The Raven and the Rose Read Free Page B

during a fight. If he mentioned visions . . . !
    â€œIt’s my first tournament,” he said as he flexed his body, newly freed from the weight of the mail and the heavy padded gambeson, assessing the many aches and pains that he hadn’t noticed in the getting. “I’m not used to women around.”
    Alain said, “Speaking of women . . .”
    But Rannulf spoke over him. “Should have thought of that. Good work on Willie Sea, though. Not many defeat him, and his ransom’ll be a pretty penny.”
    Michael was pleased himself. Sir William of Seaham was ten years older and a formidable, experienced fighter. His age had counted against him in the end.
    â€œSpeaking of women,” persisted Alain, hopping with excitement, “they’ll all be hunting you after a victory like that.”
    Alain was fifteen, stocky and with a snub-nosed, rough-molded face only a mother could call handsome, but he had more experience with women than Michael, who was twenty-two and handsome enough to find it a curse. Especially when his brothers teasingly called him “angelic Michael.”
    But Alain’s words strangely echoed warnings given by Michael’s mother.
    â€œStop talking with your cock,” Rannulf growled to Alain, and to Michael: “Lie down.”
    Michael obeyed and Rannulf poured oil on his hands and began to massage kinks out of Michael’s body with hard, strong fingers. It hurt, but felt wonderful at the same time. Some knights had women to do this for them. He didn’t dare.
    It was all his mother’s fault. Her condition for allowing him to leave the monastery had been two vows—that he not leave England until he was twenty-five years old, and that he remain chaste until he married. At twelve, the first had bothered him more than the second, for he’d dreamed of going on crusade, but now, at twenty-two, the second gnawed at him like a wolf.
    She’d sweetened it by talking about a noble purpose here in England and a lovely bride whom he would love as soon as he met her. His destined bride for whom he remained pure. The one with whom he would finally—God be praised—cease to be pure.
    But she was a long time in coming.
    Unless she was the demoiselle he’d sometimes glimpsed at the edge of fighting, dressed in a green gown, white veil fluttering. He’d told himself that couldn’t be so. That she was an illusion. No gentle lady would be in such a place.
    But today he’d imagined her only yards away, right in the middle of the tourney.
    Which proved her impossible. Chastity was driving him mad.
    He’d seen no sign of his great purpose, either. Only the rough living and boredom of army camps and a murky war where no one claimed to know which side was right. He followed his father’s allegiance. That was all.
    Heaven be praised for this hasty tourney. It had been the most fun he’d had in years, and would be more so if not for those vows.
    On her deathbed his mother had burdened him with something else. Advice only, not a vow, but she’d been intense when she’d said, “You are a skilled fighter, Michael, but mask it. I’ve done what I could, but your skill could mark you for what you are. It could—”
    She’d broken off then, perhaps to catch her breath, but perhaps for other reasons. He’d given her a drink of sweetened, watered wine and asked her to complete her words.
    She’d said, “Such prowess will attract the attention of tempting women, and make your vows difficult. Not that your looks won’t do that anyway,” she’d added with a sigh. She’d taken his hand then, hers frail and hot with fever. “I could wish this hadn’t fallen on you, my dearest son, but we live in dreadful times, and as I approach heaven I begin to hope that you will be the salvation of us all.”
    Michael hadn’t known what to make of that, and his heart