Page 39 of Bold Angel
The red-haired knight kept his eyes fixed on the trail. “You are married to my friend and overlord. That is all that matters.”
“What is it I have done?”
Odo drew rein on his horse and turned to face her. “’Tis not my place to say, but since you ask, I will tell you.” He shifted in his saddle. “’Tis not what you have done that I find displeasing, but what you have not done. Think you I do not know how it is between you and Lord Ral?”
“He has a woman who pleases him,” she said, the thought more than a little disturbing. “If he is willing to accept the way things are, why is it so hard for you?”
“That you are Saxon and not to be trusted is reason enough. Aside from that, Lord Ral needs sons and heirs. ’Tis your duty to see it done. That you are unwilling to uphold your vows is enough to make me dislike you.” Unconsciously, his hands grew taut on the reins. “Were you my woman, I would mount you and plant my seed whether you wished it or not. ’Tis a mistake Ral makes in not seeing the deed accomplished.”
Caryn felt the anger rising in her cheeks. “’Twould be something you know of, Norman, to practice rapine on an unwilling woman. ’Tis something all of you know a good deal about.” Wheeling her horse, Caryn nudged the gray into a canter, taking a place beside Geoffrey as she worked to cool her temper.
Was she really remiss in her duties as Ral’s wife? She knew without doubt that she was, yet in her heart there was naught she could do. She owed her sister her allegiance. Her marriage to the Norman was betrayal enough—it was the reason she had yet to return to the convent.
She didn’t want to look upon Gweneth’s beautiful face, didn’t want to remember what had happened that night three years past. She didn’t want to admit the shameful longings the Dark Knight stirred inside her body.
“’Tis time we returned to camp.” Ral rode up beside her, drawing her attention and making her heart begin to pound. Today he sat a sleek sorrel stallion, fleet of foot, more agile than his powerful black war-horse. “Cook will have readied the midday meal. ’Tis certain the men will be ready as well.”
“What found you ahead?”
“We trail a boar. The hounds have lost its scent for the moment, but chances are good we will cross it again. We will pause for a time to refresh ourselves, and water and rest the horses.”
They joined the others at the base of the mountain where a stream poured down from a canyon. It looked clear and cool and babbled over rocks worn smooth by the water. Beside it, the tentkeeper had set up camp, providing a place to escape the sun and garner a moment of rest.
They dined on fried bread, cold mutton, and meat pies. Ral shared his wineskin, laughing as a drop of the red liquid trickled down her chin. They ate hot baked crab apples for dessert and Caryn thought it was a fine meal indeed, though it made her a little lethargic.
“You are ready to leave, my lord?” At her husband’s approach, Caryn rose from her place on the log.
“My men and I will resume the hunt. I would have you stay here.”
“But I thought—”
“Wild boar can be dangerous. We found a trace of blood—which means the beast may be wounded. We won’t be gone long. If we don’t pick up the scent, we’llgo after another stag. I’ll come for you then if you wish.”
Caryn smiled. “I am content just to be here. Already the day has given me great pleasure.”
Ral lifted a hand and trailed a finger along her cheek. “As I have found pleasure in your company.”
Caryn said nothing, but her skin tingled where he touched her and a warmth encircled her heart. It was the sound of men eager to be away that disturbed the moment.
“We’ll not break camp until my return. Along with the servants and two of my men-at-arms, Girart will also remain. Should there be anything you need, speak to him.”
“I am fine.”
He studied her a moment more, his eyes searching her face. With a brief nod of his head, he turned and walked away. The rumble of horses and men, of harness and armor and the baying of hounds, carried on the wind as Ral and the others rode higher into the mountains.
Once the quiet settled in, Caryn spoke briefly to Girart, a man in his thirties with dark brown hair and a ready smile who had served Ral for years. As the servants repacked the supplies and Girart sought a yew tree in search of wood for a bow, Caryn wandered away toward the nearby stream.
Needing to relieve herself, she headed deeper into the forest, careful to mark her way with leaves and twigs. When she had finished, she continued a little farther, lured by a patch of bright yellow crocus beckoning from a clearing among the trees.
Once she reached the clearing and knelt among the flowers, she paused. Beneath the thorny branches of a shrub next to a cluster of cocksfoot, a tiny black-nosed fawn, nearly disguised by the small white spots on itsrust-colored coat, surveyed her from among the sun-dappled leaves.
“What do you here, little fawn?” Speaking softly, Caryn inched forward to examine the animal more closely. It lifted its head, its big brown eyes intense, fear making it tremble. In an effort to escape, it stuck out its spindly little legs and tried to stand up, only to fall back down.
“Where is your mother, little fawn?” Caryn eased nearer to stroke the animal’s fur, which on closer inspection looked patchy and dull. It was obvious the fawn was weak with starvation, that it must have been abandoned. Like the kittens she nursed back at the castle, had the little fawn’s mother been killed?
She scratched the animal’s neck and it nuzzled her hand, the huge floppy ears folding back beneath her fingers.
“’Tis good that I have found you. ’Tis obvious you are hungry, so I cannot leave you here.” She leaned forward, meaning to scoop the fawn into her arms, but the sound of a low growl coming from the forest snapped her head in that direction. Caryn went still.
