The Burning Stone
Page 106

That twitch of the mouth signaled irritation. Alain recognized it, but not even the count of Lavas dared criticize a woman who, although now his daughter-in-law, outranked him. “So they would,” he agreed curtly.
Lavastine had sent most of his men home before him, after Gent, but Tallia had brought an impressive retinue of her own, one provided for by the king’s generosity. They rode home like a victorious army.
“Do not be seduced by the pleasures of the court, Alain,” Lavastine added. “What use to fly about in the train of the king? For his pleasure? His favor?”
“The favor of the regnant is nothing to sneer at,” retorted Geoffrey, stung. “It is no sin to enjoy hunting and the pleasures of court.”
“So I have observed,” said Lavastine in his quietest and most scathing voice, “that you have acquainted yourself well with hunting, hounds, horses, and hawks, but rather less with fabric-making, blacksmithing, agriculture, commerce, and medicine.”
“I have a wife, and she has a chatelaine and a steward.”
“So you do, and so she has. I also have a chatelaine. But what captain can expect to win a war when he makes merry in his tent while battles are fought outside? No matter how sweet his songs. Nay, cousin, we gain greater favor by pleasing God as I have described.”
“We gain God’s favor by prayer!” said Tallia stubbornly.
“So we do.” He always agreed with her. Then he smiled. “And I pray God that my house is blessed soon with the fruit of your marriage to my son.”
“Indeed,” said Alain with feeling. “May God so bless this house.”
Tallia blushed scarlet, glancing at him and then away. A few of their attendants chuckled. Lord Geoffrey smiled thinly.
The road crossed into forest, and for a while they rode in silence, making good time on the smooth dirt path that cut through the trees. Even the wagons rolled swiftly, unjarred by ruts. Now and again the woodland opened into a meadow where flowers bloomed. A doe bounded away, followed by a half-grown fawn. A buzzard soared above the trees.
They came to a village at midday, and children ran up to watch them ride by, only to scatter at the sight of the black hounds. At the village well they stopped to water their horses at the trough. Once Alain had secured the hounds, the village householders came forward to pay their respects. One old woman had a wickedly sharp cider that brought tears to Alain’s eyes and made him a little giddy, and he thanked her, amused by her laughter at his reaction.
Yet it wasn’t just the cider. The sight of Tallia, in such sunlight, made his head spin. She had covered her hair with a shawl, neatly folded and tucked, but even so wheat-colored strands of hair curled free. She had a way of standing, hands lax and mouth slightly parted, that made his heart ache to comfort her. Offered a cup, she took it—to refuse was unworthy of a noblewoman of her consequence—and sipped at the cider. Alain envied the humble wooden cup, whose plain surface in this way met her lips. When she had finished, she gave the cup to her attendants to drink from, and when it was refilled, they handed it to the servants. After this, Tallia waited by the well while the householders brought loaves, cakes fried of flour and honey, and a pungent cheese. These offerings were modest, but they seemed to please her more than any feast.
“Will the young lord take an egg?”
It was a rich gift for such a village, offered by a young woman no older than Tallia. She had dirty blonde hair pulled back in a braid, a face hastily washed with dirt still smearing her neck and patching one ear, and an appetizing shape that her clothing did little to disguise. She had a pretty smile, and she opened his hand so she could roll the egg onto his palm. It was warm, roasted, and her fingers were warm as well. Alain was suddenly terribly glad that their party wasn’t spending the night here. He flushed, she thanked him, and abruptly Tallia came over to stand beside him.
Someone laughed. The village girl retreated, not without a backward look. Tallia had a high stain of color in her cheeks, and, daringly, she took hold of his hand right out there in public.
It was a tiny victory. He squeezed her fingers, feeling triumphant—truly hopeful—again.
“God will only favor our sacrifice as long as we both remain pure,” she murmured.
His reply stuck in his throat. He felt like he’d been kicked. She let go of his hand and went over to her horse as soon as Lavastine’s steward called the servants to order, leaving him standing there. He didn’t have the heart to eat the egg himself. He peeled it, broke it in half, and fed it surreptitiously to Sorrow and Rage.
They had ridden not an hour out from the village when an outrider clattered up to tell the count that an Eagle had been sighted, riding after them. Lavastine obligingly pulled the party aside and soon after a weary-looking Eagle rode into view. He had a remount on a lead behind him, rings of dust around his eyes, and hair that would have been red if it hadn’t been so dusty from riding.