of weeping when he heard it.
Reaching up, his palm flattened on the surface. For once, in manhood, he felt impotent and at a loss. He had set the wall between them, and fate had scarred him far more than she was marred. He knew the betrayal went beyond beatings, to an intimacy that he had only witnessed—and never partook of. Thoughts went through his head, a knowledge that he could gain her trust, even play the role of friend and protector—but he was her husband by law, and he was a normal man under the flaws of flesh.
Why torment himself…
The weeping stopped. He detected the splash of water, the sound of bathing. Ronan pushed away and went below, eating little, distracted and ignoring Ualtar’s curious looks, before he finally left the hall to spend most of the night with the guards on the wall.
* * * *
The next noon, Sefare showed up on the wall of the exercise yard, with Isola. The briefest glance passed between herself and Ronan, who was leaning against the wall a ways up, observing. A pact, she surmised, to pretend nothing more than the training had passed between them yester eve.
Isola watched the men with interest, saying, “That Welshman there, he is famous in his own right. I heard that an injury took him from the Tourney lists, but you’d never know it, seeing his skill and agility now.”
While observing the man, Sefare listened to Isola describe weapons, shields, talk with depth and knowledge of where the weapons were forged and how, and the different uses of some. A cart just at the gates held a mound of them, from cross bow, bow and axe, to spiked mace and scythes. They were both awed when Ualtar took up his axes and began flipping and throwing them, hitting the target head on, time after time.
Isola looked at her and they exchanged a smile when he was through, a slight shake of head.
When the Celt did much the same with daggers, Sefare intoned, “I think the performance is for us.”
“Aye.” Isola laughed. “He’s brash, but with good reason.”
When most of the seasoned men were done, a few of the younger lads entered the lower gate. Sefare observed Ronan’s manner with them. A few had apparently never handled more than plow or hoe, and he worked with them patiently, his big-gloved hand resting on their shoulder or a very short lad, his hand atop that boyish head.
“‘Tis a wonder any tenderness was left in him, after what he suffered.”
Sefare did not have to ask whom. “Aye. I cannot imagine surviving it.”
The woman looked at her. “You have separate beds?”
Sefare stared at Ronan still. “You must have heard why he wed me.”
“Aye, but I didn’t think you the sort to shun him as other’s do.”
“It’s not that.” Sefare finally looked from Ronan to meet those tawny eyes. “It is my own past, and asides, we are strangers.”
“He’s just a man. Under it all.”
Sefare swallowed. “I know.”
The woman touched her shoulder, but before they could talk further, Ronan drew their attention and summoned them below. They were directed to stand with the younger lads, and then went through the center of the arena—an area with the implements for strength and dexterity training.
Dressed in soft-soled boots, a tunic and trousers, for the next hour Sefare put all out of her mind to suffer with the others, to heft stones, run a gauntlet, and jump objects.
She was put with a lad, and the Smith with another, and with sticks, they fought; suffering blows when they missed that were mere taps.
Through it all Ronan’s voice called out direction, scolding, praise, and a few times, he laughed. When the sound captured her attention and she looked at him, Sefare got a whack from the lad in front of her, and swiftly went back to the seriousness.
Isola had to leave them. She was busy repairing everything from saddles to shields, and making progress on an iron cover for the great hall hearth that apparently smoked up the hall when lit.
The evening drew, and eventually the
Reaching up, his palm flattened on the surface. For once, in manhood, he felt impotent and at a loss. He had set the wall between them, and fate had scarred him far more than she was marred. He knew the betrayal went beyond beatings, to an intimacy that he had only witnessed—and never partook of. Thoughts went through his head, a knowledge that he could gain her trust, even play the role of friend and protector—but he was her husband by law, and he was a normal man under the flaws of flesh.
Why torment himself…
The weeping stopped. He detected the splash of water, the sound of bathing. Ronan pushed away and went below, eating little, distracted and ignoring Ualtar’s curious looks, before he finally left the hall to spend most of the night with the guards on the wall.
* * * *
The next noon, Sefare showed up on the wall of the exercise yard, with Isola. The briefest glance passed between herself and Ronan, who was leaning against the wall a ways up, observing. A pact, she surmised, to pretend nothing more than the training had passed between them yester eve.
Isola watched the men with interest, saying, “That Welshman there, he is famous in his own right. I heard that an injury took him from the Tourney lists, but you’d never know it, seeing his skill and agility now.”
While observing the man, Sefare listened to Isola describe weapons, shields, talk with depth and knowledge of where the weapons were forged and how, and the different uses of some. A cart just at the gates held a mound of them, from cross bow, bow and axe, to spiked mace and scythes. They were both awed when Ualtar took up his axes and began flipping and throwing them, hitting the target head on, time after time.
Isola looked at her and they exchanged a smile when he was through, a slight shake of head.
When the Celt did much the same with daggers, Sefare intoned, “I think the performance is for us.”
“Aye.” Isola laughed. “He’s brash, but with good reason.”
When most of the seasoned men were done, a few of the younger lads entered the lower gate. Sefare observed Ronan’s manner with them. A few had apparently never handled more than plow or hoe, and he worked with them patiently, his big-gloved hand resting on their shoulder or a very short lad, his hand atop that boyish head.
“‘Tis a wonder any tenderness was left in him, after what he suffered.”
Sefare did not have to ask whom. “Aye. I cannot imagine surviving it.”
The woman looked at her. “You have separate beds?”
Sefare stared at Ronan still. “You must have heard why he wed me.”
“Aye, but I didn’t think you the sort to shun him as other’s do.”
“It’s not that.” Sefare finally looked from Ronan to meet those tawny eyes. “It is my own past, and asides, we are strangers.”
“He’s just a man. Under it all.”
Sefare swallowed. “I know.”
The woman touched her shoulder, but before they could talk further, Ronan drew their attention and summoned them below. They were directed to stand with the younger lads, and then went through the center of the arena—an area with the implements for strength and dexterity training.
Dressed in soft-soled boots, a tunic and trousers, for the next hour Sefare put all out of her mind to suffer with the others, to heft stones, run a gauntlet, and jump objects.
She was put with a lad, and the Smith with another, and with sticks, they fought; suffering blows when they missed that were mere taps.
Through it all Ronan’s voice called out direction, scolding, praise, and a few times, he laughed. When the sound captured her attention and she looked at him, Sefare got a whack from the lad in front of her, and swiftly went back to the seriousness.
Isola had to leave them. She was busy repairing everything from saddles to shields, and making progress on an iron cover for the great hall hearth that apparently smoked up the hall when lit.
The evening drew, and eventually the
Similar Books
