Immortal Warrior by Lisa Hendrix Page B

PRICKLES of awareness that crawled over her flesh like so many mites, Alaida examined the sweets on the tray being offered her. She could see Ivo from the corner of her eye, leaning back as he studied her, his lips working in and out as though he puzzled over some deep riddle. She had seen the same look on her grandfather’s face a thousand times, over chess or merels or plans for war. They were all the same to men: games. The fact that one of their games involved violence and death mattered little.
    Now she was the game. Or the battle, as the case may be.
    Fine. Better he think of her as an adversary than as property. At least her ill-considered kiss had bought her that much. She selected a wedge of almond gastel and nibbled at one corner as she considered a battle plan of her own.
    She’d barely swallowed the first bite when Ivo set aside the bowl he’d been nursing and rose. “It grows late, my lady. We will retire.”
    So. It began.
    Conscious of the laughter that rippled down the tables, Alaida put down her cake, gathered her feet and her dignity, and rose. To her relief, the women swarmed forward and swept her upstairs before she had to take the hand he offered. The men followed, laughing and joking.
    “The wedding posset,” said Bôte, holding up a large drinking horn. “Ale, spiced for desire, in the horn of a bull for my lord’s manhood. Drink up, both of you.”
    She took a sip to show it wasn’t poisoned and offered it to Ivo. He drank deeply while the men cheered him on, then passed the horn to Alaida, whose reluctant sip drew hoots from all.
    “Ach, that’s not enough, my lady,” scolded Bôte. She stood there, hands on hips, ’til Alaida downed a good swig, then a second and a third. “There. You’ll be wanting all that and more, if I judge your lord husband rightly.”
    Her words brought yet more laughter. As it trailed off, Father Theobald was pushed forward to bless the bed. In the warmth of the solar, his prayer took on the flowery wording he had avoided in the chapel. With any luck, Alaida thought, he would go on all night.
    But no. When he mentioned fruitful loins for the third time, Sir Brand cleared his throat in a pointed way. Father Theobald quickly found the end of his blessing and, naming the Trinity, swung the censer to send its smoke swirling over the furs.
    “Fruitful loins,” mused Wat the Reeve into the silence after they’d all crossed themselves. “I’ve always thought that sounds like something they’d serve at a feast.”
    “Aye,” agreed Edric. “With butter.”
    “And sauce,” added a voice from somewhere in the back, with a lewd slurp that made the men laugh and the women squeal and cover their cheeks with their hands. Poor Father Theobald looked as though he’d like to go out the roof hole with the smoke.
    Alaida glanced over toward her groom and thought she might join the rising smoke as well, scorched away by what she saw. The bemused expression he’d worn earlier had vanished. His eyes burned like they had those first moments in the hall the night before, like those of some beast on its prey. Bright. Possessive. Hungry.
    Without taking his gaze off her, he passed his belt and sword to Sir Brand. “Clear the room.”
    Voices rose in protest. Brand cut them off with a slash of his hand, but Oswald stepped forward. “Your pardon, my lord, but ’tis custom to see the bride put to bed.”
    “Your custom, not mine. My wife’s bounty is mine alone,” said Ivo. Relief washed over Alaida, even as the men grumbled at the loss of their sport. “Her serving women may stay. The rest of you, out.”
    “You heard his lordship,” rumbled Brand. “Back to your feasting. There’s plenty of good ale to ease the sting.”
    The room emptied quickly, though with a great many snickers and knowing looks. Only Father Theobald lingered, looking somber again, as though he might launch into the sermon he’d neglected to give at the chapel. Something about marital temperance, no doubt. Alaida smiled encouragement.
    “You,