Chapter Nine #2
Jura leaned against the tree and began to unlace her boots. “If the Irials had guessed you rode alone into Vatell land, they would have attacked.”
“What are you doing?”
“Undressing. I’m going to take a bath. Your solitary mission could have started a war.” She slipped out of the trousers.
Rowan stared at her with eyes so wide she could see the whites of them in the moonlight.
“I wanted no argument,” he said tightly.
“I did what I had to do. Oh God.” He said this last as Jura removed the last of her clothes and stood nude in the moonlight, her high-breasted figure gleaming and magnificently structured.
“Jura, you torture me,” he whispered, his hands going behind his back to grope for the tree to support himself.
“I am your wife,” she said softly, then cocked her head. “Someone comes,” she said, and flung her body against his. “Hide me from their sight.”
Rowan, holding her, was stupefied and didn’t wrap his coarse, raggedy cloak about her as he should have. He just stood there with his body pressed against hers, his hands lightly on her back.
She was eye level with him and she waited for him to kiss her but he made no movement, so Jura touched her lips to his.
It was all he needed to speed him into action.
To Jura’s great pleasure, Rowan’s hands were all over her at once and he seemed to have a hundred mouths.
He kissed her, caressed her, and oh, how deliciously beautiful he made her feel.
How wonderful to feel womanly and desirable and adored and wanted and pursued.
She kissed him back with all the wanting she felt.
“Beg me, Jura,” he said, his voice pleading.
She didn’t hear him at first.
“Please beg me,” he repeated.
Jura began to hear him and pushed him away.
He was limp with desire and malleable in her hands.
“Not in your lifetime, Englishman, will an Irial beg,” she spat at him.
She turned away from him and walked to the river, glad for the cold water to cool her hot skin.
She cursed the man with every word she knew.
What kind of animal was he that he took pleasure in making a woman beg for his favors?
He should be locked away before he harmed someone—and Thal thought this idiot was fit to be king!
When she emerged from the river, dried and dressed, Rowan had a small fire going and two rabbits skinned, speared, and roasting.
“I have supper,” he said softly.
“And what must I do to earn it? Go on my knees and plead? Or is begging reserved for the marriage bed? Perhaps to receive food I must bray like a donkey. Pardon me if I do not know your English rules of marriage conduct.”
“Jura,” he said, his voice heavy, “please do not be bitter. Let me explain that I am a knight. I made a vow, a stupid vow that has punished me more than you, but a vow to God nonetheless and I must keep it. If you would only—”
“Where do you plan to go tomorrow?” she asked. She didn’t want to discuss how awful he made her feel: desirable one moment and the next thrust away with all the contempt she had for the Ulten robe.
“You are returning to the Irials. I am going to find Brita.”
She smiled meanly at him over the fire. “I have the map. No, you will not find it on me, even if you could bear to touch my person, for I have committed it to memory. I am going with you. We will find Brita and we will talk to her.”
“Why didn’t I marry a sweet biddable Englishwoman?” Rowan mumbled. “Here! Take this.” He thrust a rabbit leg at her.
“You have made no sacred knightly vows concerning rabbit legs?”
“Only shrews,” he answered. “Now eat so we can sleep and leave early tomorrow. We have many miles to cover.”
“Maybe,” Jura said, and smiled sweetly at Rowan’s glare.
She slept quite well that night even if Rowan’s getting up twice did wake her.
“Wake up,” he said before dawn, and threw the hideous Ulten robe on her. “That should cool my interest in you.” He handed her bread and cheese. “Be ready to ride quickly.”
“Yes, oh sire,” she mocked.
They rode for two hours before Jura told him to halt and follow her down a narrow road leading into the forest. It was a road made for foot traffic and twice Rowan hacked at branches to provide room for the horses.
At noon they stopped to eat cold meat pies Jura had brought with her.
“We should change clothes,” she said. She looked at his greasy hair. “An Ulten and a…whatever you are, each alone is all right, but we make an unappetizing pair. We will not get near Brita’s city dressed like this.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“Ten miles from here is the manor house of a rich relative of Brita’s. I thought perhaps the man and his wife might not miss a few garments.”
Jura watched Rowan’s face, and to her surprise, she found herself thinking that the man’s good looks were marred by his artificially darkened hair. Now he was frowning and she wondered if he disliked following a plan made by a woman.
“I would have to know where the clothes are kept and I doubt if it will be easy getting in and out of the house. You must swear you will return to the Irials immediately.”
“I do not swear things with the ease that you do. Cilean visited this house a few times when she was a Vatell captive, and I know something about it. You will follow me and—”
“I will not follow you,” he said. “You will remain hidden in the forest until we return.”
“We shall see,” Jura said, smiling.
· · ·
The stone of the big manor house was silhouetted in the moonlight and the only sounds to be heard were the soft nickers of horses and the clank of a steel sword as a Vatell guard passed.
Rowan and Jura flattened themselves against the wall and waited, and when the guard passed, Jura motioned Rowan to follow her through a small wooden side door into the larder. Here hung ducks and geese and haunches of venison and freshly cooked chickens and meat pies awaiting tomorrow’s dinner.
Jura cautiously opened the door and slipped through into a narrow hallway, at one end of which there was light and the sound of people’s voices.
She started toward the light but Rowan grabbed her tunic back.
He pointed to a steep, dark, stone circular staircase a few feet away.
Holding his sword before him, Rowan started up the stairs.
It was easy to find the master and mistress’s bedchamber as it was the only walled-off room on the second floor. They hid in the shadows once as a maid hurried past, then slipped into the room and went immediately to a large chest against the wall.
The Vatells dressed much like the Irials, with cross-gartered boots, their knees exposed below a heavy tunic. Rowan pulled a blue tunic of lightweight wool from the chest.
“No,” Jura whispered. “That will make your eyes too blue. They show too much as they are.”
“Oh,” Rowan asked with interest, turning to look at her, their noses almost touching. “I had no idea you noticed my eyes.”
“I have a few times,” she murmured.
He seemed to be ready to kiss her when the door latch was raised.
As quick as lightning, Jura made a leap inside the big chest and Rowan followed her and closed the lid over their heads.
They were pressed together tightly, warm body to warm body and, unfortunately, weapon to weapon.
Something was pressing hard into Jura’s ribs and she was sure it was Rowan’s broadax.
She did not dare shift for fear of being discovered.
She lay still and listened as the footsteps, one pair, walked all around the room. A maid, she thought, then held her breath as the footsteps came closer. She tensed her muscles to spring.
When the maid lifted the lid of the big oak clothes chest, out sprang two fierce-looking people, both of them going for her throat.
Quite calmly, the woman fainted.
Rowan and Jura, prepared for a fight, looked at the crumpled little woman at their feet and began to laugh. It was the first time they had shared laughter.
Smiling, Jura began to grab garments from the chest. “Here, we take these and we better tie her up and put her in here and give ourselves time to get away.”
They wrapped the maid in one of her mistress’s gowns, stuffed a stocking in her mouth, and Rowan gently laid her in the chest. Her eyes opened and she looked up, frightened, at Rowan.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he said, “there’s plenty of air and someone will find you in no time. Someone as pretty as you will be missed. Just rest; you’ll be safe.” He bent and kissed her forehead—and just missed Jura’s slamming the lid on his head. He barely got his fingers out of the way.
“Sorry,” she said. “It slipped. Are you ready to go or do you plan to stay and become a manservant?”
“Ready,” he said, smiling at her. “I’m sure you want to lead.”
“The most able should lead,” she said with a sniff, and went to the door.
They were able to get to the larder without incident and Rowan took two pies on the way out. He was feeling very good after Jura’s womanly little fit upstairs. He had almost given up hope that she would ever show any interest in him.
They made it past the guards and ran, crouching, into the forest, jumped on their horses, and whipped them into a gallop.
After an hour, Rowan turned off the road and into the forest, reining his horse into the dense growth.
They hid there, their hands on the horses’ noses, and waited silently.
It wasn’t long before they heard the noise of many horses and many men riding past them.
When they were gone, Rowan motioned to Jura to follow him and they made their way up the steep embankment to the crest of the hill.
“We can sleep here,” he said, and removed the blankets from his horse.
Before they bedded down, they changed into the Vatell clothes, for the riders would be looking for an Ulten and a beggar.
“You’ll have to wash tomorrow,” Rowan said, looking up at the stars, “or they’ll smell you as an Ulten.”
“Perhaps you should have taken the maid with you and left me behind. She was pretty and sweet smelling.”