Chapter 29
Her former master still had not
recognized her. Nor had he offered a ride to Maria—such fine
manners clearly did not apply to a mere maid. He had ridden his
horse close beside her, but he had not dismounted to walk with
her—in Edith’s eyes a deliberate discourtesy.
She had scarcely cared. Glad of
Ranulf’s cloak and shielding hood, she had walked beside Maria,
offering her friend her arm as the slope through the wood
increased. A dozen steps ahead, ahead of the plodding horses,
Ranulf had been deep in conversation with Teodwin. Had she not been
so anxious over his reaction to her confession, Edith would have
giggled at the pair of them: one so tall and lean and muscled,
rangy in dark green and gold—did Ranulf know his tunic picked up
some of the colors in his dark, mostly brown eyes?—the other almost
a head shorter, stocky, limping, dressed in faded purple. Through
the crackle of dry grass and fallen leaves, Maria’s loud breathing
and her baby’s snuffling, the rattle of the horse reins and
creaking saddles, Edith had not been able to hear them—nor could
Giles or his men—but she could read their lips. It was a skill she
had acquired through working in the forge, and it was with her
still.
“Can we not discover a better name than
Many for the girl? She cannot have been christened with
that.”
“Pardon me, my lord, I should have
said. Her name is Lucy. I heard your page calling her that and she
confirmed it.”
“Seems Gawain has flourished, taking
care of others. He certainly learns more than the rest of us. Very
well, Lucy she is.”
“She is a pleasant, biddable girl, my
lord.”
Ranulf had given the shorter, older man
a single, searching glance, nodded approval, and moved to other
matters. “I think it time we were packing up and
leaving.”
“I think so, too, my lord.” Teodwin
pointed to the churchyard, where all was still quiet. “They are
still for now, but who can say for how much longer?”
Ranulf frowned. “I think their desire
for blood has been quenched for the moment, but I will set men to
watch. And we should start to fill the wagons at
once.”
“I agree.” Teodwin was a dutiful echo,
far more acquiescent with Ranulf than he ever had been with her,
Edith thought resentfully.
“Good! Shall we say that we move two
days from now? The weather is good, the camps will be shifted
quickly. We can even harvest on the way, if needs
must.”
“I agree, my lord.”
Teodwin—her steward—had not even
checked with her. Ranulf had begun to speak of the gifts he
intended to leave with Lady Blanche. He had said something to Giles
that she could not now recall and the two knights had exchanged a
few terse words. Then the camp had been within sight and Giles had
galloped off, with only the briefest farewell.
Edith was glad he was gone. She was
glad to find her tent still standing. She was glad to greet her
people. All the while, as Many—Lucy now—and Maria cooed over each
other’s babies, she was aware of waiting.
Finally the summons she was expecting
came. “Come, Princess. I must look to my own camp and I would have
you with me.”
I am his prize
again, she thought as she silently complied. But for how long can I be both prize and princess? She
wished she had more time to think. She wished she knew what would
happen this coming evening. She wished, if she and Ranulf were to
be married, that he would say something of this to her people, to
his people.
She looked at her ugly, bare hands and
tried to imagine Ranulf’s betrothal ring on her finger. Would he
give her a ring? He must have given Olwen a ring. Would she, too,
have Ranulf’s ring?
Am I hoping for too
much? Is it not enough that he is a strong
protector?
“You are very quiet,” he remarked after
a few steps.
Edith noted that his other men had
dropped back so they would be private. So that he could praise or
scold her?
“I am thinking, my lord.”
He clasped her hand in his. “I like
‘Ranulf’ better.”
Telling herself to be as bold as a
princess, she raised his hand to her lips and kissed it. His skin
felt as hot as a glowing forge.
He winked at her. “Soon,
Princess.”
Feeling a little more confident, she
deliberately did not ask, but changed the subject. “Do we go to the
castle today? Do you not think we should?”
In answer—which was no reply at all—he
lifted her hand to his lips and nibbled her fingers, catching her
little finger in his mouth and sucking on it. A bolt of pleasure
shot down her arm and glowed in her loins.
“I wager I can tease as well as you,
now I know your weakness, little maid.” Tugging gently on her hand,
he drew her close. “If you ever went to confession, and I were your
priest, I would have you praying on your knees for your love of
sensuality.”
“And we all know knights are no lovers
of luxury,” she quipped in return, as her mind ran on. Ranulf as a
priest would be as bright and strong as fire; all the womenfolk in
his parish would be in love with him. She wanted to ignore him,
dismiss his gloating. “I would give you a task, my
knight.”
“Falling back to that, are we? Very
well, my lady.” He stopped in the middle of the camp and bowed.
“Say on.”
The way he smiled stripped away her
wits. Telling herself she must not gawk like a fool, that she must
launch a zesty, witty task, she could think only of herself and
Ranulf together, in bed.
“A cuckoo has stolen my wits,” she
responded weakly.
He chuckled, then his smile dropped
away, faster than a stooping hawk. “One of your village sayings
that you have passed off as Eastern wisdom, I
presume?”
This was too near the mark. “Are you
going to be ever watching my tongue, now, Ranulf?”
“For lies? Perhaps.”
She deliberately stepped on his foot.
“That is unfair and unjust—”
He snaked an arm about her middle and
squeezed, almost slamming the breath from her lungs, but she had
worked through choking soot and fire in the forge and she kept
talking. “You said before that it was no more than you have done in
battle, so why the change? Are you so fickle?”
His face darkened. “Not I,” he growled.
“And I will be no judge.”
Before she had time to make sense of
that cryptic remark, he lifted her half off her feet and stalked
with her to a wagon. One of his wagons, she realized, as he shooed
out the carter and the carter’s woman—who had both been peacefully
sitting in the back of the covered cart, sharing a bowl of
cherries.
“Now—” He sat her hard on the edge of
the cart and straddled her. “The mob in the church are
listening-quiet, my squire Edmund is still out hunting, and now so
am I.” He leaned in close and nipped her ear between his teeth. “My
hunt is for my lady. Do you know what my hunt is
called?”
“A distraction for us both?” she
hissed, determined that he should not think her simple, though she
wondered at the wisdom of assuming those in the churchyard would
remain so content. “Ranulf, should we not be moving
now?”
“Not unless we must. Orders are now in
place, and if our tents start coming down in too great a rush, that
might cause too much notice. That could set off the very mob we are
hoping to avoid.”
“Your experience of France again?” she
demanded testily.
He looked startled, but this time his
laughter was all-approving. “Clever maid! And you are right, I
wager.” He tickled her bare feet and cupped her breasts, his face
glazed with mounting desire. “To return to my hunt, I know there is one field where I can read you
like a field of deer.”
He has turned out his
people from their wagon to make love to me? She knew she
should be aggrieved for the folk, and alarmed that they were
delaying in taking their leave of Fitneyclare and the area, but
instead she felt an absurd flattery. Still, he should not know
that. “You think I cannot lie in
bed?”
Too late she caught the double meaning
in her words.
He brushed her blushing face, tugging
back her cloak hood. “You lie hopelessly here, my dear,” he said,
and he fed her a cherry the carter had dropped as he had
left.
She was honest in his arms: trusting,
hopeful, tender, generous. Out in the world he was wary of her
devices, but at her core she was true; he was certain of it. He
wanted to be sure of it, especially now, when she was looking so
appealing, so desirable.
They had time, he decided. It would
take hours for the camps to be dismantled, and he doubted that mob
in the churchyard would choose to attack—however, God or preacher
inspired, no peasants would willingly go after armed and trained
soldiers. Sir Henry had fallen because he had been one and four
against several score: the tourney camps were different and the
folk in the churchyard knew that.
Meanwhile there was Edith, and they had
time. He was determined that they had time.
“I love you,
Edith-maid-and-mine.”
“I love you,” she murmured, running her
fingers through his hair. “Would you wish me to cut this? I could
shape it better.”
“If ever there was a question to break
the inspiration of the moment,” he grumbled, tugging his head away
from her busy hands and boosting himself by his arms into the cart.
He rolled against her, pushing her farther into the wagon, and drew
down the canvas flaps.
He turned in their dim “cave” and saw
her sitting on her heels, hugging herself. “That is my task.” He
gathered her tight, hearing her heart bang against his ear as he
nuzzled her breasts with his mouth.
She buckled against him, undone by his
caress, her hands shyly tracing across his back and lower. The
wagon creaked and shifted slightly as he shoved back ropes and
barrels and he sprawled on the boards, with her on top of
him.
When, to his delighted surprise, she
wriggled until she straddled astride him and then sat up, still on
top of him, and began to unpin the cloak he had given her, and then
that curious bodice. As her dark nipples came free he caressed
them, feeling her dipping down into his hands.
She twisted, trying to imitate the
movements of a dancer, he guessed, and suddenly she stopped, her
eyes flying open.
“Do I do right?”
“Very right.” He kissed her swinging
plait and wrinkled his nose at her to make her laugh. Truly she was
a strange mix of shy and bold.
Her body knows what to
do, but she worries over my reaction.
His sadness and anger at how she must
have been kept down by the brutes Adam and Peter were lost in a
mesh of throbbing desire. He was hard for her and ready, more than
ready. He thrust his hips up, feeling her soft folds embrace his
hardness. She parted her skirts, he ripped open his leggings, and
then he was in.
It was like being glazed with the
rarest, sweetest sugar-cone. She reared up, exultant, and he
followed, driving them both higher. His hands found her jouncing
breasts again as she hammered against him, her strong thighs
pumping, her face reddening with effort and desire. Even as he
prepared to flip her over, take her in the way she liked, she
stiffened, her head flung back.
Her crisis peaked his. He rammed into
her, faster and faster, his backside slamming against the boards as
she drew him in more. She fell against him and he caught her,
hugging her as he crested, triumphant, and they were truly
one.
They were catching their breath,
grinning like fools, when there came a loud scratching on the wagon
canvas.
Edith shook her head wildly—she could
not be seen thus. Ranulf grinned again but, understanding, put his
finger to his lips.
“Sir?” It was Edmund, his squire. She
heard him clear his throat. “Sir, if you are near, I would speak
with you.” Another nervous throat-clearing. “I shall wait by the
water barrel.”
Ranulf brushed her breasts and kissed
her softly on the mouth. “For my squire to be here, away from his
own chase, it must be important,” he whispered, giving her nipples
a final, valedictory caress. “Not life and death, but important all
the same. I regret having to leave, Princess, although I wager I
have wood splinters in my backside. Shall I send a maid for
you?”
“What do you think?”
He chuckled, deep in his throat. “Aye,
you are right, I wager. No other could manage that costume of
yours. Take care, then, my maid. Do what you must, collect a new
veil-scrap, and then come to me at my camp when you think it
seemly.”
He gave her a final, swift, sweet kiss,
then kicked his way out of the canvas, calling to Edmund, “What is
this?”