A Knight and White Satin. Jackie IvieЧитать онлайн книгу.
start your new lessons with the basics.”
“Lessons?” Payton asked. He didn’t bother opening his eyes. He didn’t care. The entire episode was dreamlike and approaching nightmarish. It was better not to see it.
“About women. And wenches. And what a man’s to do with them.”
“I dinna’ need any help with that, crone.”
She laughed again. He ignored her. His mind wandered back to the Caruth lass in that pristine, bare room…the white dress she’d worn; the pale, almost translucent beauty of her skin against the large, red ripeness of her lips.
He couldn’t fathom why she hadn’t spoken the farce, saving both of them from his foolishness. Unless she needed the news that he’d taken a maiden wall, because she no longer owned one. Payton pulled in as much breath as he could and wondered at the insanity he’d made of his life. He’d wed the Caruth heiress, gained himself a reputation and land, and he couldn’t even recollect what she looked like? He couldn’t truly call it wed, actually. Hand-fasted, maybe. That, they were. But…wed?
“Just mark these words, Payton Dunn-Fadden. Mark them well. Some wenches truly dinna’ wish your attentions. You must make certain they’ve no weapon next time, a-fore you mount them. You might na’ survive the next prick.” She put back her head and hooted even louder.
That was when the lie began.
Chapter 2
The lie ruled his life. Usually as an ache he barely felt. Sometimes it came as a raging belly of disgust. Sometimes it was muted, whispering through him and making him shudder with what those about him might be thinking. But always it was there, hovering in wait. That was when it was most powerful. When it was dormant…and he didn’t know for how long. That’s what he feared.
Payton took another blow and then another, until he was on his knees facing a sea of mud flecked with his own blood. Then, and only then would the lie subside and go deep into his soul where it would stir the hatred. He had to wait for the self-hate to get big enough and harsh enough. Then it turned everything into a red wash of color that would pump strength back to his limbs.
Then Payton would start to win.
It was ever this way. The battle would be lengthy, allowing the Stewart king time to flirt with his latest mistress, and his lords to wrangle and bet on the eventual winner. By then the King’s Champion would be faltering. His legs wouldn’t have much feel, his arms would be dead weight attached to his shoulders, and it became a fight simply to lift his shield to ward off yet another blow. This was when the king covered most of the wages. Because somehow the diminutive Stewart knew.
He knew it would happen. He didn’t know that the lie Payton harbored was solidifying and glowing, warming until it became hot, and then it got dangerous. It became fire—sending rage to every part of him with every pump of his heart. He gave a warning. He always gave a warning, with a yell so deep and guttural, he could hear the applause already starting before it was drowned out by drums. The king always had drummers at his side, keeping a light prancing cadence of taps throughout the evening until Payton’s yell changed it. Then, the drums became one blended thump that kept growing until it was the only thing he heard.
This time went exactly the same. They’d found him a Welshman capable of making a decent fight, sponsored by a nameless prince with a full purse. The Welshman was also covered in animal hide trews and tunic, and smelled worse than a latrine at high summer.
Payton didn’t wait until his yell died out. He couldn’t. He wasn’t in control, anymore. The lie was. It turned him into a hate-filled menace that was feeding off the drumbeat until his movements matched them. His shield felt as light as feathers, his club had the same weight of bread, and he used both to pummel; striking again and again at the man he was facing until they’d call a halt, and even then he seldom heard it at first.
King James usually stopped it with a blast from his pipes, immediately followed by the cessation of the drums. Sometimes, he had to send men onto the field to pull Payton from his opponent. On those rare occasions, it felt like the self-hate was consuming him, frightening him with the intensity of it as he waited for the woman behind it all to open her mouth, branding him a fool, a coward, and a fraud.
The Welshman looked like a mud-covered heap of dead animal. He groaned occasionally, showing his defeat. He was still breathing. He lived. Payton turned away and stalked from them. It was time to hide in his chambers, where his bath and a feast would be waiting for him, as well as a lovely wench to make sure it was all to his satisfaction. He didn’t look twice at the Welshman. He didn’t care.
They didn’t say he fought like a demon without cause.
“Dear Lord!” Dallis gave it as much emotion as she dared. There were too many serfs still about, raising a slight dusting of snow with each footstep as they swept what had once been a stately and beautiful great hall. She looked up and blinked as more snowflakes filtered down from three stories up, showing how frail the latest roof patch was.
“Leroy!” She hollered it loudly, since he was probably outside by now. Most of the Dunn-Fadden clansmen were. They had animals to secure, since the storm hadn’t waited as she’d prayed and hoped and worried for.
“I hope you dinna’ pay too much for that.”
“Of course I paid too much. When would I have grown sense?” Dallis snapped, glaring for a moment at her companion’s head before looking away.
“I dinna’ say that,” the older woman answered.
“I ken as much. I said it so you would na’ have to. I already ken that everything I pay for, and everything I do to save this keep is wasted. I’ll still do it. ’Twas my inheritance and entrusted to me. I’ll na’ shirk it.”
“Your father dinna’ entrust it to you. The king forced him to. That’s why it’s in this condition while he covers the kirks, fanning the feud with Kilchurning. It was entrusted to that man…the King’s Champion. Your husband.”
Dallis swept harder, but that was the only hint she gave of listening.
Beside her, Lady Evelyn snickered. “’Tis your fault, you know.”
“I dinna’ control the weather.”
“Nae, but you do control the fates.”
“Nonsense.”
“’Tis what happens every time you use what funds he sends to try and exact your revenge. Time and again I tell you, and yet you go against my advice.”
“Advise me something I want to hear, then.”
The older woman shook her head. “’Twas most stupid this time. The Welsh canna’ fight well enough to take him down.”
“Leroy!” Dallis turned her head and yelled the name again. If he didn’t answer, she was going to have to climb up and out onto the balcony of what used to be her servant’s chambers and try and put the woven thatch piece back in position. That was a daunting task. It was going to be precarious and it was going to be cold. Her shoulders sagged slightly as she started hitching her skirts into her belt, revealing a worn underdress.
“Actually…now that I think on it, I dinna’ ken if there’s anyone that fights well enough to win him.”
“Somebody will win him. I just have to find one.”
“You’d be better served using his funds on his keep, filling his larder, his woodpile, and his treasury. Like his missives instruct.”
Lady Evelyn went back to sweeping, before the snow melted and made a mess of the dried rushes. The woman was nearing sixty, and as her niece’s chaperone and companion, she should have been sitting beside a fireplace, sewing tiny little stitches into a tapestry to adorn the castle walls. Since every bit of gold that the great champion, Laird Dunn-Fadden, sent toward the upkeep of the castle was gathered up and saved until there was enough