Gayle Eden Read Free

lips closed. Her whole body went still.
    After several moments, his next rasp was, “Calm yourself. My tone was not condemnation of you.”
    Illara nodded, but could not look up from the flames. Under her lashes, she saw him toss the cup on the ground.
    After a heartbeat Illara dared, “There is no poor bargain for you in this. I have had no man. My dowry is yours. Nevertheless, I desire that for once, just one person may hear the truth from my lips. I spoke it to Lady Starling, and was condemned. Again before the priest and was found a harlot.” Her eyes filled with tears but she blinked them back. “Had I been guilty, I would have confessed with still no shame of that magnitude to bare. But those who did the damage knew they were removing any proof to the contrary.”
    Pagan spoke again, “Condemnation is the powerful way of playing God and dispensing punishment. That punishment must benefit themselves, if only in their self-righteous bellies.”
    Because of the way he said it, she gleaned it was a personal experience, a bitter wound in him. It gave her more courage and more hope; for what sort of beast spoke thus and did not beat her as a husband had the right? He believed her. Moreover, that he did meant more than he could know.
    There were a thousand things she meant to say, but what she blurted was, “Why do you shroud yourself, always?”
    “Because I must.” He rose slowly and said more abrupt, “The dawn comes swift. Night will grow colder. Randulf has provided a bed for you in the wagon.”
    Since he had been much more than she expected or anticipated, Illara obeyed. She stood and pulled her fur around her shoulders and went to the wagon. He was to the side of her now, and as she climbed in and lay on the fur, she discerned Pagan was still there.
    Illara murmured, “I have skill. I can handle dagger and sword, most weapons. But they were in my trunks and I was numb with grief and not expecting…”
    “The accusers do not always get the last word, Illara,” his voice sounded distant as though he were thinking. “It does not matter in what form the wronged are justified…vengeance is always a flame in the dark, it consumes those who breed their lies in it.”
    She had the cloak over her, and lay looking up at the hide covering. “I care more for freedom. Lies become ones prison—ones sentence--where we are consigned to pay for that which we are innocent of. In the truth I have spoken to you, I have my freedom.”
    Some sound akin to a bitter laugh seemed to float from him. “Aye, milady. We all have our prison. However, even in that, aye, we can find power. Rest, sleep, there are no more confessions needed. Now you owe truth and vows—to only one man.”
    Himself, Pagan de Chevel, Illara thought, closing her eyes. Those vows made him her lord and master.

     

Chapter Two
    Dawn came swift. There was only time for her to see to her needs, gulp a bit of water and chew bread. Back on the loaded wagon, Illara was conscious of her husband, no matter how distant he rode. His words to her the night before and his lack of condemnation made her swear to herself that Pagan be hideous or worse, she would not make him regret championing her.
    That dark figure passed speedily by them when they were nearing a village, and though he was before the wagon, his fearsome figure on the pitch horse appeared as if carving their way. She still witnessed the eyes of the people round in fear, and though a few brave lads stood close to the road in awe, most, from the Smith to the goodwives, crossed themselves and ran to bolt their doors.
    As they exited the village, she saw a stone arc though the air and strike Pagan in the shoulder. He gave no sign at it, just as he ignored curses and the wrath of God shouted down on his head. All behind his back, of course.
    That night they camped on land apparently connected to Dunnewicke. Illara noted the scarred and twisted trees, the blemish of fires, and asked of it.
    Randulf, who had