The Maiden Read online

  “Do not speak to me,” he said loudly. “And call me ‘Englishman.’ Do not use my name.”

  Jura clamped her jaws shut and cursed the stupid foreigner. With his vile temper and his unreasonableness, she gave him only a week before someone put an end to his life. Good riddance, she thought. Lanconia would be better off without him.

  She turned to her stomach and thought of Daire. It would be good to be a virgin on her wedding night to Daire.

  “Get up!”

  Lazily, Jura turned over in the warm bed. It was still dark. Rowan was standing ten feet away from her, fully dressed and glaring at her.

  “Are all Irials as lazy as you?” he snapped. “The wagons are already gathering below.”

  “Are all Englishmen as vile-tempered as you?” she answered, stretching beneath the covers.

  He watched her intently and his pale skin seemed to grow paler. “Get your belongings and come below,” he said, then left the room.

  It didn’t take Jura long to get her few pieces of clothing and her weapons together. The courtyard was loud with prancing horses and shouting men. Geralt, wearing black and on a black horse, was ordering men about. Daire sat on his horse to one side and near him was Cilean.

  Jura smiled at her friend but Cilean turned her head away. Jura’s smile faded as she accepted bread and watered wine from a servant.

  Rowan was in the midst of the men, his horse ready to go, and Jura had to admit that he seemed to be capable of organizing the expedition and the men seemed to recognize his leadership.

  There were wagons filled with goods and Jura saw Lora and the boy Phillip sitting on one of them beside a driver.

  “Jura!” the boy called, and smiling, she went to him.

  “Good morning,” she said, offering him a piece of bread.

  “Do Lanconian warriors eat bread?” he asked solemnly.

  “Always,” she answered just as solemnly, and turned to Lora to smile, but the Englishwoman put her nose in the air and turned away. Jura went to her horse, falling in beside Xante as they began to ride.

  It took all day to reach the Irial villages. There were other, smaller villages scattered about the Irial land, but these were inhabited by peasants, the lowest class of people, people who fought among themselves, whose family feuds were centuries old. These people had no idea whether they were Irial or Vatell or English for that matter.

  But twenty miles from the walled city of Escalon lived the main population of Irials. When a guardsman or woman chose a mate, he/she came from these people. The guards were chosen from these people, and after they were trained, they were sent back to the village to watch and protect the Irials from invasion. In these few square miles was the only serenity an Irial was likely to know. Here children played and women sang and crops were harvested. Here fabric was woven, garments embroidered, and here the sick and old were given comfort and peace. Thousands of the Irial guard had died to protect this place.

  Jura rode beside Xante for most of the way but she heard Phillip beginning to complain, so she turned back to the wagon. “Would you like to ride with me?” she asked the boy, and he looked at Lora for permission.

  Lora looked as if she were fighting against herself. She turned her head away then gave a curt nod.

  Phillip practically leaped into Jura’s arms as she pulled him into the saddle before her. For the rest of the journey she told him stories of the old gods of Lanconia, gods who fought and feuded, gods who had more character than the Christian God Jesus who never so much as spoke back to his mother.

  “Why do you hold this pup?” Geralt demanded of her angrily as he reined his horse beside hers. “Do you grow soft toward the English?”

  “He’s a child,” Jura said.

  “Boys grow into men.”

  She gave him a look of disgust. “He is no threat to you. He has no pretensions to your throne.”

  Geralt gave the boy a hostile look and rode away.

  “I don’t like him,” Phillip whispered.

  “Of course you do. He is to be King of Lanconia and he will make a very good king.”

  “My uncle Rowan is the king and he is the best king.”

  “We shall see about that.”

  It was night when the travelers arrived at the village and the wagons had to be ferried across the river, as did the horses and passengers.

  The people, bearing torches, came out to greet them and see this Englishman who called himself king.

  Many of Jura’s relatives ran forward to greet her. Her status had risen high since she had won the Honorium and married the king.

  “What is he like?” they whispered. “Has he given you a child yet?” “Is he as handsome as Daire?” “As strong as Thal?”

  They stopped talking when Rowan walked up behind her and Jura saw the eyes of some of her cousins turn liquid. There was a collective sigh.

  Jura smiled at them and even felt a little pride. She turned her smile on Rowan. “May I introduce you to my family?” she asked him politely.

  Later, Jura’s aunt escorted them to a room in her house. It was a small room and there was only one bed and no window seat.

  Rowan seemed very quiet.

  “The journey tired you?” she asked.

  “No,” he said softly. “It was good of you to care for Phillip. I believe the boy is beginning to worship you.”

  “He is a pleasant child and eager to learn. Perhaps he is more Lanconian than I thought.” He was sitting on the edge of the bed and removing his cross garters, and he seemed to be worried about something. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask what was wrong but she didn’t. It would be better to stay apart from this man who was her husband only temporarily.

  “I assume I am not to sleep with you,” she said.

  “What? No, I guess not. There are furs. I’ll make my bed on the floor. You take the bed.”

  Jura frowned and removed her boots and trousers and slid into the big, empty bed. She lay awake while Rowan settled himself on the floor in the furs. The air seemed to be charged and she could not go to sleep.

  “The moon is bright,” she whispered.

  Rowan did not say a word and she thought perhaps he was asleep.

  “Jura,” he said softly.

  “Yes,” she answered in the same tone.

  “Do you ever doubt yourself? Do you sometimes know that you are right, but somewhere deep inside you there is a seed of doubt?”

  “Yes,” she said, “I have felt that.”

  He didn’t say any more and after a while Jura heard his soft breathing of sleep. She puzzled for a long time over what he had meant but could find no answer.

  The next morning all the Irials were awake very early. They wanted to see friends and relatives they had not seen in a long while and they wanted a good look at this Englishman who claimed kingship.

  Jura stood to one side and watched Rowan pass through the crowds of people, and she saw the way their faces lit as he spoke to them in their own language. There was no display of the quick temper he showed to her, but instead, here was a quiet, calm, intelligent man who made his presence felt.

  “He is as smooth-tongued as the devil,” Geralt said to Jura. “Be careful that you keep your head on your shoulders. Someone must have his wits about him when the fool tries to plunge us into war.”

  Jura sipped hot apple cider. “He does not want war; he wants peace.”

  “What one wants and what one gets are two different things. If we ride into Vatell land, be ready to fight. Brita will be glad to kill him, since his father killed her husband.”

  “Maybe Brita is sick of war also,” Jura said. “Perhaps she would like to see her son again.”

  Geralt was aghast. “Do you betray your country for this Englishman?”

  “No, of course not. He will never be able to unite anyone, but let him try. Who will follow him? He means to marry Irial and Vatell. What Irial will agree? He’ll be stopped before he starts.”

  Xante was standing near them,