Avicia. “None of the men blamed you at all for leaving so quickly. By God, what a beauty she is. I trust you are enjoying her as you should?”

Jerval could not keep down a very satisfied smile.

“Aye, so it should be. What does your lady think of her new home?”

Jerval shrugged. “She knows every inch of Camberley—outside the keep.”

“Ah, well then, let your mother handle that.”

“It is that notion that worries me.” He turned as he overheard his mother ask Chandra, “Have the servants treated you as they should, child? Have they done your bidding?”

“Aye, they have, although I have not bade them to do anything in particular.”

Wrong answer, Jerval thought.

“Come, Aunt,” Julianna said, looking toward Jerval beneath her lashes, “surely you do not expect a warrior to take interest in a lady’s duties?”

“Why, Julianna,” Chandra said, looking toward her, “how kind of you to explain things so nicely and so very clearly.”

“Your wine, my lady,” Mary said in that soothing voice of hers. “Your honey cakes are delicious. I have wanted to ask the cook for his recipe.”

“It is I who gave the varlet the recipe,” Lady Avicia said, softening. She found herself staring at Mary. Odd that she had not noticed at Croyland that the girl had the look of Matilda, her sweet, biddable daughter, whose memory always brought a pang of sadness. “You are thin, Mary,” she said. “I hope you will be happy here at Camberley.”

Lord Hugh’s mouth was full at the moment, else his jaw would have dropped to his chest at his lady’s words.

“I am very happy, my lady. Camberley is so lovely, and there are so many windows—I feel as if I am standing in the sunlight.”