Immortal Warrior (26 page)

Alnwick’s laughter shifted to an angry mutter that rippled around the hall. Several of de Jeune’s knights came uneasily to their feet, and Oswald’s fingers curled around the hilt of his sword.

“From what? You well know I would not harm you, my lady,” Lord Robert said smoothly.

“Of course. You are the king’s emissary and a gentleman and would never do anything untoward.” She let her smile ease. “Which is why I know you will hear me now. Do not harm that eagle.”

“I cannot promise you that, my lady.”

“Then perhaps you can promise me,” said a voice from the back of the hall.

CHAPTER 17

IVO STEPPED OUT of a knot of men, wearing a smile that fell short of his eyes. “Or is it your habit to hunt on another man’s land, Robert?”

The missing title implied either familiarity or contempt. The blood in de Jeune’s cheeks said it was the latter.

“Only when a dangerous beast needs killing,” he said tightly. “I was explaining that to your lady.”

“Indeed. Come.” Ivo turned toward the stairs and his smile vanished. “You can explain it to me.”

He knew. She didn’t know how, but he did. It was in the glint in his eye and the stony set of his jaw as he passed Oswald and Penda on his way up. Suddenly the situation became both less dangerous and more so.

She stepped forward to greet him. “Welcome home, husband. I am
most
glad to see you.”

His bearing softened and he reached for her. “I have missed you, too, sweet leaf.”

His kiss was more about marking her as his before de Jeune than about passion. Alaida understood, but it had been so long, and he tasted so good, that for a heartbeat she lost track of everything else. Then Lord Robert’s boots sounded on the steps below them, and Ivo set her back on her feet, the moment gone. His jaw hardened again and he led her into the solar.

He frowned at the women who had clustered near the door to eavesdrop. “Out.”

Their rush to obey clogged the stairs and delayed Lord Robert. Alaida grabbed the moment to explain, “I did nothing to—”

“I know. Stay out of harm’s way.”

He sent her to stand by the fire and was filling a horn with ale when Lord Robert entered. Ivo took a sip, then stood, holding the horn without offering any to his guest, another insult.

Lord Robert’s gaze flickered from Ivo to the horn, to Alaida, and back to Ivo. “Your journey to Durham was quick, Lord Ivo,” he said with unnatural heartiness. “Did you accomplish your business?”

“Yes.”

Clearly Ivo would not be distracted by common conversation. Lord Robert scratched his palm nervously and tried a new sally. “It is good you returned early.”

“Is it?”

Lord Robert flushed. “Uh, yes. Of course. I had thought I would not see you at all before I left.”

Ivo assessed him over the top of the horn as he took another deliberate draught of ale. “Apparently.”

He was playing de Jeune the way he played chess, Alaida realized: lying back, relaxed, offering little, saying less, just waiting to see if the other player could stand it. She had watched Brand give up game after game to him, trying to force something to happen, and she had lost a few of her own by making the same mistake. It would be interesting to see how de Jeune fared.

“The king asked for a report on your progress,” he said.

“
Mmm.
”

“I have the silver he promised.” He waited for Ivo to say something, and barreled on when he didn’t. “He said I should release it only if I’m satisfied.”

“And are you?
Satisfied?
”

Lord Robert glanced toward Alaida and flung himself into the trap. “Whatever she told you is a lie.”

“Told me?” Ivo’s voice turned to steel. “What would she have had to tell me,
Robert
?”

Panic widened de Jeune’s eyes as he saw his misstep. “I meant . . . about the eagle. It attacked me, but your lady insists it was an accident and forbids me to kill it.”

“You take issue with that.”

“Y-Yes, I do.”

“
Mmm.
” Ivo drained the horn and set it aside, his eyes never leaving de Jeune’s. “I, on the other hand, take issue with a man who refuses to hear when my wife says no, as you have done twice today.”

“I have no idea—” de Jeune began.

Ivo took a step forward to loom over the smaller man, his voice sizzling with anger. “You were
seen
.”

De Jeune’s mouth worked soundlessly. His eyes pivoted once more to Alaida, and the breath froze in her throat. If he tried to shift blame to her, she had no doubt Ivo would kill him.

She saw the instant he chose life, watched the effort it took him to yank himself back from the edge. When he finally spoke, he was contrite. “I offer my deepest apologies, my lord. I had been led to believe the lady would be open to my attentions.

“Not by her,” he added quickly as Ivo’s face darkened. “Lady Alaida never . . . As you say, she told me no, and clearly. My own vanity stopped my ears.” He suddenly dropped to one knee. “Forgive me, my lady. How can I make amends?”

His regret seemed sincere, but whether it was or not, she wanted this over before they found themselves in a fresh war. “I accept your apology, my lord. As to amends, in truth, all I wish is for you and your knights to ride on in peace.”

“We will depart at first light.”

“You will depart now,” said Ivo. “I have already sent a man ahead to Lesbury. It is but three miles and the weather and road are good. My bailiff there will accommodate you, and you can ride on in the morning.”

De Jeune’s lips thinned at this third affront, but he swallowed his pride and rose, grunting as his knees popped. Suddenly looking much older, he turned stiffly and walked out to call down to his second.

“Wakelin, make ready. We start for Bamburgh tonight.”

Ivo had followed him out onto the landing, and as the men below rose and began collecting their equipment, said, “’Tis unfortunate you must leave so soon, my lord. I had hoped to seek your advice on the tower.”

Lord Robert’s expression went from startled to suspicious to grateful as he realized Ivo was letting him save face before his men. He dipped his head slightly in acknowledgment. “We have enjoyed Alnwick’s hospitality too long already, my lord. Your offer of lodging in Lesbury is welcome. It will make for a shorter ride on the morrow.”

He turned to where Alaida had come to the doorway to spy, and bent his head respectfully. “My lady.”

“
Monseigneur
. God speed.” She took her place beside Ivo, who echoed her farewell, adding, “I will see to that eagle.”

A tentative smile touched Lord Robert’s lips. “And I will pass your greeting to the king when I see him. Speaking of which, you will want this.” He opened his purse and pulled out a bronze key. “The casket is in your treasury, to which your lady holds the key, I believe. I will remove my guard, of course.”

The two of them nodded to each other and Lord Robert started downstairs. “Fitz Hubert!”

Sir Wakelin scanned the hall. “I do not see him, my lord. He was standing next to Lord Ivo’s big man there.” He pointed to Brand.

“By me?” Brand touched his chest as if unsure Wakelin meant him. He twisted, looking all around himself. “Oh, you mean Neville. He left. Looked a bit green for some reason.”

“Find him,” snapped Lord Robert. He strode out, his men hurrying behind him. Brand grinned up at Ivo. “I’ll go help them look.”

“Take Oswald—and anyone else who would enjoy the sport.” Half the hall emptied, leaving the rest laughing and looking up to Ivo and Alaida for what came next.

“What do you think Brand said to him?” asked Alaida under her breath.

“Something about braiding his guts for a belt, I believe.” He raised his voice. “Geoffrey, Lesbury will not have baked for so many. See Lord Robert’s men get bread enough to carry them to Bamburgh.” Ivo spun Alaida around to face him. “And you, wife. Challenging a hall full of armed men over a bird?”

“Not a mere bird, my lord. My eagle. He helped me, and I was bound to return the favor.”

His brow pinched a little, then smoothed. “You are either a madwoman or a brave one.”

“Not so brave, my lord.” She held out her hands, shaking now that it was all over. “I cannot seem to stop them.”

He curled his fingers around hers. “Even warriors shake after battle. I have a cure for it.” He tugged her into his arms.

“We are watched, my lord,” she admonished.

“Let them learn.” This time the kiss they shared was as real as the shouts of delight that rose up from the hall below, and her heart soared with the possibilities of this new beginning.

By dawn the next morning, Alaida knew it had been a false hope. She lay in the dark, listening to Ivo’s footsteps fade and fighting a loosing battle with the tears that scalded her throat. She gave in to them finally, after she heard his distant call for the gate to be opened.

They spilled out of her, drenching her pillow and the linens beneath, tears like she had never cried in her entire life, even when her mother had died. She cried until her eyes ached and her mouth felt like sawdust, until at last there was no more liquid in her and the sheets had grown chill with the dampness.

She rolled away from the cold, hiccupping out the last dry sobs as she sat up on the edge of the bed. What a fool she was, weeping over a man who didn’t want her.

But Ivo
did
want her; that was what made this so incomprehensible. Sometimes he looked at her with eyes so full of craving, she felt his ache like it was her own. Sometimes, he even grew hard as he held her. But always he would just lie there, and if she didn’t do the same, if she tried to touch him or to entice him to touch her, he would make some feeble excuse and tell her to sleep, and yet she could feel him shaking as he fought back his desire, and oh, God, why did he not
want
to want her? She swallowed back a wail of despair and sprang to her feet, determined to get this ridiculous sniveling under control so she could think.

Before she could, the room tilted wildly, and her stomach tilted with it, and a moment later she was crouched over the chamber pot, heaving up what little was in her stomach. When the retching stopped, she rinsed her mouth with the dregs of ale left in a cup and crawled back in bed, so empty there was nothing she could do but find a dry corner and sleep.

She awoke much later, fuzzy-headed but otherwise fine, and all she could think was that her foolish crying had made her ill—yet another reason she needed to figure out what had suddenly made her so prone to tears and make it go away.

 

ALAIDA LOST HER stomach a few more times over the next fortnight, always for different reasons. Mostly it was smells that set her off—the scent of fish cooking, a measure of wine gone musty, a too-strong whiff of the pigsty when the wind changed. But once she got dizzy looking out the window, and a time or two she simply woke up feeling queasy. Fortunately, she managed to find some privacy each time, so her illness, whatever it was, remained her business and not the entire hall’s . . . until one Sunday at Ivo’s evening Mass.

She was kneeling for prayer when the incense began to overpower her. She held out ’til the “Amen,” but suddenly the odor went foul, and before she could do more than push to her feet, she vomited onto the stone floor, barely missing Father Theobald’s toes and sending everyone scattering back against the walls.

All she could do was stand there after, covering her face and repeating, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Hush,” said Ivo. He scooped her up and started back for the house as Bôte fretted along behind. “Illness is nothing to be sorry for.”

Mortified, Alaida clung to him, her face buried against his chest. “But in church . . .”

“Hush. The chapel can be cleaned. I will get you to bed, and Bôte will take care of you. Everything will be fine.”

He took the stairs as though she weighed no more than a scrap, then lingered long enough to press a kiss to her forehead and see her tucked in.

The odd thing was, she felt fine by the time he left, just as she had felt fine soon after the other incidents. However, Bôte was already heating water and fussing with her herbs and ordering everyone else away, so Alaida let her fuss, and soon she had a stack of pillows to prop her up and a cup of some posset or other in her hand.

Alaida sniffed at the liquid. “Mint and chamomile?”

“Aye, and other things to ease a sick stomach. Drink slowly. Tiny sips.” Bôte sat on the edge of the bed and smoothed back Alaida’s hair. “I’ve seldom brewed that for you, lamb. You never were one to lose your supper.”

“Fortunately, I had no supper to lose tonight.”

“For which Father Theobald should be grateful. I’d no idea the man could dance.”

Bôte’s wicked chuckle drew Alaida along. She recalled Father Theobald in that first instant, aghast and disgusted, and despite her part in it, the chuckle quickly grew into a giggle, then to a full-bellied laugh that ran on too long.

“’Tis not that funny, my lady,” scolded Bôte.

“I know,” gasped Alaida, and she tried to stop, but the laugh had taken on a life of its own. It possessed her, feeding on her efforts to quit, which tickled her more, until her sides ached and tears ran down her cheeks and Bôte took away the cup for fear she’d spill it, and still it went on. Then suddenly, when Alaida could bear it no longer, the tears became real tears, stupid tears for no reason at all, and she was sobbing.

“Ah, lamb.” Bôte gathered Alaida into the comfort of her familiar arms. “Hush.
Shh.
”

“It was so hu-humiliating.” Her voice caught on the word and broke through as a half-sob. “W-what is w-wrong with me? V-vomiting. Crying. I n-never cry, you know that.”

“Aye. Aye.”

“Yet now I c-cry all the time. I feel like I’m going mad. Or d-dying.”

“Nonsense.” Bôte laughed gently. “You are no more mad than I. Tears and laughter and even your sick stomach are signs of life, lamb, not death.”