Immortal Warrior (33 page)

Neville came to kneel before the high table. “Yes, my lord.”

“I have decided to do without your services. You are free to leave with Sir Wakelin when he goes.”

Ears flaming, Neville bowed his head. “Yes, my lord.” When he rose, the venom in his look was not for Godfrith, but for Ivo.

It bothered Ivo not at all, and after a pleasant evening at Godfrith’s table, he made his farewells, mounted Fax, and headed north and east. By dawn, Ribbleswood and Neville were far behind, and at sunset he continued onward, toward Brand and Alaida and home.

 

A SENNIGHT LATER, Ivo and Brand sat on the northern bank of the Aln looking at the stockaded motte across the way.

“You have a castle,” said Brand.

“It still needs a tower, but Ari’s done well.” Ivo scanned the night, seeking the black bird against the stars. “I wonder where he is. ’Twill look strange if you turn up without him.”

“Probably hiding from owls.” Brand stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled, and a cry went up on the wall. “Your gatemen are awake.”

“They’d better be.”

They skirted the motte to see what they could by moonlight and were headed toward the gate when a flurry of wingbeats announced the raven. Brand stuck out his arm, and the bird soared down to a landing and sidestepped up onto his shoulder.

“Nice work,” said Brand under his breath then louder, “God’s beard, ’tis good to be back.”

“Name yourselves,” barked Oswald from the gate.

“What? Gone three month and forgotten already?” asked Ivo.

“My lord? Open the gate. Open the gate for Lord Ivo. Someone wake Lady Alaida.”

“No, let her be,” ordered Ivo.

The greetings in the yard were enthusiastic notwithstanding the late hour—well past midnight, despite the hard riding they’d done from their last camp. Geoffrey came stumbling out of the hall, groggy and disheveled, followed by Tom and a few others, but most of the men remained asleep. Ivo accepted brief accounts from his officers about what had happened during his absence, told them to hold the rest until the next evening, and excused himself. As he climbed the stairs, Tom handed Brand a horn of ale and everyone headed back to their blankets.

Pallets and sleeping women cluttered the solar floor where Alaida had surrounded herself again in his absence. Ivo picked his way through by the light of the little lamp on the table, stripped off all but his breeks, and tugged aside the bed curtains. The shadowy mound that was his wife moved restlessly in the bed, and her scent rose up and wrapped around him like silken ropes to pull him down next to her. She mumbled something, and he slipped his arm around her.

By the gods, she was huge! Her girth shocked him ‘til he counted the time: over seven months gone now. Grown round with child, she was all soft and warm and sleepy in his arms. “Alaida?”

“
Mmm
. Ivo,” she breathed.

Not ‘my lord.’ Ivo. Finally, Ivo.
He pressed a tender kiss to the curve where her neck met her shoulder. “Yes, sweet leaf. Ivo. I’ve come home to you.”

She sighed, a bone-deep sigh that echoed in Ivo’s soul. Her hand found his and tugged it around, locking it between her breasts as if she would never let him go again, and he grew dizzy with the longing that had piled up on him the past weeks.

“I like this dream.” She sounded intoxicated.

He
was
intoxicated, drunk on the scent and the feel and the heat that burned off her. “Not a dream. I am here with you.”

He kissed her again, this time higher, behind her ear, and felt the shiver that ran down her spine. She stirred, curled down to kiss his fingertips there where she had his hand trapped, and as she did, her hips pressed back to touch him.

“
Mmm.
” She squirmed a little, moving her bottom against him as she shifted her hand—his hand—over her breast. Bigger there, too, but not just bigger. More womanly. Even the peak felt different. He strummed over it until it puckered. Sudden awareness tensed her muscles as she came fully awake.

“You’re home!” She twisted and flung herself on him, peppering kisses over his cheeks, his eyes, his chin before she settled on his mouth and their tongues tangled in greeting. Another of those soul-easing sighs warmed his face. “You are safe? Unhurt?”

“I am,” he said. As if she didn’t believe him, she ran her hands over him, checking: face, arms, thighs, belly, then boldly, his cock. “All of me,” he said, muffling his laugh against her hair as he pulled her hand away. “Stop that. Your women are here.”

She reached over him to yank the curtain shut, plunging them into darkness and muffling the sounds of snores from beyond. Her whisper was pure wickedness as she tongued the curve of his ear, “Then be quiet lest you wake them, for I will not stop ’til I am satisfied you are truly with me.”

“Nor will I.” With her.
In
her. That’s all he wanted, to bury himself in her and know he was truly home. He drew his hands over her, learning her new shape.

“Now I
am
fat,” she whispered against his ear. “You will never want me.”

For answer, he took her hand and guided it back to his cock, straining against his breeks. With a tiny sound of delight, she explored him through the cloth, tracing the ridge with a fingernail. He choked back a groan and steered her fingers to his laces. Moments later he was free, the breeks lost somewhere at the bottom of the bed in the franticness of need.

She was too round for the usual way, so he stayed on his side and dragged her legs over his hips, drawing her close. He slipped his fingers down, found her slick and ready, and made her more so, until he couldn’t bear it any longer. She understood, reached for him and shifted, and suddenly he was in her.

When they were locked together, the need eased and time slowed. She was his, laid out in the blackness where he could see her only with his hands. He explored her slowly, discovering this strange-yet-familiar body by feel alone, learning, remembering, reminding her what he had taught her on other nights.

She began to move, to stir like a restless sea, surging against him in waves of heat and scent that ripped him from his last moorings. He touched her again, found that favorite spot, and felt her tighten, tighten. The swift intake of her breath in the darkness told him she was there even before she arched beneath his hand. He pressed into her, letting her pleasure embrace him, until he spilled into her, his release as silent as hers as she welcomed him home.

A long time later, when he thought she slept, he reached down to find his breeks and worked them on beneath the covers.

“Where are you going?”

“Nothing has changed, sweet leaf. I still must be away by dawn.”

Her accusing silence stung worse than words—he could have argued with words. As he worked the cloth around his laces, she reached over to tug the curtains open. A single wedge of light from the lamp fell across the bed.

“What are you doing?”

“I wish to see your face a moment,” she whispered. “Move a little. Perfect.” With him organized to her liking, she found his hand and drew it to her belly. “There. Now wait.”

A chill settled over Ivo. He’d dreaded this moment and had been hoping he could somehow avoid it. But this was Alaida; she never let him avoid anything. It was all he could do not to pull away, in fear of what he might feel, but as he lay there with his hand curved over her, he schooled himself once again to respond as she needed.

“Wait. Ah, here.” She moved his hand a few inches and pressed it flat. “Feel?”

Something round moved beneath his palm, shifting and rolling, alive. Even the threat of the curse faded in the wonder of such a thing, to feel a child move within a woman’s womb.
His child.
The mound rolled past his palm again. He pressed a little harder, trying to discern what it was. “Is that the head?”

“Buttocks, I think,” she said, and the smile he had thought would be difficult came to his face with ease at the idea of a bum so small. She reached over and stroked Ivo’s cheek. “Ah, you do smile at him. I am glad.”

“And I am glad you’re glad,” he said, speaking pure truth.

“Here.” She guided his hand up near her ribs, where a harder oval stood out against the taut skin. “His foot.”

He traced the outline. “’Tis so tiny. Are you sure?”

“Aye. He thinks my ribs exist solely for him to scratch his toe against.” She yawned and slid around to settle her head on his shoulder, and he pulled her close. “Please stay, just this once. I would show you the tiny shirts I’ve made.”

“Show me tonight. I’ll be here as quickly as I can.”

“I still do not understand these strange comings and goings.”

“It is not important you understand them.” That sounded harsher than he had intended, so he yielded what he could. “I can stay a moment longer, if it will please you.”

“It will,” she said with a sigh and wrapped her arms around him. “But only because it must.”

 

THE EASTERN SKY was already brightening as Brand walked down into the dene where the bear would spend its day. The early morning was warm but damp, clear overhead but with ground fog that curled around his knees like sea foam.
Mugga
, they would have called the weather back home. He didn’t know what they called it here, even after all this time.

He closed his eyes and let the morning noises wash over him. Before he’d sailed to this cursed land, this hour before dawn had been his favorite time, when he would lie listening to Ylfa mumble in her dreams and sometimes wake her for loving. He wondered what Merewyn was like in the night, whether she snored or muttered or just lay there, as peaceful in sleep as she was awake. He had spent many hours thinking about such things over the past hundred days, a pleasant, if futile, way to pass the time. He would have to stop now. It would be too tempting, now that he would be seeing her again. Tonight. He smiled.

Only moments now. The sun’s disk sat just below the horizon. Brand was making his final preparations when he heard the crack of a twig on the bank above.

“Who’s there?” He spun toward the sound, searching the underbrush but seeing no one. His heart pounded as the panic rose up. “Show yourself.”

The first wave of pain ground down on him just as a figure stepped out from a thicket near the top of the ravine. “You’re back,
messire
!”

Merewyn.
Merewyn!

She got a good look at him and her smile gave way to confusion. “You have no clothes.”

“Run,” he shouted as the second wave ripped across his back and claws split the end of his fingers. “Run!”

But she stood there as if in a trance, watching as he was slammed to the ground with the pain of changing. He tried to shout again, but the word swelled into a roar. The sound shook her, woke her. The last thing he saw before the bear took him was her eyes, wide with shock and terror. Then the haze rolled over his mind and the bear began to hunt.

CHAPTER 24

THE BEAR CAUGHT Merewyn’s scent and reared up, standing like the man he had been moments before.

“Mother, protect me!”

Her plea followed the bear’s roar skyward. In her heart, she knew that she was about to die, that she could never outrun such a beast.

She ran anyway, tearing back the way she’d come as she bought a few precious moments of life. The bear crashed to the ground behind her, a thunderous sound, and she ran harder, her breath growing as ragged as the mist that tore and feathered around her.

The mist.
Perhaps. “Mother, please!”

Looking around wildly, she spotted a great tree a few yards away, half-dead but still standing, its bark split to reveal the hollowness within. She threw herself into the crack, knowing it was slim shelter, but needing someplace, anyplace. Wedging herself back as far as the tree would let her, Merewyn closed her eyes, found the quiet within, and reached out with her mind.

She called the mist, barely breathing the words, summoning, summoning. The dampness swirled around her; darkness enfolded her. The bear roared again, only feet away, but she continued calling, gathering, weaving until the mist hung so thick around the old tree that it muffled everything beyond and made her shiver in the summer warmth.

The bear paced around the tree, snuffling and snorting as he tried to find what he could no longer see. He passed by the crack, and his scent wafted in, musky and rank. Certain he could smell her, too, Merewyn pressed back and squeezed her eyes more tightly, like a child trying to hide behind closed lids. If she let herself see, the bear would have her, for she would be too frightened and the magic would fall away.

An animal cried out in pain nearby, and the bear moved off, seeking easier game. His footsteps slowly faded. Still Merewyn clung to the mist, certain every crack and rustle was the beast returning. Only when the sun breached the branches overhead did she release the mist to burn away. Tentatively, she crept out into the sunlight, half expecting claws to rip into her.

Instead, Sir Ari was there, sitting on his horse a little way off, his beautiful face ablaze with anger and concern. He rode over to her and extended his hand. “Come, Healer, before it returns.”

Shaking with exhaustion and the aftermath of fear, she let him pull her up behind him. “I was gathering dew for . . . I did not know. I must help him.”

“You cannot help,” he said bitterly as he turned his mount toward her cottage.

“The Mother thinks I can,” she said, sure that must be what the gods intended. “What evil laid this curse on him?”

“It is not my place to tell you.”

“But you . . .”Her mind flashed over the things she knew. “Are you the raven?”

His back turned to stone before her. “I will take you home and see to your safety. Ask your questions of Brand.”

He did as he said, leaving her at her door then standing watch at the edge of the clearing as the sun traveled across the sky and down, until finally he had to ride away.