Nothing Else Matters (19 page)

Roger glared at the young man who’d ridden up to ask the question. Lars had pushed the mail coif back on his head, baring his bright gold hair and fresh young face to the sun. The boy looked as if he hadn’t just spent the last three weeks sleeping in ditches and chasing down vicious bands of Scots reivers.

Lars looked in fact exactly what he was, a sturdy
young
man of twenty summers.

Roger in fact felt al of his forty years and possibly a few more. Yes, his leg pained him, though the cut was not deep or festering. The man who’d cut him was dead and roasting in hel , but the satisfaction of knowing he’d dispatched the cur didn’t make the ache any less. He was wel enough to ride and he was riding back to Harelby at last. That knowledge was enough to ignore how he was feeling while he anticipated a roof over his head, good wine, hot

meals, a soft bed and Edythe to nurse and cozen him.

“Uncle?” Lars asked. “Are you wel ?”

“Am I deaf, do you mean?” Roger growled at the young man riding on his left. “No, I’m not deaf. No, I’m not in pain. So don’t bother to ask again.” Roger looked to his right where Stian rode, slouched in the high-backed saddle. “At least you don’t pester me with questions,” he said to his son.

Stian’s mind was not on being a pleasant companion. He barely managed a nod to his father’s comment before he returned his attention to the muddy

path before them.

Soon the war party would reach the rutted track that led to Harelby, they’d no longer be riding three abreast but single file in a long line that would take them through the deep woods between Honcourt and the castle. It would be a good place for an ambush. He didn’t expect one for most of the Scots had

been driven across the border for now, but it was best to be alert for any possibility. After the woods there was only one more burn to ford, the one that fed the moat surrounding Harelby Hil . After the ford, he had only to ride up the hil , through the double gates of the bailey and then he’d be home.

Stian wanted a bath. Not because he was covered in dried sweat, mud and other people’s blood. He didn’t mind being crusted from toes to hair with

muck, the coating helped keep the midges from biting. What he wanted was the luxury of a hot tub of water and Eleanor scrubbing his back.

They’d sent word ahead they’d be returning today, bringing their wounded and their prisoners held for ransom. Stian didn’t care if there was a feast

prepared for the victors, though the men deserved the reward for their bravery. The fighting had been hard, the Scots hadn’t been the only ones with dead to bury, though they’d had more than the English. Hubert would have to say a Mass for al the souls lost to war, including the women and babes in the

vil ages the reivers had plundered.

The praying could wait too, as far as Stian was concerned. Al he wanted was a bath. In his own room. With his wife doing the scrubbing. Then when she was done, he’d take a turn scrubbing her. Or maybe they could fit in the tub together. He couldn’t help but smile at that thought and Roger noticed.

“You’ve that new-married look to you again, lad.”

For once, Stian didn’t mind being teased since his father’s comment had been low enough so no one else could hear. He just gave his father a wry look

and said, “You’re the one wanting grandsons. You can’t fault me for being dutiful.”

His father nodded. “No, I can’t. I’l tel you what, you work on giving me grandsons and I’l concentrate on giving you a brother.” He rubbed his thigh. “After the leg’s healed,” he amended.

“Does it pain you?” Stian asked.

“Your cousin’s already asked.”

“Which is no answer, my lord,” Stian replied. “Does it pain you?” he asked with genuine concern.

“Of course it pains me,” Roger snapped. He rubbed his leg and added, “And I’m going to miss Beatrice’s gift with poultices, I can tel you that.”

Stian grunted in response and went back to watching the road. It wouldn’t be long now, until they got to Harelby.

* * * * *

watch at his side. He was a dangerous man and a proud one. He shook long, graying hair out of his face and snarled at his captor. “There’s a price on

your head high enough to tempt every man on the Border.”

Roger real y had no interest in what the man had to say. He’d heard the tales of how the Border lords planned revenge and wasn’t the least impressed.

“Wel , you won’t be col ecting the reward, Conner Muragh. I’m the one who’s col ecting the ransom for you.” He pointed toward the undercroft at the base of the tower. “Assuming any of your relatives want to buy your hide out of my cel ar.”

“Better to take the Muragh’s head than sel him back to his own,” Stian advised, not for the first time.

Roger wasn’t sure that his son was wrong but he’d fought with Conner Muragh as many times as he’d fought against him—and wenched and gotten drunk

as wel . He’d stood godfather to one of Muragh’s sons, one he’d kil ed himself a war or two back. If Conner had been kil ed in outright battle, Roger

wouldn’t have complained but he couldn’t bring himself to kil the old wolf once he was captured.

“I’l take the ransom,” he told Stian. He clapped a hand on his son’s shoulder. “It’l make a fine present for Edythe. See that our guest has a comfortable nest with the rats, lad.”

Stian gave a curt nod and barely more than an impatient flicker of a glance toward the hal . He jerked a thumb and let the guards who hauled the chief of the Muragh clan off to sit chained in the undercroft until his family claimed him. Satisfied with both his captive’s security and his son’s obedience, Roger he turned his attention to the household women waiting on the hal steps.

Though he knew she wouldn’t be there, Roger felt an odd tightness about his heart when Beatrice was not in her usual place to greet him. It vanished

quickly enough as he caught sight of Edythe, her wil ow-slender form dressed in colors as bright as summer flowers, the gold of her hair barely subdued by the covering of a sheer veil. In one hand she held a silver cup, her other hand she lifted in greeting. He stepped forward to accept the stirrup cup, though he practical y had to elbow Lars out of the way to do so. His son might be obedient, Roger decided, which was al very wel and good, but

something had to be done about his nephew.

“Have you considered going home to Denmark?” he questioned as Lars hurried after him toward the steps.

The young man gave a hearty laugh. “Not while you need my strong arm against the Muragh,” he said loyal y.

Roger made a noncommittal noise in reply but his irritation with the lad was soon forgotten as he lost himself in his bride’s welcoming smile.

Duty to Harelby came before personal pleasure. This was the first and most important lesson his father had taught him. Stian made himself remember it

and be grateful as he saw the prisoner down the ladder to the storerooms beneath the tower. The undercroft was the chatelaine’s domain, ful of barrels and casks, shelves and storage chests—a dark, mysterious, female place. They used torches to light their way to the one smal chamber kept for

prisoners beyond al the household goods. He left Conner Muragh there with a guard and orders for his care. Duty done and Conner’s threats and curses

ringing in his ears, Stian went looking for Eleanor.

She was waiting for him as he climbed up out of the undercroft. He took her in slowly as he came up the ladder, from the embroidered hem of her skirts up past where a belt cinched in her waist, lingered for a moment on the rounded curve of her breasts then final y found her face. Instead of a wide, welcoming smile, she was looking at him in complete confusion.

“What are you doing down there?” she asked as he stepped out.

“Securing a prisoner for ransom,” he told her. He put out his hand. “We’l need to keep this door locked and guarded for now.”

Instead of handing over her key, she crossed her arms. “It would be locked now but the servants have been bringing up supplies for tonight’s feast,” she explained.

Stian understood her sudden stiffness. She was new to the post of chatelaine and thought he was questioning her competence. He suspected she’d had

some opposition from the servants who’d been so loyal to his Aunt Beatrice. He knew his mouse could fight like a lioness so he pitied the servants more than her. But he also knew it wouldn’t be good if he seemed to question her as a youthful, inexperienced, interfering foreigner.

He stepped closer and put his hands on her shoulders. “’Tis good to see you,” he said, leaning close so none but she could hear. “And I welcome the

feast to come, though I’d sooner have it served in bed than in hal .” Her lips lifted in shy smile while her head ducked modestly. He kissed her forehead then he straightened and told her, “I’l need a key so I can see to man’s needs but I can borrow the steward’s.”

“I’l fetch it from him,” she answered promptly. She looked toward the hal . “I had a bath prepared for you,” she told him. “In your room, if it please you.”

“It pleases me very wel ,” he said.

He wondered why they were both being so circumspect and shy with each other? There was many a boisterous meeting going on between the returning

fighters and their womenfolk in the bailey. Even his father had his wife in his arms. They were the only ones acting so uncomfortable with each other.

We’re too new together
, he supposed,
for the habits of leaving and reunion to have taken.
He put his arm around her shoulders and thought about taking a kiss from her lips. They looked wil ing enough as she smiled anxiously up at him.

Instead, too aware of the people around them, even if most of them weren’t aware of him, he said, “Come bathe me, wife. I’m filthy to the bone.”

* * * * *

“Wel , strip them off and join me,” Stian answered, unrepentant for having splashed her when he jumped in the water.

She was flushed and breathing hard from al the kisses and caresses they’d shared as she’d helped him undress. She was soaked. She was dripping.

She should get back to her duties. She had so much to do. People would say she shirked her responsibilities.

He held out his arms to her while she stood locked in indecision. “Wel , woman, what are you waiting for?”

Was her lord husband not her first responsibility? Besides, she wanted the man. She began to work at the wet knot of her belt to the accompaniment of

his bold laughter.

“I missed you, you scruffy cur,” she told him later, after they were both clean, dry and sated. She lay with her leg thrown over his, her head on his shoulder, naked on the softness of the bed. He made a soft noise in reply and stroked her loosened hair. The day was waning, she should go, she didn’t want to.

A knock on the door settled the decision for her. She sat up and Stian fol owed suit. “What?” he cal ed out gruffly while she hurried to pul on a chemise.

It was Fiona who answered, her young voice muffled by the wood, “The cook, my lady—”

“Oh the cook!” Eleanor remembered as her head emerged from the neck hole. “I must speak to the cook.”

“Yes, my lady,” Fiona cal ed out. “And Father Hubert says the bonfires are ready. The alewife—”

“Yes, yes, I’m coming.” Eleanor opened the door enough to look at the girl whose eyes were bright with merriment.

“Are you done bedding him yet?” Fiona asked. “I waited as long as I could but the cook would have come himself soon.”

“I’m done,” Eleanor answered. She tried to look disapproving and formal, but she couldn’t help but smile at the merry girl. “Just wait until you’ve a husband of your own,” she whispered, and Fiona giggled.

“I pray it’s soon. Wil you come, lady? Or should I tel the cook to—”

“Tel the cook I’l be there directly.”

The girl nodded and hurried away. Eleanor watched her disappear down the stairs with a fond smile. Fiona had become her chief assistant in dealing

with the servants. Assistant and translator, and champion as wel . The girl was betrothed and eager to learn the duties of running a keep while her twin was proving good company for Edythe.

She closed the door and turned back to her husband who was stil sitting naked on the edge of the bed. “I do have to go,” she told him.

“Hubert?” he said. “Bonfires? May Day is long past.”

While taking a fresh overdress from her chest she explained, “Hubert says we need the menfolk to celebrate properly. Where I come from,” she added,

“the day celebrates the Holy Virgin. Here apparently, it has more to do with the fertility of the fields.” And, speaking of fertility, she smiled to herself as she added, so soft she doubted he heard, “I think I have some news for you but I’m not certain yet.”

Stian stood and stretched. She tried not to notice as she finished dressing. For his nakedness was of deep interest to her and she feared al her efforts at putting on clothing would come to nothing if she watched him too closely. Since she would probably go from looking to touching to tumbling under him

once more with very little encouragement.

While he scratched his flat, hard muscled stomach she hurried to find her shoes. She scurried out the door with them in hand and he cal ed after her as the door closed, “Then we’l jump through the fire together tonight, you and I.”

Jump through the fire?
she wondered as she made her way down the stairs. What did the man mean about jumping through the fire? Perhaps she’d

heard wrong.

* * * * *

“I should have stayed with him.”

Eleanor heard the words spoken by Lars and Edythe, but she didn’t detect any great feeling behind either comment. She was real y more interested in

Stian, who had found her lute and brought it to the feast in the moonlit meadow. Not only found it but was playing it—and wel —for a group of dancing