“You bastard!”
He mounted behind her and took the reins. “My parentage is well documented. I think ‘fool’ is a better choice of name for me. That I may be, for all I know.”
He kicked his horse forward and hoped Brita could not feel the pounding of his heart. If this woman made one wrong move, he would have to kill her, and any hopes he ever had of peace would be lost.
Jura rode out to meet him with Cilean and Daire behind her. “We are ready,” she said, her eyes cool.
“Where is Geralt?” Rowan asked.
Jura pointed to the ridge just behind them. Geralt sat on his horse beside a Vatell guard—a dead Vatell guard that from this distance looked alive.
Brita’s announcement that she was leaving with Rowan to go into Fearen country was met by disbelief and protest from her guards. The protest was what saved Rowan. She was angered that her guardsmen seemed to believe she could not take care of herself.
“I taught you how to fight,” she said to one twenty-year-old guard. “Do you tell me now that I know nothing of weapons?”
“You are our queen and we value you,” the young man said, “and it is a long way to Yaine’s village.”
“You are saying I am too old to make the journey?” she half whispered. “I am too old?”
“Forgive me, my queen, I did not mean—”
Brita turned to Rowan. “We will ride now and I will meet this Yaine and we will see who is old.” She swept from the room, leaving her guard standing in stunned silence behind her.
Jura rode third in line up the narrow, rocky mountain path. Rowan was first, then Brita, Geralt behind Jura, then Cilean and Daire at the back. Jura watched Rowan’s back even while she watched Brita for any sign of foul play. It had been a harrowing few hours since Geralt had delivered a bound and gagged Brita to the tent.
Jura smiled at the thought of that tent and the two nights they had spent there. But then she wiped the smile from her face, for she could not afford to allow bed pleasure to influence her decisions regarding her country.
Geralt had been rash and impetuous in his kidnapping of Brita, but Jura did not see what else he could have done, except, perhaps, do as Rowan said and give warning first. Jura shook her head to clear it. She didn’t know who to believe. But Geralt was Lanconian and Rowan was not.
They rode for hours, putting as much distance between themselves and the Irial village as possible. No one spoke since the horses moved in single file. They would spend two days on Vatell land before reaching Fearen territory, but they did not travel in the open because, except for Brita, they wore clothes of the Irials. The Vatells in the southern part of the country would not have heard of the new peace and Rowan did not want to risk their lives to someone shooting them as intruders.
It was nightfall when they finally stopped, and only Brita looked tired. She had led a soft life over the last few years and the softness was telling on her.
Brita started off alone in the darkness, but Rowan caught her arm. “You do not leave our sight.”
“I am a queen and—” She paused and her expression changed from haughty to seductive. “You will go with me?”
He released her arm. “Jura, go with her, see that she stays near us.”
Jura left the horse she was unloading and went to accompany Brita into the darkness.
“He will not give me to Yaine,” Brita whispered the moment they were out of sight of the others. “He will want a queen beside him while you are—”
“Young and healthy and capable of giving him children,” Jura said tiredly. “You can use your wiles on someone else. If my husband had wanted you, he would have taken you. Can you not see that he wants, above all else, to gain peace for Lanconia?”
Brita was quiet for a moment as if judging her adversary. “To rule all of Lanconia…Even I had not thought on so grand a scale. How does he plan to kill those of us who had power before him?”
“He does not plan to kill anyone as far as I can tell. The man has an irrational distaste for death. He does not even kill the Zernas.”
This bit of news shocked Brita so much that the coaxing little whine dropped from her voice. “He thinks to unite Yaine and me and that there will be no deaths?”
For a moment, Jura felt a kinship with Brita. “He is an Englishman and he has a head made of stone. He also believes God talks to him. I do not understand him at all, but Thal made him king and Rowan has the power until…until—”
“Until someone kills him. He is not long for this world,” Brita said with finality. “It is good I did not marry him.”
She was once again Jura’s enemy. “He did not want to marry you. Now let us get back. Tonight you will be watched, and while my husband hates death and my brother ties women up, I have been wanting to try a new knife trick I have just learned. I will kill you if you try to run.”
Brita did not reply to this as she made her way back to the camp. She sat to one side while the others built a fire and began preparing the simple meal. She watched this Rowan who was called King of Lanconia but was in truth king only of the Irials. He watched Jura constantly and Brita thought him a fool. He had fallen in love with the girl and thus made himself vulnerable. To be in power one must never love. She knew that all too well. Daire’s father had taught her that lesson. She had loved a young man, loved him with all her heart—and Daire’s father had ordered him killed. What had enraged Brita so much was that her husband wasn’t jealous, he was merely teaching her a lesson. When one loved, one was weakened. Brita had learned from that and she had never loved again, not her husband, not her son who was taken from her, no one.
Now she saw how this Rowan’s eyes followed Jura and she saw where his weak point was. He would never accomplish his goal because he was weak.
She looked at the other people in the group. The woman Cilean she dismissed. She was a “good” woman, fair, kind, loving—worthless. The woman Jura had possibilities as a source of conflict. She did not yet know she loved this Rowan and her mind was therefore clearer. And she had no compunction about killing. She had been trained to kill. Brita knew she would have to be on guard against Jura.
Brita looked at her son Daire a long time. He was a handsome young man and she could see some of his father’s physical features in him, but she saw none of his father’s detachment. Nor did Daire seem to have any of his mother’s ambition. Brita did not think she could get her son to join her against this English usurper. No, Daire was as much Irial as he was Vatell.
At last her eyes rested on Geralt, and there she saw what she wanted. He was a man filled with hatred. Brita had to hide a smile when she thought of the simplicity of the boy—for boy was what he was. He had come to Brita on the night of the marriage ceremonies looking rather like a puppy pleading to be liked. He had swaggered a bit and bragged a bit, but he couldn’t conceal his fear of rejection.
At first Brita had been furious that Rowan had presumed to send her this boy as if she were a mare in heat and any stallion would do, and then she had looked at Geralt and seen the lust in his eyes and she had thought perhaps she could get information from him.
She had allowed him to think he seduced her. He was an energetic if unskilled lover, and later Brita realized he needed a mother more than a woman. Geralt began to pour out his heart to her when she cuddled him and made sympathetic little sounds. He told of his hatred for Rowan because Thal had always held Rowan up to Geralt as an example of what he should be.
“And he had never met him!” Geralt had shouted. “He compared me to a boy he had never met. This Rowan was better than I was because of his weak, English mother. But I was the rightful King of Lanconia and I would have been chosen except for…” He had looked away.
“Have some more wine,” Brita had said. “Why was the Englishman chosen over you?”
Brita had listened with some awe when told of St. Helen’s Gate that Rowan had opened.
Geralt had talked to her most of the night until at last he had fallen asleep. B
rita had listened to his talk with only half an ear because she was thinking that if Rowan were dead, this angry young man would become king. How easy it would be to marry this man and be his queen. She would be queen of the Vatells and the Irials, and they could destroy the Zernas and Fearens. The other two tribes, the Poilens and the Ultens, could gradually be forced out of Lanconia, and eventually Brita would be queen of it all.
But the boy had awakened and followed her, killed one of her best guardsmen, and ruined her plans. He had been rather appealing in his anger when he had tied her up. If he had just allowed her to speak, she knew she could have persuaded him to listen to her, but he reacted like a little boy betrayed by his mother. Only this boy was a large, strong man.
He had made the mistake of taking her to Rowan. Damn that Rowan! He may be hardheaded and believe he is connected to God, but he certainly was clever. Brita had meant to find some way to tell her guardsmen she was being taken against her will, but she had allowed her vanity to get in her way. When she returned, she would teach that guard of hers who was old. She smiled in anticipation.
But now she had to do something to get the young Prince Geralt back on her side. If she could find the right words, the two of them could rule Lanconia together. Perhaps they could take old Yaine, or perhaps she could marry Yaine, take the power and fill the land with Vatells, and then dispose of him.
But first she needed help getting rid of Rowan and that pesky Jura. Geralt would have to help her.
Jura woke an hour before dawn, nodded to Cilean who stood watch, and quietly made her way down the steep slope toward the stream at the bottom. She wanted to bathe some of the travel dirt from her body before the day started. She undressed and washed in the dim light, and she had just her tunic on when she heard a noise behind her.
She reached for her knife.
“Please don’t throw it,” said Rowan from the darkness, and she could read his thoughts from the tone of his voice. Immediately her skin began to warm.
She let the knife fall to her side and watched as he slowly rose from his seat on the bank. It was obvious that he had been sitting there for a long while, absolutely silent, as he had watched her bathe. The knowledge of this, for some reason, excited her.
He came toward her slowly, his big body and his dark blond hair reminding her of a story she had once heard from a man who had traveled far south and seen lions. Muscles in his big shoulders moved as he came toward her. His eyes were dark, but what little light there was glinted on them. She could feel her own breath coming deeper as her own muscles seemed to expand.
When he was only an arm’s length from her, she opened her arms to him and he held her against him. His hands slipped down to her bare buttocks and he lifted her so that her legs straddled his waist. She clung to him as he walked with her, stopping when her back was against a tree, and when she was braced, he lifted her and set her down on his manhood.
Because of her position, she could not move very well so he moved her as if she were a doll. His hands gripped her waist and lifted her up and down while her back jammed against the rough bark of the tree, her head back, her hands on his shoulders, her fingers biting into his skin.
Their coupling was almost violent as he thrust into her with might and Jura received him with desire and wanting as she held on to his waist with all her muscles in her powerful legs.
When at last they finished together, he collapsed against her, pressing Jura between the tree and his heavy, limp body, but she did not release her hold of him.
After some minutes, he lifted his head from her neck to sweetly kiss her lips. “Good morning,” he whispered.
She smiled at him. “Good morning to you.”
He still held her against the tree as he moved his hands to stroke her bare legs.
“You were watching me?” she asked. “I did not sense you. If you had been—”
He kissed her to stop her words. “I was not. I told Cilean to let no one leave the camp except to come down here where I could watch them.”
“But I could have protected myself without—” she began, but he kissed her.
“Shall we bathe again? I would like to join you in the water.”
Jura could feel herself blushing. It seemed odd to be so intimate with this foreigner. When he moved her from the tree, she uncrossed her ankles, but he did not let her get down as he held her for a while and stroked her back under the tunic and her bare legs. Then he moved his head back and smiled at her in a way that seemed almost more intimate than their fierce coupling.
“Duty calls,” he said sadly. “The others will be awake soon.” He let her down and gently pushed her toward the water.
She removed her tunic and once again stepped into the water. Behind her she heard Rowan sigh as if his heart were breaking and Jura smiled in satisfaction. He entered the water behind her and dove under to wet his hair.
The sun was beginning to rise now and, as always, the first rays seemed to seek out Rowan’s golden hair.
“You…” she began tentatively, “you seem to know many ways of…of joining for a man and woman. You have had many teachers?”
Rowan smiled happily at her, pleased whenever she talked of anything besides war and politics. “A few,” he said smugly. “A prince, even a prince of a country as remote as Lanconia, is sought after in England.”
“Ah, the women wanted you because you are a prince.”
“Were,” he said. “I’m king now, but, no, they wanted me for my person.”
“I see. They admired your skill on the training field. It is so here. Daire is an excellent fighter.”
“No,” he said with annoyance in his voice. “The women admired me for…” He hesitated.
“For what?” she urged.
“For my looks,” he said quickly. “Jura, some women find me to be pleasing to look at.”
“You are as tall as a Lanconian, but your paleness is difficult to adjust to. But perhaps all Englishmen are colorless.”
“I am not colorless,” he snapped, then shook his head. “Jura, will you always make me feel less than a man? Will you always find other men better looking, better fighters or less of a fool than you think I am? Will you ever follow me without question, merely because you believe in me?”
“I do not think so,” she said after a moment’s thought. “One must always think for one’s self. We Irials are taught to think for ourselves. Would you follow me without hesitation? You have not done so yet.”
“Of course not, but you are a woman,” he said angrily.
“Do I have less of a brain than you?” she snapped. “I will follow you when I believe you to be right. I will not follow you merely because the sun touches your hair rather prettily.”
Rowan looked as if he were about to make an angry reply, but his expression changed and he smiled. “So you do think me handsome,” he said softly.
“Handsome does not matter,” she answered.
“Oh? Then why did you allow me to caress you that first day we met? I do not think you had ever allowed another man to touch you so. Even your precious Daire. I see the way he looks at you. He no doubt chose you because you could handle a weapon better than any other woman.”
“It is how I won you,” she said, and started toward the bank.
He caught her arm and they stood together, unclothed, on the bank. “You are afraid to let yourself love me, aren’t you, Jura?” he said softly.
She tried to pull away from him. “That’s ridiculous. We had better get back. The others will be awake now and we must travel.”
He still held her arm. “Why are you afraid to love me? Are you afraid you will lose yourself in me?”
She turned to stare at him. “How romantic your thoughts are, Englishman. Is this part of your knightly training? You are right: I do not want to love you, but it is because you do not have long to live. You walk into situations that your English mind cannot understand, and so far your innocence, or perhaps it is God, has protected you, but you cannot
last long. If Yaine does not kill you, someone will soon.”
Rowan looked at her as if she had slapped him, but then he began to smile. “I will never accustom myself to your direct speech.” He released her arm so she could dress. “I am going to surprise you, Jura, because I am going to live. I am not only going to live but I am going to accomplish what I have set out to do. Before I die I am going to unite the tribes of Lanconia.”
She had just slipped her tunic over her head when he pulled her into his arms. “You may deny what you feel for me but they are empty denials,” he said. “Your body has always recognized me as its partner; only your mind is not as smart as your body.” He began to kiss her, his hands on her back. “You were to marry your Daire—who you respect so highly—but I do not believe he ever kissed you and made you feel as I do. Your mind will come to me, Jura. It is only a matter of time.”
She turned her head away from his kisses, but she was not strong enough to move out of his arms. “You should not be king,” she whispered. “You are only half Lanconian. I do not understand you. None of us understands you. You should return to your own country before your meddling starts a war.”
“And take you back to England with me?” he asked. “Take you to a place where a woman is valued for her household skills and not for her ability to outwrestle other women?”
She gave a great push and moved away from him. “I would stay here. I am Lanconian.” Even as she said it, she felt a sudden ache. To never see him again, to never see him smile, to never again see that look that told her she had done something that seemed strange to him. To never feel his arms around her again.
She turned to look at him. He wore only the loincloth of an English knight, and the sight of his big, muscular body with its covering of blond hair made her want to touch him. Suddenly, she straightened. She had to control herself. She had to force her mind to govern her body. She was a guardswoman, not some silly cow maiden who fell in love with the first pair of broad shoulders that she saw. Nor could she afford to follow this man blindly. It was not just herself involved, but an entire country. What she and Cilean, Daire and Geralt did on this trip would affect all of Lanconia. If they acted stupidly or hastily, they could cause the deaths of many people. Whatever she did, she must keep her mind clear. She could love this Rowan but not with the blind love he spoke of. She could never follow him merely because he said, “Come.” She must watch and wait and see what he planned and she must never, never allow what they did in the dark to influence what she thought during the day.