Warrior's Song (Medieval Song 1)

“I mended the last one—the blue wool you had ripped under the arm. See, you did not even think that it might not have been Mary’s work.”

“I simply wondered if perhaps Mary had decided to sew with larger stitches.”

He was laughing at her. She wanted to clout him and she wanted to throw herself against him and beg him to make love to her. He hadn’t touched her for well over a week. She wanted him—she admitted it. She wanted him to touch her, to kiss her in that special way he had; she wanted him inside her, deep, a part of her. She didn’t say anything, but the tears gathered and fell.

“Chandra.”

“Nay,” she said and held up her hand to ward him off, then turned to walk away.

He stared after her, praying that his teasing hadn’t led to her tears—no, impossible. He’d realized some time before that keeping the upper hand was the only way to save himself from being ground beneath her heel. Why had she cried? Surely not because he’d laughed. He wished she’d hit him instead. He wanted her, always wanted her; it was a low ache in his groin. But he saw his avoiding her as punishment for what she’d done. Punishment for him as well. He was a fool, he knew, but he didn’t know what he could do about it.

The next morning everyone at Camberley was caught up in the preparations for the coming of the prince and princess. Under Lady Avicia’s sharp eye, the tapestries were taken down and beaten free of dust, the feather-down mattresses were hauled from the keep and aired for two days, leaving everyone to sleep wrapped in blankets on the floor. Even the jakes did not suffer from lack of Lady Avicia’s attention. She saw to it that even with a south wind, there was no odor to offend the nose. Weaving and sewing went on far into the night, and the serving wenches were fitted with new kirtles of green wool. The lavers were polished until they sparkled enough to show the prince and princess their reflections while they washed their hands. The accumulated ashes were swept away from the huge hearth and the cavernous fireplace scrubbed.

It was only when Lord Hugh saw several boys dangling from tall ladders trying to clean the crossbeams in the hall ceiling that he threw up his hands, crying enough. Hawk, with Lord Hugh’s agreement, was kept out of the keep, and Chandra—who spent most of her waking hours directing servants and weeding the garden herself, for Lady Avicia was certain that Princess Eleanor would wish to inspect the tiered vegetable plots—was too tired from all the work to complain much.

“I wonder which of us will have to wash the castle walls,” was all she said.

It was Jerval, in fact, who directed the cleaning of the barracks and stables, for in Lady Avicia’s mind, the prince’s men would surely tell him if they found filth. Although the men grumbled, they too were infected with the growing excitement, for royalty had not visited Camberley in over twenty years, when King Henry had once deigned to pass the night there. The rotted hay—of which there was very little—was swept from the stables and burned in the bailey.

Meals were meager the several days before the prince’s arrival, and the smells from the cooking sheds made everyone’s mouth water. Lady Avicia had even sent for a baker from Carlisle, and the little man, his scrawny frame wrapped in a huge white linen apron, had quickly spread terror among the rest of the cooks, until, under his snapping orders, piles of pastries and breads filled the larders.

Everyone but Lady Avicia was delighted when Anselm, high in the north tower, sounded three loud blasts on his hunting horn. She still wasn’t ready—oh, by all the saints, what would the princess see that would offend her? At the sound of the horn, even the smallest child in the keep lined up beside his mother, his hands reverently clasped in front of him, awaiting the royal review.

Chandra wished she were in the tower with Anselm to witness the prince’s vast retinue, but her silk gown was new, as were her soft leather shoes, and she was left to wait at Jerval’s side in the inner bailey. He was dressed, she was certain, as finely as the prince must be. His fair hair fell shining and thick in loose waves at his neck. His surcoat of vivid dark blue velvet fell to his ankles, its full, fur-lined sleeves wide and loose over his large hands. His mother had made his surcoat.

“I do hope,” Jerval said to her, “that the prince has bathed in the last week, else my mother will likely have him bathed before he’s allowed to eat at the trestle tables.”

Chandra smiled at that, but didn’t reply, for the inner bailey was suddenly a blaze of deep purple and crimson. Edward and Eleanor, dressed in rich velvet shot with gold thread, rode at the fore of their retinue, astride two matched, glossy-white stallions.

“She is beautiful,” Chandra whispered, her eyes on the exquisite woman who rode beside the prince, her black hair held in a net of gold, her gloved hands, covered with sparkling pearls, lightly holding her reins. “Never have I seen a more beautiful lady.”

“Aye,” Jerval agreed, and could but shake his head. Chandra was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. Had she no idea what she looked like? That a man wanted to fall to his knees just looking at her? “If you think me tall, Chandra, wait until your neck creaks looking up at the prince.”

“Aye, I know he is called Longshanks.”

Prince Edward leapt gracefully from his destrier and tossed the reins to one of the gape-mouthed stable boys. He was as magnificent as his princess, Chandra thought, taller even than she’d imagined, broad shouldered, and slim hipped. He was not, she thought objectively, as handsome as Jerval, but his features were strong, and his light-blue Plantagenet eyes seemed to take in everything and everyone about him. His hair was pale yellow and hung to his shoulders.

There was a babble of voices until Lord Hugh stepped proudly forward. “God’s grace on you, sire.” Lord Hugh bowed deeply to the prince, and then to Princess Eleanor. “And to you, my lady.”

Chandra saw Prince Edward meet Jerval’s eyes, his lips parted in a grin, but it was to Lord Hugh and Lady Avicia that he said, “Thank you for your excellent friendship. Eleanor and I are pleased to be here.”

“Aye,” Eleanor said, her voice sweet and full, “we than

k you for your hospitality.”

It was then that the prince turned to Jerval and clasped his hand, then hugged him. “Aye, it’s even more handsome a rogue you’ve become,” Edward said.

“And even more a giant you’ve become.”

“It is good to see you again, Jerval.” Edward wrapped his arms about Jerval’s shoulders. “Eleanor, I beg you not to fall in love with this very short man just because you feel sorry for him. It’s true too that he’s but a boy, a good five years less of ripening than I have.”

“After seeing only your face for so many years, and watching you grow old, I vow I will look my fill,” Eleanor said and gave Jerval her white hand. “It has been too long, Jerval. I trust all goes well with you.”

No, he thought, things weren’t going all that well for him, but those thoughts didn’t show on his face. “Aye, it has been far too long, my lady,” he said, then added, “Sire, my lady, this is my wife.”

“What? You have finally tied yourself to one woman? Show me this amazing creature who has brought you low.” The laughter left Edward’s blue eyes when he looked down at Chandra. The girl curtsying before him would take away a man’s breath. She was glorious. Golden hair hung loose to just below her shoulders, held back from her face with plaited yellow ribbons. He wanted to touch that hair. Actually, he wanted to touch all of her. And then she looked up at him, and he wondered what one said to such an exquisite creature. There was no shyness in her as she straightened to look at him full-face.

“Who are you, my lady? Surely such a lovely girl would not pass unheard of to me, even at Windsor.”