Chapter 3
Alex slept well his first night home, glad to be in a bed and not on the ground.
He woke with the memory of the kiss he had stolen from Merewyn.
A very pleasant memory until he recalled her reaction.
He might have acted too soon. Too, he must remember that she was the woman who, as a child, he had protected from the lust of others.
Her words of condemnation still rang in his ears.
Was he so arrogant as to think he could have any woman?
Possibly so. And Merewyn might fear becoming one of those nameless, faceless wenches and village girls he’d slept with on the way to becoming a knight, or the ladies who now willingly offered him their favors.
But she could never be one of those.
In the years she had been gone, she had grown into an alluring woman, but nothing like the women who typically came to his bed, experienced and willing.
She is an innocent.
He had an overwhelming desire to protect her, even from himself.
But, as he determined to do so, the memory of the way she had responded to his kiss, a warm kitten in his arms, still lingered and his body stirred in response.
Would she again open to his kiss? And if she did, would he take her as he wanted to or would he refrain with her innocence in mind?
His stomach growled, reminding him of other needs. Rising, he dressed in the shorter tunic he would wear to the sword fighting match.
After a hasty meal of bread and cheese and a few words with his father, he left the manor and strode through the palisade gate, drawn by the noise of people at play. Above him, the sun beamed down from a clear blue sky. The day would be warm.
Stretched out before him, covering the large expanse of green in front of the palisade, was a festival to rival those he had seen in Normandy. It appeared all of Talisand had arrived for the festivities.
To his right, the sword matches were just beginning. The clang of metal meeting metal resounded through the air as knights and men-at-arms tested their skill against each other in a circle set off by brightly colored pennons flapping in the breeze.
Alex looked briefly in that direction, noting Rory’s red head moving about as he squared off against the more senior Jamie. Alex would join them soon, but first he wanted to observe the archery contest. He had heard much about Merewyn’s skills. Now he would see them for himself.
Passing the huge blue and white pavilion raised against the summer sun where ale and honey wine would be served, he strode to where his mother stood at the edge of the crowd gathered to watch the archers, who were just stepping to the line.
“You are not competing?” he inquired.
She shot him a glance before turning back to watch the archers taking their stances. “Rising late, are you?”
“I was talking to Father about the summons I expect he will receive from the king,” he muttered. “You did not answer my question. Will you shoot?”
“Not today. I am more interested in seeing how Merewyn fares. She was my student before she was Rhodri’s. Did you know?”
“Nay, I did not.”
“ ’Twas after you left to squire in Rouen.”
He scanned the line of archers preparing to shoot.
Merewyn’s fair hair, golden in the morning sun, was easy to spot where she stood at the line with three male archers.
She had never appeared more beautiful even though she was, once again, garbed as the slender Welsh bowman, her hair confined to a single plait.
As one, the archers nocked their arrows, lifted their bows and pulled back the strings. The tension in the crowd was palpable as the archers narrowed their eyes on the target.
“Loose!” shouted an official.
The arrows flew with a great rushing sound. He had heard it often enough on the battlefield to find it familiar.
By the bright fletching of Merewyn’s arrow, Alex saw her arrow had hit the target dead center, as did the arrows of two others, both men.
He waited, knowing they would move the target back another twenty feet.
Father Bernard joined him and his mother.
“Good day, my lady,” he said. “ ’Tis good to have you home, Sir Alex.
” In his sixth decade, the priest who had taught them all to read, now had a tonsure of white hair.
He was one of those priests who had married, but was now a widower, as much loved by the people of Talisand as Maugris.
“ ’Tis good to be back, Father.”
“Have you come to watch the archers?” his mother asked the old priest.
“I have,” he said with a grin. “The skill of the young woman returned from Wales is much spoken of.”
“You will enjoy seeing Merewyn shoot,” said the Lady of Talisand.
“As much as I used to delight in your skill with the bow, my lady?”
Alex was aware of the friendship between the priest who had blessed his parents’ marriage and his mother and had heard them teasing each other before.
“Mayhap more,” his mother said.
As the archers prepared to shoot, Alex, his mother and Father Bernard turned to watch. The arrows were loosed and once the target was examined, only Merewyn and one man’s arrows remained. The target was again moved farther away so that it was now standing amidst the trees.
“ ’Tis a long shot,” he said.
“Merewyn has hit targets farther away than that,” his mother noted in a calm voice.
With a “thwack”, Merewyn’s arrow hit the center of the target. The man’s arrow fell short. The archer offered his hand to her in congratulations as the crowd roared shouts of praise.
“The young woman is, indeed, skilled,” remarked Father Bernard.
Alex nodded in agreement. “I vow she is as good as you, Mother.”
“She is better, Alex. You will see.”
Alex returned his gaze to Merewyn as she handed her bow and arrows to a waiting attendant and swung onto the back of a white pony.
She claimed only three arrows from the quiver he held out to her, grasping them in the same hand as her bow.
With her free hand, she turned her pony toward the edge of the wide-open area while the servants set up two targets side by side, strips of wood standing like trees.
Knotting the pony’s reins, Merewyn laid them at the base of the horse’s neck.
Using only her legs, as he did when commanding his destrier in battle, she trotted the mare forward and then urged the horse into a canter, circling once around the large meadow.
With a “Hah!” she and the pony were racing at a full gallop.
A knot formed in Alex’s throat and the crowd held its breath as Merewyn raised her bow, nocked an arrow and, crossing before the targets, let the arrow fly. With a resounding “thump” the arrow hit the first target dead center.
Shouts of loud acclamation rose from the crowd as Merewyn slowed, patted the pony’s neck and began to circle again.
“I have never seen the like,” said Alex.
“Nor I,” said Father Bernard.
“She is not done yet,” said his lady mother, her voice filled with pride.
The crowd quieted as Merewyn again raced the pony in front of the targets, twisting lithely in the saddle to loose one arrow, then another. Two arrows smacked into the two targets in rapid succession.
The crowd erupted in shouts of praise.
Alex shook his head, amazed at the skill of this sprite of a woman who moved like the wind and contorted her body to wield her bow with deadly accuracy from the back of a galloping horse.
Observing the way her slim thighs had gripped the pony’s flanks, in his mind he saw those same thighs wrapped around his body.
Silently, he cursed himself for having such thoughts, especially in the presence of Talisand’s priest.
“William’s archers do not shoot from horses,” he said to his mother.
She returned him one of her knowing smiles that told him she was about to teach him a lesson.
“Your father told me the Conqueror could draw a bow that no one else could wield while spurring his steed onward. The bow Rhodri designed for Merewyn may be smaller, but your father’s archers are still in awe of her. ”
Remembering his king’s fondness for young men, Alex said, “ ’Tis best William Rufus not see her in the bowman’s garb.”
Father Bernard stifled a cough.
His mother shot him a puzzling look.
Unwilling to explain in a place where people could overhear, he turned his eyes back to Merewyn. She handed her bow to the waiting attendant and swung down from her saddle to stroke her pony’s neck.
“The mare was a gift from Rhodri,” his mother said. “Merewyn trained her in Wales and gave her the Welsh name Ceinder. The two have a strong attachment to each other, as you can see.” With a wistful sigh, she added, “I am so proud of Merewyn.”
“You have reason to be,” said Father Bernard. “The girl has overcome much to become the young woman she is today.” With those words, he wished them well and strolled away.
Alex considered the words of his mother and those of the good father.
No other woman he knew, save his mother, had both ethereal beauty and a warrior’s spirit.
Watching his mother walk to join Merewyn where she was accepting the congratulations of the other archers, he considered the two women were much alike.
Both were intelligent, strong and well able to defend themselves.
* * *
Merewyn walked beside Lady Serena as they made their way to the tent where ale was being served. Cecily ran up to her. “You were wonderful! I want to be just like you when I grow up!” the small redhead proclaimed breathlessly.
Her curly-haired companions, Tibby and Ancel, caught up with her, nodding their agreement. Ancel was the youngest of the three at only eight summers, but no less enthusiastic.
Cecily gazed up at Lady Serena, the child’s red hair falling about her small shoulders. “Will you teach me, too?” she pleaded.
Lady Serena paused. “Heaven help me if you ever take up the bow, Cecily. Your mother would never forgive me.”
“I did not begin so young,” Merewyn said to the girl. “You have many years to learn.”