Warrior's Song (Medieval Song 1)

He said thoughtfully, “Now, that’s quite possible. However, I will keep a sharp lookout and see that she doesn’t do that.”

Chandra said, her eyes clouded with sudden memories that Jerval knew weren’t good, “My mother hated me. For as far back as I can remember she couldn’t bear to have me near her.”

“But why?”

“I don’t know. She beat me until I was big enough to fight back and then she stopped. She was afraid of me then.”

“Why didn’t you tell your father?”

Chandra gave him a long look, then shrugged. “I don’t know why I told you that. It’s not important, hasn’t been for many years now.”

“Why didn’t you tell your father?” he asked again.

“She said she would poison him if I did. I believed her.” Chandra shook herself then, as if waking from a dream. “I do not wish to be with you tonight, Jerval. I am angry because you see nothing good about me. I would very likely bite you.”

A mother who hated and beat her own daughter? It made his guts churn, his belly cramp. She was right, though. It was years too late, and now this. He smiled at her. “Come. I will take my chances. I believe I will try some new things on you.”

He d

id and she didn’t bite him.

Before he fell asleep, he said against her neck, “There is so much good about you that it nearly breaks my heart.”

She was soft and limp, her mind easy, vague. “What is good about me?”

But he was asleep.

Rolfe had to squint against the early-morning sun to make out the figure riding toward him. It was Sir Jerval’s wife, astride her destrier. A sword was strapped at her side, and a shield was tucked under her arm. Her long woman’s legs were encased in chausses, with cross garters binding them to her, and she wore a tunic of dark blue wool. Rolfe met Malton’s astonished look, grinned, and spat into the dirt.

Malton drew a deep breath and wheeled about. “I don’t like this, Rolfe. I don’t think she is here just to cheer the men on. I must see Sir Jerval.” He had seen her on the archery range with Jerval and Mark during the previous week, and of course she was a familiar sight in her men’s garb riding her great destrier. But that Jerval would allow her to take part in the Scots’ competition, that he could not believe. She was skilled, no doubt about that, but she was still a lady, she was a female, and she could be hurt.

He found Jerval naked to the waist, sluicing himself from a bucket of water at the well.

“Aye, Malton?” Jerval shook himself, took a towel from a giggling serving girl at his side, and rubbed it over his chest and head.

“By all the ancient gods,” Malton said, “it’s my lady. She’s mounted on that beast of hers, in the tiltyard. She is carrying her sword. We are having the competition this morning. You know it is dangerous. She is a girl, a soft, beautiful girl who surely should not be anywhere near the practice field, and—”

“Of course she will not compete. Don’t fret, Malton. She is just looking over the course.”

“She looks like she is doing more than just looking.”

“Nay, it is nothing more than her interest. She is well trained, so of course she would want to know how everything will be done.”

Malton said nothing more. However, Jerval dressed more quickly than was his wont, mounted Pith, and followed Malton to the tiltyard. Chandra had been gone when he awakened that morning, but she always was. When, he wondered, would she not leave him? When would she stay and let him love her in the morning daylight?

He had seen her briefly when they were breaking their fast down in the Great Hall; then she had disappeared. Likely she was avoiding his mother. At least she never left the keep now without an escort. He had hope for her sense.

Jerval pressed his knees to Pith’s sides and galloped to the far side of the tiltyard, where Chandra sat astride Wicket, looking everything over.

“Good morning, wife,” he said, reining in Pith beside Wicket. “What do you think of the course? Have you picked your favorite to win?”

“Bayon explained it all to me,” she said. “As to who will win, why, since I wish to compete, I must wager on myself.”

As always, she sounded so sure of herself. He said slowly, “You must know that you cannot compete in this competition, Chandra. It is not a game. Archery, wrestling, and hunting are one thing, but not this. This is deadly serious.”

“I am well used to riding at straw dummies. This course does not look all that difficult.”

“It is misleading. You may watch. You might consider cheering for me.” He leaned over, gripped her chin and kissed her hard. He felt the immediate response in her. He grinned as he straightened, looking directly through her tunic to her wildly beating heart, she was sure of that, and then rode away.