Immortal Warrior (14 page)

Father Theobald rose. “Will I see you at Mass in the morning, my lord?”

“I have business which takes me away early.”

“But you failed to attend this morning, my lord, and—”

“It cannot be helped, Father.” Ivo had been expecting this, but he didn’t want to deal with it tonight. Early on, he had realized the power that the Church held with the Normans. He’d learned to mimic the Christian words and ways in order to move among them, and eventually, he’d even come to appreciate the religion and the way their god and his dead son fit neatly at the table with Odin and Baldur. But their priests were a different matter. They were womanish and grim and they talked too much, especially this one. Especially now. “Sir Brand and I ride out before dawn each day. It is impossible for us to attend Mass with the others.”

“But you must recognize the importance of attendance for your souls, my lord.”

Frey’s pillock.
The priest wasn’t going to be put off, and Alaida was up there, waiting. Ready. “Of course, Father. You come to Alnwick each Sunday to do services, is that correct?”

“Yes, my lord. After I say the Mass in Lesbury.”

“Then you will stay and say Mass especially for Brand and me each Sunday evening.” Brand glanced up sharply at this, but Ivo glared him into silence. “Also on the evening of every day you visit Alnwick on other duties.”

“Mass at night? That is most irregular, my lord.”

“You will have payment for the additional services, and bed and board for the nights you must rest here.”

The promise of silver and food worked wonders for the irregularities. “Well . . . I suppose nights are better than not at all. If you will give me a moment, my lord, I will prepare—”

“Not tonight,” said Ivo, already regretting this. “You have your bread and pallet for tonight. Sunday will be soon enough.”

The priest looked unhappy, but he bowed his head. “As you will, my lord.”

“Sit down, priest,” muttered Brand sullenly, clearly disgusted with Ivo on all counts this evening. “’Tis your move.”

“Hmm? Oh.” Father Theobald glanced down at the board and moved his bishop to take a knight. “You are in check,
messire
.”

“Eh?” Brand’s face clouded as he studied the board. “How did you do that? Oswald, explain.”

As the marshal laughed and leaned forward, Ivo turned on his heel and climbed the stair to his wife.

She was waiting for him, as she should have been the night before, sitting in the center of the bed with her un-braided hair spread around her like a copper mantle. The way she clutched the furs she held over her nakedness showed there was yet a little nervousness in her, but as she met his eyes, he saw that there was desire as well, and the willingness that had been missing at the outset last night. Suddenly, he burned.

He stripped out of his clothes as though they would char away—his tunic and shirt yanked off there by the door, his boots kicked away as he crossed the room, his hose peeled off by the bed.

Do not do this.
The echo of Brand’s warning stopped him. He stood there, aching, his hand at the tie of his braies, unable to move.

“My lord?” Her brows knit in concern. “Are you unwell?”

He shook his head slowly. “I was only thinking how very beautiful you are, Alaida of Alnwick.”

Even in the shadows of the bed he could see her glow. “You flatter, my lord.”

“Truth is not flattery.” He reached out to cup her cheek, intending to draw her to him for a kiss, a long, drunken kiss that would leave her wet and wanting—

It’s in your voice already.
His hand froze in midair.

Brand was right. He couldn’t do this. If he touched her now, tonight, if he let her touch him, he would have to have her. He would not be able to stop himself from pushing into her, spilling into her, any more than he had last night. Better to wait a few days, until he had himself under control, until his knowledge of her wasn’t so fresh and he wasn’t so crazed with wanting. With a groan, he pulled his hand back.

“You are
not
well,” she said firmly. She came up onto her knees and reached out to press a hand to his forehead, and that simple touch alone was nearly enough to make him push her down and take her. “You have no fever. Perhaps something at dinner did not agree.”

“No, I am fine. I just . . .” He cast about for some excuse. “It is too soon. You will be sore.”

“Oh.” She blinked twice, taken aback. “I do not . . . That is, I . . .” Her blush washed down to the edge of the fur.

Pull it away,
urged the part of him that didn’t believe the visions.
See how pink her breasts are. Press her back. Taste her. Take her. Ari’s wrong.

“You will be sore,” he repeated gruffly. “I demanded too much of you last night. Lie down, Alaida. Go to sleep. I will not bed you tonight.” As he retied the waist cord of his braies, she stared at him, her lips pressed into a thin, angry line. “What?”

“Nothing,” she said tightly.

“God’s legs, woman, what?” Frustration made him yell, and she flinched. He reefed in his temper and tried again, a little more calmly. “Why are you unhappy with me now?”

Her eyes narrowed as she studied him. “You truly do not know? By the saints, you are . . . If you leave me now, after this morning, my humiliation will be complete.”

“I’m not leaving,” he lied. He’d been intending to go downstairs, to get as far from her as he could for the night, so he would not be tempted, but she was right—there would only be more talk, and neither of them needed that, least of all him, if he intended to keep Alnwick for any length of time. For that, he needed the men’s goodwill and trust even more than he needed hers. He would just have to be disciplined. “I only keep my braies as armor against your enticements, wife, lest I wake to find that I have been overcome with lust and taken you in my sleep. Move over.”

Ivo took a moment to put out the candles, leaving only the oil lamp for light. He made a quick, silent prayer to Freyja to relieve him of desire for the night, then slid between the sheets, trying to ignore the warmth that wafted over from Alaida’s side of the bed carrying her scent. He punched at his pillow, taking out some of his frustration as he worked it into a serviceable shape before he flopped down on his back. If she would just lie there . . .

Wordlessly, she edged over next to him.

“Alaida.”

“The room is chill. I grew cold, waiting for you.” She tried to pillow her head on his shoulder, but it wasn’t comfortable for either of them. With a sigh, he snaked his arm around her and pulled her close.

She cuddled against his flank. “Thank you, my lord.”

“Ivo,” he said without thinking, and the heat crackled between them. He curled his fingers into the blanket and stared at the draperies overhead. “Go to sleep, Alaida.”

“You’re hurt,” she said suddenly, touching the hand that rested on her shoulder.

Ivo lifted the hand to look. It was bruised and swollen, and a thin line of blood showed where he’d split one knuckle against the wall. “’Tis nothing.”

“It does not look like nothing.” She twisted to press her lips to the battered knuckle, and as she did, her bare breast fell free of the blanket. Desire surged through his body like a bore tide through a fjord, and in one motion he was on her, pinning her to the mattress. He hovered there above her, ready, and her eyes said she would welcome him into her softness.
Just once more,
he told himself. He could have her one more time without worry. Ari was wrong anyway. He lowered his head to kiss her. Her mouth opened to him, and in his mind the soft exhalation of her breath turned to a scream as she watched her child fly away. With a curse, he flung himself back onto his pillow.

“My lord?” There was shock in her voice, almost a tear.

“I told you, we cannot do this.” He managed to say it without sounding angry, though he wasn’t sure how. How could he even have thought . . . ? “Go to sleep, sweet leaf.”

She was silent long enough that he thought she might actually be obeying him, but then her voice came out of the dark. “You will be gone in the morning?”

“Before dawn,” he said, his hold on himself so fragile now that if she so much as moved, he could not be certain what he’d do. He took a deep breath and said as gently as he could, “Sleep now, sweet leaf.”

CHAPTER 9

IVO LEFT THE solar well before dawn, carrying his clothes and boots, unwilling to linger long enough within range of Alaida’s temptations even to dress. Below, while the others slept, Brand still occupied the table, studying the chessmen as though they would reveal some secret if he stared at them intently enough.

He glanced up at Ivo, and disapproval roiled off him like steam off a cauldron. Ignoring it, Ivo tossed his clothes onto an empty chair. Before he could pull on his shirt, Brand abruptly rose, collected the raven off his perch, and stalked out. His reaction only stoked Ivo’s anger, and he yanked on the rest of his things, managing to break one lace and jab himself in the shoulder with his cloak pin in the process. By the time he stepped outside, his mood had gone from foul to murderous.

A fog had rolled in overnight, and Brand stood there in it with Ari on his shoulder, a solid, hulking shadow of man and bird against the misty glow of the torches by the gate. Ivo’s fists curled and uncurled of their own accord. He needed to hit something, something more alive than the wall and bigger than a bird. Brand would serve.

Before he could do much about it, though, a man stumbled around the corner and smacked into him.

“Wha—?” The man jumped back with a start as the raven leapt off Brand’s shoulder and fluttered up to the safety of the eaves. “Christ’s toes, my lord! ’Tis a good thing I just pissed, or for certs, I’d be wet now. By the saints, you two do wake early. I don’t have the steel for it unless I must use—”

Wat. Steel.
Ivo’s anger crystallized. In the breath between words, he whirled and drove his fist into the reeve’s flapping mouth. Wat hit the ground with a whoof.

Ivo loomed over him. “Now you can tell them my fist is steel as well.”

“Aye, my lord,” Wat mumbled, pushing himself up on one elbow. He spat out a mouthful of blood and touched a tentative finger to his lip. “Aye, my lord. I can, that.”

“Trouble, my lord?” One of the men on the gate approached with a torch.

“No,” said Brand. He stepped between Ivo and Wat, grabbed the latter by his shirt, and hauled him to his feet. “Return to bed, Reeve, and be grateful he chose his fist and not his blade.” Wat took the good advice and lurched off toward the hall. Brand waited until the door closed behind him, then rounded on Ivo. “Try me. You’ll find I’m harder to knock down.”

Ivo squared off with him, but the violence had found its release on Wat’s jaw. With a snort of disgust, he turned and stalked away.

Brand gave him a few yards, then caught up and fell in beside him. They walked in tense silence to the stable.

As they approached, they could see the glow of a candle stub, left burning in a crude holder on the top of a barrel. Ivo frowned at this carelessness, and more so when he looked into Fax’s stall. “I’ll have that boy’s hide. He left Fax saddled all night.”

“I did not,” protested a voice. A shock of flaxen hair appeared over the top of the stall that housed Brand’s roan, followed by eyes that grew round when he saw who it was. “Your pardon, my lord, but he was cared for well and proper. They both were.”

Ivo unlatched the gate and stepped into the stall to feel beneath Fax’s saddle blanket. The hair was smooth and dry, not sweaty or matted. He checked over the horse thoroughly. Sure enough, he’d been brushed and his hooves had been picked. Even the tack had been cleaned.

“Who told you to have our mounts ready at this hour?” demanded Ivo.

“No one, m’lord. I saw that you took them before I woke this morning, and I thought to have them ready should you want them again—though you are earlier than I expected.”

Ivo grunted and led Fax out into the yard.

“What’s your name, boy?” asked Brand.

“Tom,
messire
.”

“It was a good thought, Tom. We will want them every morning before dawn.”

“They will be ready,
messire
.” He opened the gate and led Brand’s roan out. “Your pardon, m’lord. Did you call your animal Fax?”

“Mmm.”

“It’s for Hrimfaxi,” said Brand when Ivo didn’t go on, then explained to the boy, “It’s from an old tale. Hrimfaxi is the great horse of the night and they say the rime drops fall from his mane. Mine’s Kraken. A monster. Watch out for him—he bites.”

“Aye. He nipped me last night.” Tom pulled up his sleeve to show a wicked-looking bruise on his forearm, but he seemed to hold no grudge against the animal.

“Bad habit,” said Brand. “But he can run forever, and carrying me, that’s saying a lot.”

“Aye,
messire
.” The boy held Kraken as Brand checked his girth and mounted, then shifted over to hold Fax for Ivo. “Godspeed, my lord.”

“Mmm,” grunted Ivo again. He glowered as the raven sailed down to take his place on Brand’s shoulder—on the far side, out of reach of an angry hand. “Gate!”

They headed west and south as they left the village, sticking to the moors and meadows to avoid the tangle of forest undergrowth for as long as possible in the fog.

Brand waited until they were well away, then said quietly, “You didn’t, did you? With her, I mean. That’s why you’re in such a wrath.”

“I didn’t,” said Ivo between gritted teeth. “And I won’t.”

“Good.”

“We’re still not leaving.”

Brand chewed on this for a moment. “You choose a difficult path for yourself, Graycloak.”

“It will be easier tomorrow, and easier yet the day after.”

“No, it won’t. But you’d better get yourself back in hand if you intend to stay. You’re going to make enemies of your men if you continue like this.”