Joining (36 page)

“And how were my feelings then any different? I have never hurt you, Milisant. I even once took a great deal of punishment just so I would
not
hurt you.”

She frowned now, swiping at her eyes, embarrassed to realize she had been crying, yet too bemused by his new statement not to ask, “When was this? I do not recall meeting you other than one time when we were young.”

He smiled sadly. “Aye, and you must admit, ‘twas a time neither of us has ever forgot. I wouldst apologize, belatedly, for killing your falcon that day. I only just learned of it recently from my mother. I had not known the bird died. That was certainly not my intention. Merely did I want to get it off of me when you sent it to attack.”

He was apologizing for the first Rhiska, but not for nearly crippling her during the same incident? But of course, he hadn’t known of her broken foot. No one had known about it. Yet he had viciously pushed her, which had caused it. And he considered that
not
hurting her?

She was unable to keep the old bitterness from her tone when she corrected at least one part of his statement. “I did not send Rhiska at you.”

“You most certainly did.”

“Nay, I moved to put her back on her perch so I could summon a guard to get rid of you, since you did not leave at my bidding. She did the attacking herself, having sensed my anger. She had only just been tamed, she was not
trained yet, so I could not call her off of you. I stepped to you to get her
away
from you, but you were too quick to throw her off and kill her instead.”

“I did not think I had killed her, Milisant, or I would have made amends then and there. I assume ‘twas your grief that sent you at me tooth and nail? Or was it still your other rage, in hearing that we wouldst marry? And why
did
that enrage you so?”

These memories were not pleasant, but his last question dealt with the least of them, so she answered that at least, explaining, “One of the villagers had beat his wife to death just that week. The reactions to this were that she must have deserved it, that it was not of great import, that he would have to worry now about who would cook his dinner. She was dead, but he must now cook for himself, poor man.”

“Villeins do not have the same concerns that we do,” he pointed out. “Their priorities in matters of import wouldst not be the same as yours or mine.”

“Mayhap, but I was so appalled by these reactions, I swore then and there that I would never marry myself. I had yet to be told about the betrothal, so did not know the decision had already been made for me. Then there you were, telling me that you were going to be my husband.”

“Verily, that does indeed explain your original anger. I was unaware you had yet to be told of the betrothal. I knew of it, so I assumed you did.”

“My father was still so grief-stricken over my
mother’s death that he did not even think to discuss such things with me yet. ‘Twas another two years ere he did, another two years ere I even knew
who
you were. That day you were no more than a stranger intruding where you did not belong, a complete stranger telling me he wouldst be marrying me, a stranger who had killed my falcon and caused me such—”

She didn’t finish, couldn’t. She was about to cry again and hated that she had so little control over her emotions now—just as then.

“Caused you such—what?”

It was the wrong time to be asked. She was choking on the memory, couldn’t hold it back any longer.

“Pain! And for three months, the horror of thinking I wouldst be a cripple!”
“Cripple?!”

“When you shoved me away, you did not look to see the result. You just left.”
“What
result?”

“I fell on my foot. It broke. I put the bone back in place myself. I have no idea why I did that, other than the thought of being a cripple so terrified me that I was unaware of what I was doing. I could not cry, could not scream, could make no sound at all.”

He yanked her to him, put his arms around her, squeezed hard. His face had gone pale. She saw that just before she was buried in his arms.

“Jesu,”
he whispered hoarsely. “No wonder you have hated me. But I had no choice that day, Milisant. ‘Twas the only way I could think to get you off of me. ‘Twas done to
save
you harm, not cause it!”

“Do you tell me a small girl child was threatening you? Giving you no choice? I may have been insane with grief and barely aware of what I was doing, but you were big even then, Wulfric, big and sturdy. How was I giving you no choice but to shove me violently away?”

“Would you like to see the teeth marks you left on my inner thigh? You bit deep enough to leave scars, though I did not know that at the time, since you had also unmanned me with a blow to my groin that caused any other pain to be insignificant in comparison. Your falcon had also taken a chunk out of my hand. Would you like to see that scar, too? So I could not use that hand to restrain you. You had me on my knees from the blow you landed. You were rending my face bloody as well with your nails. Aye, I felt I
had
to get you off of me. You were giving me no choice. But instead of hitting you to make you stop, which would have been the quickest way to end it, I tried to save you injury by pushing you back. God, I am sorry my action had the opposite result instead.”

She said nothing. She was trying to take in all he had just said, to picture it in her mind from his perspective, to set it beside everything else she knew about him now—and finally knew, without a doubt, that he was telling her the truth. He had not meant to hurt her. It had been no more than bad luck that she should fall just so, a horrible accident, but an accident nonetheless.

He was still squeezing her so tightly she could barely breathe, let alone speak. At the moment he was more upset than she was. Oddly, she
wanted to soothe him now. That was out of the question, but…

“I did all of that?” she said at last.

“You did.”

“Good.”

He stilled. He set her back from him and looked at her mulish expression and then—he started to chuckle. For some reason, she started to laugh as well.

It felt so good to have that tightness in her chest ease away. As it left her, she realized the memory of that day was never going to cause her pain again, and she had Wulfric to thank for that. How incredibly ironic.

Fifty

“Fetch your bow.”

Milisant turned to Wulfric to see who he was speaking to, certain it could not be herself, yet he
was
staring at her, and she
had
heard him aright—which left her suspicious enough to question him, “Why? ‘Twould not make good firewood, I promise you.”

He laughed. “Because I feel like hunting, and I thought mayhap you would like to join me.”

She stared at him in utter amazement now. They had just finished the midday meal, were still sitting at the high table, long after most everyone else had left. His mood had been jovial all day, well, had been since yesterday afternoon, when they had cleared up so many misconceptions between them. He had barely left her side since then, and she found she did not mind that at all.

She had yet to fully dissect the conclusions she had reached yesterday, was still so amazed that she had no further serious objections to Wulfric that she hadn’t figured out all the ramifications
of that yet. There were still a few things she was not overjoyed with, but they were too minor to mention, and besides, she was enjoying, for a change, not being angry about anything, enjoying his company, enjoying the way he teased her, the way he…

With that thought passing through her mind, she had to ask now, “You are not teasing me, are you? You actually know how to hunt with a bow?”

“Why would I not know how?”

“Because hawking has been considered the elite way to hunt for so long that many lords would not know what to do with a bow if it was handed to them.”

He chuckled. “I assure you I am not one of those, Mili. Verily, like you, I actually prefer using my own skills, and do possess a few of them that do not require the lifting of a sword.”

“Including archery?”

“Aye. Now, what are you waiting for? And wear something… appropriate for hunting.”

He was
telling
her to wear her leggings? She could not believe this—yet she wasn’t going to give him a chance to change his mind about it. In fact, she threw her legs over the bench so quickly that her skirts got left behind and she nigh fell on her face on the floor as she lost her balance. Wulfric’s hand was quickly there to steady her until she could yank her skirts across the bench.

He didn’t laugh as she might have expected, but she heard her father chuckle nearby and wondered if he had given Wulfric the suggestion to take her hunting. She did not care where
the idea came from; that he was willing to do so was what she found so amazing.

She ran into Jhone on the stairs, nearly knocked her over in her haste. She grabbed her hand, pulled her along behind her, unwilling to stop for even a moment to talk, yet wanted to share with her how excited she was.

“What
is your hurry?” Jhone huffed once she was inside Milisant’s chamber, then seeing her go straight to her coffer and start tossing clothes out of it said, “You have finally taken leave of your senses, aye?”

“Wulfric is taking me hunting.”

That should have explained it all, did so in Milisant’s mind, yet Jhone said, “So?”

“So I had feared I wouldst never be able to hunt again—at least as I prefer to. Now here he is, only two days after we have joined, taking me hunting. You see no significance in that?”

“I do, of course,” Jhone replied smugly. “The question is, do you?”

Milisant chuckled as she shrugged out of her cumbersome bliaut and chemise. “Is this where you are going to tell me, I told you so? That is a bad habit you have, Jhone, of always being right—
and
gloating over it.”

Jhone snorted. “I do not gloat—are you sure you should wear those?”

Milisant had reached for her leggings. She paused long enough to grin at her sister. “Aye, he ordered me to.”

Jhone rolled her eyes. But she came over to help Milisant tie up her cross garters and find a loose tunic to wear with them.

After a moment Jhone wondered aloud, “Has he told you he loves you yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Mayhap today then.” “You think?”

“Me?” Jhone snorted again. “What do I know, since I am so rarely right?”

Milisant laughed, hugged her sister, snatched up her bow and quiver of arrows, and ran out the door.

Jhone yelled after her, “Wait! You forgot a cloak. It is still winter, if you have not noticed!” Then with a smile to herself, since Milisant didn’t come back, “Never mind, I doubt me he will let you get cold.”

Milisant hadn’t felt so exhilarated in years—and happy. Aye, happy. It was in her expression. She couldn’t hide it. And the man beside her wore a constant grin as well, as if he knew he was responsible for her jubilation—and so he was. Imagine that.

When he had come for her last month at Dunburh, she had thought her world was ending. Nothing was ever going to be right for her again, unless she could somehow avoid wedding Wulfric de Thorpe altogether. Now, wedded and bedded by him, she could suddenly find no fault with anything. Just the opposite. She was
happy!
She was delighted to
be
with him. He seemed to be going out of his way to please her, and she was indeed pleased, in so many ways.

Did he love her then? Like Jhone, she was now inclined to think so. She had only to hear
it from him to be sure. And if she did hear it? Should she lie and tell him the same, if that would make him happy?

His
love was needed, as Jhone had pointed out, to allow her the freedoms she so craved. Today was sure proof of that. But her own feelings… She
was
happy; there was no denying that. She
was
pleased with him now. Would that be enough for him? Or would he demand her love in return? Would it even matter to him, as long as they continued to get along so splendidly, as they presently were?

She moved ahead of him through the woods. They had left the horses a ways back. She had feared that Wulfric would make too much noise because of his size, and frighten any game away. But he surprised her. She could barely hear his footsteps behind her. And then she heard an arrow fly.

She turned, saw him lowering his bow. She looked in the direction he faced, and saw the dove on the ground. She beamed at him, wondering if he’d shot it out of the air, and joined him to collect it.

“Do you pluck?” she asked when she got there and saw that it was a nice, medium-sized bird. “Roasted sounds good about now.”

“Me?” He looked down at the bird and laughed, which was answer enough. “What about you? Do you pluck?”

“I never have,” she admitted. “I always brought my kills home for the table.”

He nodded and stuffed his kill in a sack he had tied to his belt. “We will have to bring one of the kitchen helpers along with us next time,
if you want to eat as you hunt. I agree, fresh roasted over a campfire does sound rather tempting at the moment.” Next time…