Immortal Warrior by Lisa Hendrix

submit myself to you. So I swear before God and these witnesses.”
    “I accept your homage and hereafter call you mine,” said Ivo. He released her hands, but his eyes stayed on her, softer now. “In return I confirm your dower of one-third portion of my holdings as well as those gifts named in the marriage contract we each signed. For these, I ask only your oath of fealty. Will you give it?”
    Dower? Gifts? She had assumed the contract only confirmed Ivo’s rights, not her own. He held the advantage, after all. For what was she about to pledge? “Yes, my lord.”
    Ivo cocked one eyebrow as if to ask, Don’t you wish you had let Geoffrey read it to you?
    Father Theobald held out the huge volume of the Gospels for Alaida to kiss, and she laid both hands on the bejeweled cover. “I promise that from this day forward I will be a . . . a true and faithful vassal to you as my lord.” Caught off guard, she stumbled through the rest of the words. Then with Ivo’s nod, it was over. Alnwick was his, as was she in all ways but one.
    As he put out his hand to help her rise, the knowledge of that final surrender made her belly clench again. Angrily, she pushed the thought away. She would have to deal with it soon enough, but she refused to let her mind travel that path now.
    When they had washed and taken their places at table, the horn blew, and servants began carrying in the food, lading the tables with meats and savories until the trestles fair groaned. Considering how little time there had been to prepare, Geoffrey had done his new lord honor, Alaida noted without cheer. Those in the hall would eat almost as well as at Christmas, and those gathering at the gate—the poorest of the cottars and whatever beggars were in the area—would have rich orts to carry off. By morning, Ivo de Vassy would be known as a generous lord. Whether that held true over time, they would all see.
    Being without a squire, Ivo asked Oswald to carve for them. Wielding the knife like the master bladesman he was, the marshal quickly piled their shared trencher with the choicest slices of mutton and pork. He laid a fillet of salmon and a pair of herrings on the side, then twisted off the leg of a goose like it was no more than a leaf and laid it among the rest. Finally, he cut into a plump pie.
    “No pigeon,” said Ivo firmly. “Take it away.”
    Oswald motioned for a boy to remove the pie, added a glistening eel to their portion, then placed the trencher between Ivo and Alaida and left them to their meal.
    Ivo sliced off a bit of the crunchy, herbed rind of the pork and held the morsel out to Alaida. Such courtesy was the proper service of a knight for a lady, a swain for his lover, or a husband for his wife. He had probably been looking forward to it.
    Alaida had not. She would sooner starve than eat out of the man’s hand.
    Ivo shrugged and popped the sliver of pork into his mouth. “You will have to unclench sooner or later.”
    She looked up sharply.
    “Your hands,” he said, gesturing toward her lap. “And your jaw. I’m surprised it doesn’t pain you.”
    “Only one thing pains me.”
    “I have seen men die from a jaw less locked,” he said, ignoring her jab. He took a hearty drink of the perry and offered her the bowl, which she also refused. “Come, Alaida. You have had your jest, and I have had mine. Let us call truce before you starve.”
    “Jest? Is that what you call it? Bend to your will . Do you think I didn’t know you meant your . . . ?” She waved her hand vaguely in the direction of his privates.
    “You began this battle, my lady, with your nun’s robes and your little speech. I only returned blow for blow.” The grin crept back onto his lips. “Though with better humor.”
    She glared at him even as her anger subsided a little. He was right. She had started this tonight, and for all that his gibes had embarrassed her, they were no worse than she’d heard at other weddings. What’s more, she had challenged him before the hall, for which some men would