scattering geese and chickens. After laughing, watching a few men scurry away, she turned and faced him again.
Pagan had been watching the dogs, but she knew he now glanced at her. For extended moments, they did that, a wall of snow thickening in the distance between them. He seemed large, looming, and as strong as the castle walls. However, she remembered his smile, his glorious eyes so she raised her hand before turning to go inside.
Illara spent nearly all of the evening in that heated bathing pool. Groaning at both pleasure and pain, rubbing her muscles—and knowing on the morrow, it would be worse.
* * * *
Pagan met her for three more days whilst the snow deepened, but on the third delayed to have one of the sub chambers cleared in the dungeons. As he lit torches and lanterns, he was aware that Randulf was as curious as he was disgruntled.
His brother was helping him ready the large area. They wanted it well lit and as yet were feeling around for loose stones that may trip her or anything that was in the way.
Pagan had to ask himself why he agreed to a new form of torture. From the first day, watching Illara in those breeches and her blouse and vest, clothing that conformed for comfort and movement, completely practical and similar to what he had seen his mother and sister’s wear—yet they hugged a pert, full backside. In addition, Pagan had seen everything whilst tucking her into bed, so that flashes of it went through his mind constantly. Her hair braided, but strands loosing, and face often flushing, that smile, even the concentration when she gave herself to the exercise aroused him. He was impressed with her. One could not mock someone who was both serious in their focus and skilled with a weapon.
Pagan had observed her turns, flips, and the way she moved her body. He knew Lord John had taught it to her for many reasons. In a land not of one’s friends, in crowded bazaars and markets, and on the roads, there were dangers. He did not doubt she could ride. He had already picked a muscled gelding for her. It was not her Arab racers, but he would eventually find her one of those.
When the area was checked, Pagan asked Randulf, “What think you, can Beroun spar with her?”
Randulf, for the moment had his face uncovered. “I will fetch him. But answer me this, what is the reason, the point behind this training?”
“She enjoys it. Her father taught her, and you know as well as I that anyone connected to us could be in danger. The prizes in this castle are well known and there is kidnapping and ransom, bandits on the roads, and aside from all of that—the women in our family all knew how to fight.”
“It didn’t save them.”
“It was an ambush, during a feast, Randulf.” He met his brother’s eyes. “What is the reason for your antagonism? You liked her well beforehand. She had nothing to do with our losses.”
Muscles flexed in Randulf’s face. “Does it not occur to you that we must ask anyone who connects themselves to us, to lie? If the church knew, even your marriage would be void—”
“The vows matter more than the names, Randulf. And yea, I am aware of the life we chose. However, we chose it and it is how we will live. As long as you are champion, no one cares where you were birthed, or if you sprang up from hell. Not enough to challenge it. What would you have me do, abandon her? And I must go soon enough, without some truth between us...”
“That is not all one observes, between you.”
Pagan held that stare longer, trying to sense what troubled his brother, and then guessing. Pagan said quietly, “Do not fret for me, brother. I am a grown man, with few expectations where intimacies are concerned.”
“Yes. You are a man. And, why not expect. Scars and living nightmares should not rob us of everything.”
“Randulf, why this fury?”
“It is not fury.” His brother’s hands fisted. Randulf turned and took a step and then paused. “Perhaps… it is envy.” He
Pagan had been watching the dogs, but she knew he now glanced at her. For extended moments, they did that, a wall of snow thickening in the distance between them. He seemed large, looming, and as strong as the castle walls. However, she remembered his smile, his glorious eyes so she raised her hand before turning to go inside.
Illara spent nearly all of the evening in that heated bathing pool. Groaning at both pleasure and pain, rubbing her muscles—and knowing on the morrow, it would be worse.
* * * *
Pagan met her for three more days whilst the snow deepened, but on the third delayed to have one of the sub chambers cleared in the dungeons. As he lit torches and lanterns, he was aware that Randulf was as curious as he was disgruntled.
His brother was helping him ready the large area. They wanted it well lit and as yet were feeling around for loose stones that may trip her or anything that was in the way.
Pagan had to ask himself why he agreed to a new form of torture. From the first day, watching Illara in those breeches and her blouse and vest, clothing that conformed for comfort and movement, completely practical and similar to what he had seen his mother and sister’s wear—yet they hugged a pert, full backside. In addition, Pagan had seen everything whilst tucking her into bed, so that flashes of it went through his mind constantly. Her hair braided, but strands loosing, and face often flushing, that smile, even the concentration when she gave herself to the exercise aroused him. He was impressed with her. One could not mock someone who was both serious in their focus and skilled with a weapon.
Pagan had observed her turns, flips, and the way she moved her body. He knew Lord John had taught it to her for many reasons. In a land not of one’s friends, in crowded bazaars and markets, and on the roads, there were dangers. He did not doubt she could ride. He had already picked a muscled gelding for her. It was not her Arab racers, but he would eventually find her one of those.
When the area was checked, Pagan asked Randulf, “What think you, can Beroun spar with her?”
Randulf, for the moment had his face uncovered. “I will fetch him. But answer me this, what is the reason, the point behind this training?”
“She enjoys it. Her father taught her, and you know as well as I that anyone connected to us could be in danger. The prizes in this castle are well known and there is kidnapping and ransom, bandits on the roads, and aside from all of that—the women in our family all knew how to fight.”
“It didn’t save them.”
“It was an ambush, during a feast, Randulf.” He met his brother’s eyes. “What is the reason for your antagonism? You liked her well beforehand. She had nothing to do with our losses.”
Muscles flexed in Randulf’s face. “Does it not occur to you that we must ask anyone who connects themselves to us, to lie? If the church knew, even your marriage would be void—”
“The vows matter more than the names, Randulf. And yea, I am aware of the life we chose. However, we chose it and it is how we will live. As long as you are champion, no one cares where you were birthed, or if you sprang up from hell. Not enough to challenge it. What would you have me do, abandon her? And I must go soon enough, without some truth between us...”
“That is not all one observes, between you.”
Pagan held that stare longer, trying to sense what troubled his brother, and then guessing. Pagan said quietly, “Do not fret for me, brother. I am a grown man, with few expectations where intimacies are concerned.”
“Yes. You are a man. And, why not expect. Scars and living nightmares should not rob us of everything.”
“Randulf, why this fury?”
“It is not fury.” His brother’s hands fisted. Randulf turned and took a step and then paused. “Perhaps… it is envy.” He
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