Warrior's Song (Medieval Song 1)

“I am learning how to weave,” she said, her voice as flat as the tapestry against the stone wall behind Lord Hugh. “It is dirty work.”

Jerval grinned at her. “I trust you are growing as skilled with the loom as you are with a bow.”

“No,” she said. “I am not.” She shook her head and couldn’t help herself—she smiled from ear to ear. “I cannot believe it! Prince Edward will be coming here?”

He smiled at her excitement.

“The king writes that my poor Matilda’s husband, Eustace, will be accompanying them,” Lord Hugh said. “It appears he has been hanging about Windsor since his return from France.”

“I wonder what Eustace was up to in France,” Jerval said thoughtfully. “Louis, after all, has already left for the Holy Land.”

“Whatever it is, it won’t be good,” Lord Hugh said. “Eustace is a rotten whoreson, and I doubt that he’s improved with the years. Now, I also think the prince has more reason for visiting the lake region than just to tour his lands and to kick any Scots warriors who happen to get in his way.”

“I think you are right, Father,” Jerval said, then smiled at Mark. “I have more good news for all of you,” he called out. “It would seem that my mother has more to do in the way of preparations than just for the prince and princess’s visit.

Lady Avicia, who had just begun to make lists in her mind, bent a sharp eye to her son at his words. “Whatever do you mean, Jerval?”

Jerval studied Mary’s l

ovely face for a moment, then winked at Mark. “I believe I will savor the telling until this evening.”

“He did naught but inform you?” Chandra said.

Mary’s happy smile did not dim. “Not exactly,” Mary said. “Jerval is always kind to me, and I know he means me well.”

“I should have insisted that he tell me what he was planning.”

“But, Chandra,” Mary said, “what does it matter that he did not tell you? After all, he had first to gain Sir Mark’s agreement. Mark will be a fine husband, and he is too kind ever to reproach me about the child. I am more pleased than I can tell you.”

“But you were given no choice, Mary. How can you be pleased that Jerval simply decided that you would wed Mark, without even asking what you thought of him?”

“It would have been my father’s duty to find me a husband,” Mary said reasonably, “and I cannot tell you how thankful I am that my father will never know about the child. Because Jerval took it upon himself, I am now to marry an honorable man who likes me and will treat both me and the child well. What more could I ask? I will have a gentle lord, be mistress of his keep, and bear his children. Mark knows that I will try to make him a good wife. It is more than I ever could have wished for.”

At Chandra’s sigh, Mary said with a rare show of temper, “Would you prefer that I bear a bastard in shame?”

“Nay, of course not. It’s just that I would have liked to know what he was thinking, what he was planning. After all, it is I who am your friend first.”

Mary couldn’t help herself. She laughed aloud, laughed even louder, holding her stomach. “Oh, my, Chandra, it is just that Jerval did not even consider asking you that makes you snipe about all of it. But surely you cannot disagree with the outcome. After all, what meaning would life have if one did not marry and have babes, and live together, and share joy and sorrow? Such a sad life it would be.” She laid a light hand on Chandra’s arm.

Sharing, Chandra thought, sharing. With a man, with a husband, with Jerval. It was a very difficult thing. It meant giving over—it meant no longer holding what you were, deep inside, close.

It meant being less than yourself, giving part of yourself over to the other. Over to Jerval. No, he would demand that she give him everything she was. It was a terrifying thought.

Chandra said, suddenly brisk, “You are right, of course. Now, we have little time to prepare your bridal clothes. And the prince is coming as well. I hear he is terribly tall, isn’t he?”

“Aye, he is called Edward Longshanks. And Lady Avicia is already bustling about. She must wonder why we are to wed so quickly, but she said nothing of it to me. She is so very kind to me, and I fear I have done little to deserve it.”

“Nonsense, you are an angel, and Mark the luckiest man alive. I hope my mother-in-law doesn’t clout Mark in the head when she hears of this.”

Five days later, Chandra, her husband beside her, waved one last time to Mary from atop the outer wall.

“Mother packed the baggage mules so high, I was beginning to wonder if we would have anything left at Camberley,” Jerval said. He looked down at his wife’s clear profile, so elegant, so pure. Her hair was pulled back from her face, and she was gowned beautifully in soft yellow, with yellow ribbons threaded through her hair. He wanted her, right that moment. But he didn’t move.

He said, “You will miss her. We will visit them. Do not fret.” He paused a moment, then said slowly, “Mother tells me that you are learning. Not as quickly as she would like, but nonetheless, it appears you are trying a bit. She tells me that most of the time you even manage to keep your mouth shut—a miracle, she believes—but there is still the cursing under your breath.”

“Does that mean I may go hunting with you and the men on the morrow?”

“No, but perhaps by next month you will have the skill that will change my mind. You will tell me when you are ready to demonstrate what you have learned.” He added, “I will miss Mary. She mended my tunics. I will be favorably impressed if you can show me that sort of skill with a needle.”