Part 4 (2/2)
”What are you doing?” Alisoun's perfectly modulated voice sounded only distantly curious.
”Any man who tries to reach you will fail to see this rope. He'll trip and wake everyone, and I'll be on him at once. It's an old trick, one I've used to protect myself for years.”
”I see. That is clever.”
He tied the last knot, then stood up. Straining to see the expression on her face, he said, ”So won't you lie down and sleep, my lady? You'll be safe now.”
Carefully, she lowered herself onto the hammock.
He watched her and brushed his hands in satisfaction. ”Nothing can get you now.”
”I feel safe,” she acknowledged.
She reached for the rug which had previously covered her. It had fallen to the ground, a dark lump beyond her reach, and the hammock teetered precariously as she strained for it. He reached for it, too, grabbing it before she could topple, and shook it out. ”If I may?” He didn't wait for permission, but spread the rug over her legs and tucked it around her feet. Her hand groped for the edge to bring it around her shoulders, and he brushed her fingers aside. Slowly, taking care to respect her person, he carried the fine woven wool up and over. Her skin warmed him when he folded it over her neck. The scars and calluses of his palm snagged her hair and clung when he tried to free himself.
She stayed still, her breath regular and deep. He could see her eyes glistening as he stood over her, and they widened when he gathered the wandering strands of hair into a bunch. He strained to see the color. Blond, he supposed. It had to be blond-pale, washed out, colorless.
But each strand seemed dyed with fire.
He looked back at her. Red? He dropped the hair as if it burned him. Not red, surely. No doubt, the feeble starlight tricked his eye. He cleared his throat. He ought to go back to bed, but he liked this sensation of accomplishment. ”It took a real man to make it so safe for you.”
”G.o.d bless you for your kind thought.”
He warmed, wondering if G.o.d responded to her request with the same esteem everyone else showed her. Then he laughed at himself for his nonsense. The woman might have her men-at-arms completely cowed, but she'd had no mystical effect on G.o.d-or on him. ”Aye.” He plucked the rope to make sure the tension would indeed snag a man. ”I only use this when I sleep alone or with men I have reason to distrust. The rest of the time I credit my senses, but I can see that a woman would gain comfort from the rope. I'm glad I thought of it.”
”I'm glad, too,” she said.
”So just go to sleep-”
Ivo snorted, a huge, moist explosion of exasperation. ”How can m'lady go t' sleep wi' ye blatherin' on? Stop praisin' yerself an' get back t' yer pallet.”
David was insulted. ”I'm not answerable to you, my man. Lady Alisoun extends her thanks for my protection and I gratefully accept them.”
He'd lifted one foot over the rope to step away when Ivo snapped, ”Aye, that rope'll preserve her if she's attacked, but it'll do naught against another arrow aimed at her heart, will it?”
David's foot dipped, caught, and tangled, and he went over with a crash that shook the very earth.
The village of George's Cross looked like heaven to Alisoun. Nestled in a valley not far from the sea, it surrounded a square big enough to hold a market every Lammas Day. Her people cheered as she rode through the streets, and she knew without conceit they cheered more than the contents of the carts which followed far behind. Her people loved her-unlike a certain mercenary who clearly had violence on his mind.
As she entered the square, the people crowded in on them. Ivo and Gunnewate dropped back. The carts appeared to be dots on the road behind them. Only David clung close as a burr on a wool fringe as her people surrounded her. He even tried to block Fenchel when he made his way forward, but she laid her hand on David's arm and shook her head.
”You know him?” David asked.
”He's the village reeve,” she answered. David considered the skinny, balding little man and apparently decided he exuded no threat, for he moved aside and allowed Fenchel to approach.
”Fenchel, how goes the shearing?” she asked in English, her tone warm to make up for David's rude challenge.
Fenchel s.n.a.t.c.hed his hat from his head and bowed almost double, replying in English also. ”'Tis just over, m'lady. The fleeces are breathin' in the wool rooms all over the village.”
”The fleeces are still warm after shearing,” she explained to David. ”If the night is cold, the fleeces may stir all night long.”
”I know, Lady Alisoun. I, also, produce wool on my small estate.”
”Of course. I meant no offense,” she replied.
David scowled, but he had been scowling for a whole day now, ever since Ivo had opened his big, dumb mouth and plainly told him that an arrow had been shot at her. Lady Alisoun loved Ivo, but he'd created trouble this time, and she'd had to rebuke him. He'd hung his head and not tried to defend himself, and she'd released him after one sharp phrase. How could she not? She understood Ivo's impatience with David much better than she understood David's unexpected nocturnal eloquence. She would have called it moon madness, but there'd been no moon. There'd been no warning that the taciturn man who had taken her to task for leaving herself undefended would suddenly develop such a high opinion of himself. If she didn't know better, she would have thought he had wanted to linger in her vicinity; but why, she couldn't imagine. By Saint Ethelred, he'd even covered her with her rug.
She glanced at his impatient expression. Usually she understood men only too well, and it fretted her to have one who occasionally escaped definition.
Worse, she didn't quite understand herself. There had been a stirring in her when he covered her with the rug. A stirring she'd experienced so seldom in her life, she didn't quite know how to define it. She thought it might be tenderness. Maybe even a tendril of errant affection.
And for a mercenary! For a man she'd hired. Most women wouldn't even have noticed this warmth called affection, but for Alisoun, this revelation almost shook the ground.
Still, she comforted herself it wasn't Sir David who had caused such a reaction. It was only her own solitary heart.
”M'lady?”
Fenchel's wide eyes reminded her of her duty, and she smoothed the expression from her face. ”Aye, Fenchel?”
”We'll be packin' the wool when 'tis cold, an' I estimate twelve sacks fer market.”
”Another off year.” She sighed, then looked curiously at David when she heard him choke. ”Are you well, Sir David?”
He nodded, his face ruddy and his eyes bulging.
”Get Sir David a drink from the well,” she said to one of the women. Avina hurried to obey, and Alisoun pitched her voice so all could hear. ”You've done well, considering the drought.”
”Ah, but it rained one day ye were gone.” Fenchel's rheumy eyes shone with suppressed excitement. ”'Tis a good sign.”
”A very good sign,” Alisoun agreed. ”Was the weeding finished?”
”The corn's clear,” Fenchel a.s.sured her as he watched David guzzle the water. ”Except fer the bindweed, an' we'll get that when we thresh.”
”Has the haying begun?” she asked.
”Fair 'til nightfall.”
”Excellent.” In her mind, she calculated the profits. The drought had impacted them, but not so much as the lesser landowners, and with the grain she had bought, they should make it through until autumn and the harvest.
Fenchel continued, ”The signs point to a good weather year, so we'll fill the barns an' we'll not have t'-”
”Twelve sacks?” David croaked.
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