State of Grace (Resurrection) (19 page)

Roman didn’t answer him and Godfrey struggled some more. I wondered at Roman’s incredible strength as he held Godfrey as easily as a woman held a purse.
Godfrey dangled helplessly, his face purple. I couldn’t tell whether it was from temper, embarrassment, fear, or whether Roman was cutting off Godfrey’s air supply.

Roman
stared at me, fury radiating from him like light from a lamp. A short, hot, metallic smell filled the passageway. I don’t know how I knew it was coming from Roman, I simply did. I know fear carries its own sour scent, but I wasn’t aware until now that anger, too, had a smell all its own. He looked away, still holding Godfrey at arm’s length. Godfrey was blustering. ‘She’s only a wench, a whore. What matters it to you if I tup her?’

Finally Roman spoke. ‘She does
not desire your attentions.’ His voice was arctic cold and it sent shivers of ice along my veins. If Death could talk I thought that was how he might sound.

Godfrey could hear it, too, and he paled, his struggles becoming more frantic. ‘A few co
ins would have made her change her mind,’ he gasped, twisting violently in Roman’s hand. ‘I was going to pay her to make it worth her while.’

I scrambled to my feet and stood shakily, holding the wall for support. ‘You bastard,’ I rasped, hunching over my still-painful stomach. My head hurt, both where he had slapped me and where it had hit the wall, my shoulders and the tops of my arm were sore and my throat and neck throbbed. ‘You were going to rape and strangle me.’

‘You mistook my intentions,’ Godfrey insisted, fear taking his tone a pitch higher.

‘No,’ Roman said without any compassion or forgiveness. ‘She did not.’

He casually brought Godfrey close to him, reached up with his other hand and calmly snapped Godfrey’s neck with a loud crack.  I screamed. Godfrey’s head dropped on to one shoulder, the unnatural angle making my stomach churn.

I doubled over and the wine and the food I had eaten came back up in a sudden rush. As I heaved I saw Roman drop Godfrey to the floor and he hit the stone with a dull thud. I retched some more, until my stomach was empty.  Roman gazed at me, his face expressionless.

The hot metal smell had been replaced by the stench of faeces as Godfrey’s abrupt departure from this earth had caused him to open his bowels. I dry heaved until my already painful stomach protested. I had to get some fresh air: I had to get away from the dead body at my feet and the man who had made it. My fear of Roman overwhelmed my gratitude to him and I backed away towards the door. Roman watched every step, like a fox watching a rabbit, with predatory intent. But as my back touched the door I was flung violently forward as it slammed open and Roman caught me tight in his arms.

‘Viktor,’ Roman murmured, crushing me to his chest. I squeaked i
n fear, trying to push him away but it was like trying to move a house. His arms tightened around me and common sense eventually made me hold still. I didn’t want to provoke him any further.

‘Go,’ Viktor instructed, assessing the situation immediately. ‘Get her away from here. I will take care of Godfrey.’

Roman nodded once and, without warning, scooped me up. I stifled a shriek. So fast I didn’t have time to catch my breath, he carried me out of the door and into the night.

I don’t remember much about that hellish ride back to the cottage. I do recall Roman placing me gently on a pile of straw as he helped a boy saddle the horses. I think I must have gone into shock at some point because I was trembling so much I made the straw underneath me rustle. I hurt everywhere. Tears leaked from my eyes like a drippy tap and I couldn’t stop them no matter how hard I strived for control. Roman kept shooting me worried glances as he tacked up the stallion with swift sure movements. Once both horses were ready he checked the gelding then lifted me into the saddle. This time I didn’t object when he took my horse’s reins. My hands were numb, both from the cold and shock, and I was still trembling violently.

The force of the storm made me gasp and for a second Roman hesitated. I could tell he was considering the wisdom of riding in this weather so I urged the gelding forward with my knees, and after a brief look towards the great hall Roman gathered up his own reins and led me out of the castle grounds.

After that it was all a bit of a blur. It took only minutes for the cold and driving snow to numb me completely, and I have no idea how I managed to stay in the saddle as long as I did. Luckily we were going at no more than a slow canter when I slid from my horse. I didn’t even feel it when the ground came up to meet me. Roman sensed my predicament immediately and he wheeled the horses around, coming to a stop inches from my head. Both animals were sweating and blowing hard and I could feel their heat. Steam rose from them, misty in the darkness, joining the flakes of snow.

I watched in detached fascination as Roman stripped down to his lin
en undergarments, convinced I must be dreaming – it was far too cold to be running around half naked. Anyway, being naked was supposed to be my forte. I closed my eyes, weary to my soul. All I wanted to do was to sleep.

‘Ow!’ He had slapped me! My cheek stung and I opened one eye, tears freezing on my lashes.

‘You must stay awake,’ he urged. ‘Don’t go to sleep.’

‘Ok.’ My voice was
drowsy and seemed to come from far away: I wasn’t sure I had actually said anything out loud. He manhandled me into his tunic, manoeuvring the material over my head and stuffing my arms into the sleeves. I hardly felt my legs as he manipulated my feet into his breeches, yanking them up to my waist. I felt like one big Barbie doll – all I needed was the boobs and the hair.

Satisfied, he scooped me up once more and vaulted into the saddle. Again, I marvelled at his strength, bu
t not for long. I passed out.

It was the pain that woke me. My hands and feet were on fire. I was being rubbed violently by none-too-gentle hands and I protested weakly, trying to slap them away. I cried out as acid ate into my extremities. Rough material was scouring my skin, rubbing me dry. My hair was soaked and my scalp was icy cold, my teeth were chattering uncontrollably and huge shudders wracked my body every few seconds. I had never been so cold, apart from my burning toes and fingers: they were on fire. I tried to wiggle one finger and screamed. It was as if it had been dipped in boiling oil.

Face screwed up in pain, I forced my eyes open and relief swept through me when I saw where I was and who I was with. The fire was roaring and the small cottage was warm. I was on the floor in front of it and lying on the hard-packed cushions from the bench which were covered with woollen blankets. I was naked again, my sodden dress puddled by the door next to my wet boots. I had no idea where my wimple had got to. Roman was crouched over me, his head bent over my feet as he rubbed them briskly with a blanket.

‘Be still,’ he soothed. ‘This will pass.’

He was right. As my warmed blood brought my hands and feet back to life, the burning dulled to throbbing and eventually to tingling. He helped ease me into a sitting position, wrapping one of the blankets around my shoulders
. I was weak and exhausted, and would have sold my soul for some aspirin. But I was alert enough to notice what Roman wasn’t wearing. He was almost as naked as I: his upper body was bare and his lower didn’t have a great deal on it, just some flimsy under-breeches made of white linen and not leaving much to the imagination. He had nice feet.

He turned his back to me
and bent over to pick up the sopping wet tunic and breeches he had bundled me in to and had obviously taken off me. Nice butt. He straightened. Very nice butt.  His shoulders and back rippled with muscle, leading to a trim waist and a… oh yeah… nice butt. His legs were long and lean, the muscles in his thighs flexing as he moved to put the wet clothes by the door, joining my dress and boots.

My eyes followed him. I couldn’t look away from him, especially his backside. I had no choice but to look elsewhere when he turned around and he could see exactly what part of his anatomy I was staring at. I blushed.

My discomfort brought me back to myself a little and I frowned, unable to work out the dramatic change in my emotions. I thought about the ‘incident’ with Godfrey and the utter and total ease with which Roman had killed him. I was appalled Roman had shown no flicker of indecision, no hint of conscience. He had despatched the other man with as little thought or emotion as I would swot a mosquito. Roman was a killer. I had already seen him in action, killing three men in the first of my visions, but I had explained it away as self-defence: they had been aiming to kill him. So that didn’t count. Did it?

Why couldn’t he have let Godfrey go? Heaven knows I had wanted to kill him myself, and if I had been able to lay my hands on a gun I had to admi
t I probably would have shot him myself. But Godfrey had been much stronger than me physically and I wouldn’t have been able to fight him off any other way. Roman had plucked him off me and had held him dangling. Surely that would have been enough? And maybe a punch in the face to go with it?

‘No, I could not have let him li
ve,’ Roman said, startling me.

‘Stop doing that,’ I hissed. ‘Stop reading my mind.’

‘Reading your mind? No.’ He laughed, a slow easy chuckle that raised goose-bumps on my skin. ‘I read your face. It is easy to tell what you are thinking.’

I frowned sullenly. ‘Do you spend hours in front of a mirror practicing your blank look, or is it natural?’ I asked snippily.

His lips twitched. ‘I do not own a mirror,’ he replied. He stepped towards me and sank down onto his haunches, taking one of my hands in his. ‘Good. You are warm enough.’ His fingers were cool. I was disgruntled when he withdrew them to throw another log on the fire.

‘Grace,’ he said, his eyes finding mine. ‘I could not let him live.’

‘But, I mean, surely you have police or something?’

He was puzzled again, so I tried to explain. ‘The law, gaol?’ I saw his brow smooth as he understood.

‘The only law here is Lord Brychan. Godfrey was his second-in-command. Sir Bernard would be unlikely to believe the word of a strange maid and a bard over that of a trusted and proven man of arms.’

‘But he attacked me!’

‘You are naïve,’ he said, gently, ‘both in the ways of men and the ways of this world.’

I shru
gged, reluctantly admitting he might be right. Everything here was so
raw
, the veneer of civilisation, of society, so much thinner and less polished than my world.

‘He would never have forgiven
the insult,’ Roman continued. ‘He would have had me killed – or tried to – and I would have had to defend myself, and you. Many might have died.’

I shook my head wonderi
ngly. ‘Are you so powerful, then, so strong?’

‘Yes,’ he said simply.

‘Who are you?’ I breathed.

‘Roman, the bard.’ His face gave nothing away.

‘No, you are not just a bard.’ I paused, seeking clarification. ‘Singer, right?  That’s what bard means?’

‘Storyteller,’ he amended. ‘I tell tales, fables,
ballads. And I sing.’

‘You are employed by Sir Bernard?’

He shook his head. ‘I am my own man, as is Viktor. We travel from village to town, from manor to castle. Bards are welcome everywhere. Sometimes I am paid in coin, sometimes in goods. It depends what is offered and what we need.’

‘Viktor is a bard, too?’

‘Yes, but I have the better voice, so it is mostly I who sings. Here Viktor poses as my servant. Tomorrow, at another lord’s table, I will pose as his. It is of no matter to us who plays which part.’