Beauchamp Besieged. Elaine Knighton

soft and fine and black. And those upslanted eyes, deep with unspoken sorrow, shifting from sea-green to emerald. Eyes that sometimes glowed, lit from within by a pure fire, whether born of a fighting spirit or fever, he could not tell. Aye, a comely bundle, much too lovely for comfort. Why had he bothered spitting a perfectly able man to save her skin in the first place?

      Perhaps it had been young Wace’s look of anguish at seeing a girl about to be ravished. Perhaps because by saving the virtue of one maid, he could partially make up for the multitude of despoilings his brother perpetrated in the name of his rights as lord. A laughable thought. Who was he, Raymond, to pretend honor after what he had done to his own wife?

      Her image leaped to torment him, as ever. Meribel, floating in the noisome moat. Her eyes, once sparkling with both merriment and malice, now dull, open and staring. Heedless of the strands of green water-weed tangling in her long lashes. Beyond caring that her gown drifted up her white thighs, gleaming through the murky water.

      Raymond groaned and with an effort that cost him dear, willed her away, his eyes tightly shut. Slowly she faded to a mere shadow on the periphery of his mind. Faint, but never fully banished.

      The cur he had dispatched had not deserved such a clean, swift stroke. Raymond hoped he had not also ultimately killed the black-haired maid. He had seen no viscera emerging through her wound, and only good, red blood flowing, nothing green or foul-smelling. Hopeful signs, but it was too soon to tell.

      “Wace!” Raymond reached the landing, kicked open the door of his solar, and the squire hurried to his side. “Disarm me and bring some hot water.” He tossed his gauntlets and coif onto the bed, where his huge dog was already circling to settle down for the night. For some reason, the sight did not bring its usual satisfaction.

      Silently Wace unstrapped his master’s sword and dagger. He lifted off the flowing surcoat and sighed when he saw the ruined lining. Raymond ignored the small censure and leaned forward as if to touch his toes. The heavy mail hauberk slithered down over his head into Wace’s waiting hands. The boy then untied the mail chausses, and Raymond shook them from his legs.

      He should have gone to the armory to remove his harness, to save Wace the work of hauling it down, but it was too late now. Raymond started to unlace his haqueton, then hugged the padded under-jacket to his sides. “I will wait ’til the water arrives.” Their breath plumed in the room and an awkward silence fell. Raymond stepped to the brazier to poke the fire back to life.

      “My lord.” Wace fidgeted.

      Raymond looked at his squire. The rangy boy was new to his service, and still a bit shy of him. Wace’s former lord had lived as violently as he had died, and the lad bore the scars to prove it. His auburn hair hung thick and straight about his solemn face, and his eyes were serious.

      “Speak your mind, lad.” Raymond sat on his bed, leaned back upon his elbows and stretched his wool-clad legs.

      “I was wondering…what will you do with the maid?”

      Raymond stroked his beloved Hamfast, and the dog raised an eyebrow and licked his hand. No woman could offer such devotion. “Do with her? I shall do nothing with her. Or to her, or for her. Does that answer your question?”

      “Nay, milord.”

      Raymond responded with a mirthless sound, part grunt, part laugh. The boy looked displeased, if he was not mistaken. “I see. Are you concerned with the fulfillment of knightly vows? Do not be. She’ll not starve.” Not with a face like that.

      “But is it not true, that once you’ve saved a person’s life—even that of a woman—you’re bound together from that moment forward? You have a responsibility to her now, and she owes a debt to you, does she not?” Wace insisted.

      Raymond sat up, rubbing his scarred knuckles. “I hold her to no debt. She is free. The sooner she goes, the better.”

      Wace’s brow creased into a frown. “She displeases you.”

      “Aye, so she does. I wish never to have sight of her again. She is a distraction, when I am bound to wed another.” Raymond jumped to his feet. “Enough! By Abelard’s ballocks, where is that water?”

      The boy stepped back, his eyes wide. Raymond wiped his forehead with his palm and took a deep breath. “Wace, I shout a great deal. Do not take it to heart. Whatever ill-use you have suffered, you, at least, will never feel my hand in anger.”

      Wace nodded, and executed a slight bow before leaving the room. Raymond sank down again and put his head in his hands. God help me. Breaking in a new squire was like settling a high-strung colt. So much potential needing care.

      He knew firsthand how best to encourage traits of value, and how to quell the rest without ruining a boy’s spirit. It was a lot of work. And he already had a lot of work. To gather a body of trained men, arm them, and go forth to raze Alonso’s keep to the ground. It would be a bitter disappointment to Wace, when he shattered the boy’s idealism on the proper conduct of a knight to his lord. But then, neither I, nor my lord brother are proper knights.

      Ceridwen knew she still dreamed, on the brink of awakening. Strong arms held her tenderly, featherlight kisses rained upon her face and neck. It was no one she knew, yet she had known him forever. He was warm, solid, and all hers. She kept her eyes closed, reluctant to break the fragile spell of pleasure.

      But fingers of sunlight plucked at her lids, demanding that she wake. Her arms stuck damply to her sides and she was too warm. She slid the scratchy blanket down her torso. Pain stabbed through the drowsiness as her wound pulled, and she gasped. Someone next to her coughed. A deep, male sound.

      She opened her eyes, and a small cry of dismay left her lips. From his seat beside the bed, Sir Raymond surveyed her. Ceridwen dragged the blanket back over her breasts and up to her chin. He was distressingly handsome in the morning light.

      He had shaved, and wore a simple tunic of undyed linen beneath his sleeveless surcoat. The bland color accentuated his bright hair and healthy skin, though his fathomless eyes were shadowed with fatigue. She could not tell what he thought of her, and tried not to care.

      “How do you feel?” The smooth voice was neutral.

      “I am well, sir.” She felt herself redden and clutched the blanket tighter. “I need no checking of my bandages, thank you,” Ceridwen added, hoping to forestall any delicate ministrations he might have in mind. She shivered as a chill swept her body.

      “Of course not. I have already done that while you slept. Unless you want Alys—” Raymond half stood.

      “No thank you, my lord.” He’d attended her while she slept? And what else? Ceridwen stared at him, willing his departure. He resumed his seat. His gaze lingered on her face, then he narrowed his eyes before looking away.

      Ceridwen felt a surge of relief to be free of his inspection. But no one had the right to inspire such dread at the mere mention of his name, then be so…quiet. She had expected a bellowing, red-faced, brutish sort, and instead, she found him graceful, wasting none of his movements, with strong hands and a lean, muscular frame. Thus far Sir Raymond had impressed her with his air. Not one of contentment or ease, but of something powerful lying in wait, holding itself in check.

      He returned his dark gaze to her. “What is your name?”

      “Ceridwen.” She bit her lip, awaiting his outrage at the poor bargain he’d made for the return of his dog.

      “That explains it.” His stare grew more intense.

      She swallowed. No reaction. It dawned on her that he might not have bothered to learn the given name of his bride-to-be. That was how little he thought of her. Ceridwen’s knuckles whitened on the edge of the blanket. “Explains what?”

      “How you are so small and dark, in a land of fair Amazons.”

      Ceridwen looked at Raymond in bewilderment. What did her size or coloring have to do with her name…unless he meant she looked as many Welshwomen did? A spark of anger ignited within her breast as his