He continued now to the high dais where the lord’s table sat, uncomfortably aware that he did not know which woman to sit next to. Neither of them was watching him, which might have given him a clue.
Wulfric rarely felt such uncertainty, and liked it not at all. Nor did he like feeling like an idiot, which was exactly how he felt for not having known that Nigel Crispin had twin daughters. His father had no doubt mentioned it to him at some point in his life, but he had either not been paying attention or he had just never been interested enough to remember. Either way, he could fault himself for not knowing.
The odds were even that he could make the right choice without looking like a fool, so he moved to the first seat that he came to, which would put him next to the twin nearest the stairs.
She was kind enough to correct him, though, before he sat down, turning to whisper to him, “Are you sure you wish to sit here?”
Obviously not, and so he continued on to the empty seat next to the other twin. However, this one, too, turned to whisper to him before he sat down, “I am Jhone, Lord Wulfric. Do you not wish to sit with your betrothed?”
He flushed then, and flushed worse as he heard the other twin giggle. Lord Nigel even coughed, likely aware of what Milisant had done, or used to such antics from his identical daughters.
Wulfric was not amused, not in the least, especially since he was forced to turn about to return to the other end of the table. He could only be grateful that he had not compounded his embarrassment by thanking the first twin for her misleading warning.
Reaching her again, he lifted the bench Milisant sat on, literally off the floor, to move it back so he had room to sit down. He heard her gasp, and grab the table for support, and felt much better as he took his seat next to her.
She was now glaring at him, which helped even more to soothe his disgruntlement. But she was also quick to hiss, “Next time give warning ere you move the furniture.”
He raised a brow at her. “Next time do not pretend to be who you are not.”
“I pretended naught,” she insisted. “I merely asked you a logical question. Considering all the frowns I have received from you since your arrival, I assumed you would not want to share this meal with me.”
“When you dress like a villein, wench, one must worry about catching lice. Little wonder you elicit frowns.”
She was blushing now, profusely. “Think you I would lose my lice just from changing clothes?”
He chuckled. “Nay, I suppose not. Am I like to catch them from you?”
She smiled tightly. “One can surely hope.”
He did not get to reply to that as the food was being ushered into the hall by a long line of kitchen folk, and a servant leaned between them to set down the large crust of bread that they would share as a trencher. Another came to pour wine, then another …
Wulfric gave up the idea of conversation for the moment and sat back to wait until their trencher was filled. He was almost smiling, and amazed, actually, that he felt like it, after the red cheeks he had just worn to the table.
Who would have thought that he would find Milisant Crispin amusing. Her attitude was not. Her habits were not. Yet what came out of her mouth either infuriated him or amused him. And he could not say why it amused him, when that was certainly not her intent. Nay, her intent was clearly to insult, last eventide and again now.
Mayhap that was all it was. As insults went, hers were paltry at best. But then, he had never been insulted by a woman before, and that might be why as well. ’Twas not exactly a talent most women aspired to perfect, when a typical insult could lead to drawn swords.
By courtly custom, he was supposed to feed his lady, finding the choicest meats and offering them to her. Wulfric simply could not resist saying, once the servants stopped hovering, “Since you prefer to take the manly role, mayhap you would like to do the honors and feed me?”
She glanced at him with what might be construed as an innocently curious look before she said in a neutral tone, “I had not realized how brave you are, to trust my knife near your face.”
She then stabbed a chunk of meat with her eating dagger and stared at it for a moment before moving it toward his mouth. He quickly grasped her arm to push it back, but caught the challenge in her green-gold eyes and let go. Incredibly, she was daring him to trust her, after implying that he should not. Actually, she was making him regret that he had provoked her.
But he continued to meet her gaze rather than watch her dagger, though he did warn, “Keep in mind that most actions cause reactions, and do you get clumsy with that dagger, you will not like mine.”
“Clumsy?” She snorted. “Who said aught about being clumsy? I mentioned trust only because this hand would likely prefer to take a few chunks from your hide rather than feed you, and I had assumed you were smart enough to realize that—after forcing me into these blasted clothes.”
Blasted clothes? So that was the cause of her present rancor? He should have known she would not give in on that point gracefully.
“When you look so fetching in those clothes, how can you abhor them?”
Having said it, he realized just how true that statement was. She really did now look like the one he had been so pleased with yesterday, when he had thought Jhone was his betrothed. To look at them now, there was no difference; Milisant was as pleasing to the eye as her sister was. ’Twas only when she opened her mouth to speak … And in that, there was a mighty big difference in the two women.
“’Tis a matter of comfort and ease of movement,” she told him. “Why do you not try wearing a bliaut and chemise and see if you like all that material dragging at your legs with every step.”
“You exaggerate. Priests do not find difficulty with their robes.”
“Priests do not hunt on foot.”
He chuckled, conceding that point with a nod. She stared at him curiously for a moment, as if he had surprised her.
That worried him, making him add what was so very obvious. “Nor do women need to hunt.”
“There is need … and then there is need. If I need explain the difference to you, then you are not like to grasp it.”
“If you are trying to say that hunting is the only thing you can find happiness in, you are correct. I would not be able to grasp that notion—nor would I believe it to be true.”
She appeared thoughtful. “Most men retain their opinions no matter if proof to the contrary is served them on a golden platter. Black will still be white and white will still be black because they say so—at least if that differing of opinion involves a woman. Do you disagree? Or have you not just proven that very thing?”
He almost laughed. If she were not being so serious about this, he would have. Did she really believe that, that men would adhere to their opinions despite proof to the contrary, regardless of who offered the proof?
“Methinks you exaggerate. I merely note that there are many things that can make one happy. To base all of one’s happiness on a single thing is—silly.”
“And if I say it is not silly, you will, of course, disagree, because your opinion is the only correct opinion, is that not so?”
“’Twould seem you are determined to argue with me, no matter what I say.”
“Nay, ’twould seem you are determined to disagree with me, no matter what I say.”
“Not so. I agreed priests would find difficulty with their robes if they hunted.”
She snorted. “For all of five seconds you agreed, only to point out that women would not find the same difficulty because they do not hunt.”
He was near to growling now. “Why do you not concede that ’tis not the woman’s place to be the provider?”
“Mayhap because not every woman has someone providing for her.”
“An untruth! If not the men of her family, then the men of her husband’s family. If neither of those, she has her king to provide her a guardian.”
Milisant rolled her eyes. “You speak of ladies of property, who are no more th
an tools of bargaining—for a man. What of the women of the village or towns who lose their kin? Why do so many of them turn to begging or whoring to put food on their table? When they could as easily learn to hunt their own food?”
He was now red faced. “Are we correcting the ills of the world now at this sitting? I had not realized a mere compliment on how fetching you look would turn to a deep discussion on the inequities of—”
“Faugh, you do not want to have a discussion, you want merely an echo of your own opinions,” she said in disgust. “Very well, shall we discuss the food instead? Or mayhap the weather? Are those safe enough subjects for you? On those subjects you might get an agreement from me, but do not count on any others—”
“Enough!” he snapped. “Mayhap we can agree to a little silence, ere my appetite grows as cold as the food is like to be now.”
She smiled at him. “Certainly, Wulfric. Far be it from me, a mere woman, to disagree with you.”
As he glowered at her last response, he had to wonder, after all of that, if her intention had not been, from the very start, to turn his mood sour. If so, she surely had a unique and quite skilled knack for doing so.
Twelve
Nigel suggested a hunt to amuse the visiting knights for the afternoon. This would not be the kind of hunt that Milisant enjoyed, though, since her father only hunted with his falcon these days, and the falcon, therefore, did all of the work, and thus got all the enjoyment out of it.
Jhone agreed to go along. She did have a sweet, well-behaved tiercel that she used for such occasions. He was a smaller hawk, and so not really classed as a hunting falcon, which were the much larger and more aggressive females of the species.
Milisant declined to join the hunt. She had had more than enough dealings with her betrothed for one day, plus she had never taught her own bird to hunt, kept her only as a pet. It was named after the first Rhiska that Wulfric had killed, and thus she perhaps pampered the second Rhiska more than she should. She also doubted her father would appreciate if she brought her bow along instead, so being unable to contribute to this hunt, she saw no purpose to her accompanying them.
Wulfric thought otherwise; in fact, detained her when she tried to leave the hall after the meal was finished. “You will join us.”
Two orders from him in the same day! Did he think to control her every movement? Or did he think she was incapable of making logical decisions on her own?
But she did not owe him an explanation. “I prefer not to,” she said, which should have sufficed, but nay, not with him.
“Your father has informed me that you require a month to become accustomed to me ere we marry. If that is so, then you will needs make the effort to be with me to accomplish this—or I will think you do not need this time, after all, and we can proceed with the wedding.”
She wanted to reply that growing acquainted did not require all of her waking hours each day, but it was too dangerous. Keep him company or get married immediately was what he was actually saying, and in that case, she would, of course, opt for the lesser of those two despicable choices.
So they all adjourned to the bailey where the falcons and horses were being fetched. Milisant had to fetch her own horse, since none of the stable lads would do other than toss Stomper his feed from a distance. She would have taken a smaller mount, except Stomper did need the exercise.
It was well known to all who lived in Dunburh how she’d come to own the destrier, just not a pleasant memory, at least for her. He had been a horse much abused, belonging to a visiting knight who’d used brute force to control him, but had done so one time too many.
’Twas ironic that the horse should go mad and try to kill the knight in her presence. The animal had no longer been of any use to the knight. He had known that and ordered it killed. She had intervened, claiming she could tame him. The knight had, of course, scoffed, and told her if she could tame him, she could have him.
Mayhap she should not have done it so quickly. The knight had been enraged at how easily she had mastered his animal. Much as she’d hated the idea of any animal belonging to such a vicious man, she had offered to give him back to soothe the man, whom her father had hoped to hire as a household knight. His pride had refused to accept her offering. Nor had he stayed in Dunburh, but left immediately.
Her father had, of course, been very wroth with her for causing his abrupt departure. He’d later apologized when they’d learned that that particular knight had found employment elsewhere, and had betrayed his employer, opening the lord’s keep to an attacking army.
Since then, Milisant had equated vicious tendencies with deceit, and considered anyone who showed such qualities to be untrustworthy. And as far as she was concerned, her betrothed fell into that category.
As usual, it took her a while to get the horse saddled, something else she had to do on her own, other than having the saddle fetched for her. Then it took a while longer to acquaint him with her skirts, which he was unaccustomed to her wearing.
She did have her leggings and boots on underneath the womanly garb, however, and so sat him as she usually did, her bliaut split up the sides anyway, and wide enough that most of her legs remained covered beneath it, so he would have naught to complain about.
She had to use the mounting blocks kept near Stomper’s stall to get on his back, he was so huge, and so she rode him out of the stable, talking soothingly to him all the while, to keep him calm amongst the crowd in the bailey. Yet she no sooner cleared the opening than she was being dragged off his back and shouted at in the process.
“Are you utterly beyond common sense, or just lacking any sense at all!?”
Her feet did not release from either stirrup immediately, the action happening so quickly, so both of her arches were caught and bruised by the metal despite her boots. The arm about her waist was like a vise, keeping her from breathing for the moment, and hurting as well as she was roughly carted away from Stomper. It took her a few dazed seconds to even figure out what had happened, that she’d been “rescued.” She rolled her eyes mentally.
“Methinks your father should have locked you up for your own safety long ago,” she heard now in a furious tone. “Never in my life have I seen aught so stupid.” And then Wulfric called to one of the servants, “You there, take that animal back into the stable.”
She knew, without having to look, that he would not be obeyed. He realized that himself after giving that order to several others and getting a lot of wide-eyed head shaking in return.
He set her down on her feet then and lifted her chin so she could not miss his furious expression. “How the devil did you manage to get near a warhorse, let alone get on him without having him kill you?”
As calmly and as drolly as she could manage, she said, “Mayhap because he is mine?”
He snorted, not believing. And he turned to see to putting the destrier back in the stable himself, only to find the horse had come up right next to him, having followed Milisant. That surprised him, but not enough to give him pause. He still reached for the reins.
Milisant only managed to get out, “Do not—!” before Stomper made a concerted effort to bite the hand he did not recognize.
Wulfric swore, and immediately raised a fist to clout the horse. Milisant lost her own temper at that point, shoving him aside, stepping between them. Stamper’s large head came to rest over her shoulder and she soothed him by petting his nose.
To her betrothed, she snarled in the loudest of tones, uncaring who else heard her, “Never again will you hurt one of my pets! When I say something is mine, I do not lie. If anyone is lacking in common sense here, ’tis you. If I can mount the animal, which I so obviously did, ’tis logical to assume he is tame for me.”
Since the proof of her claim was there before his eyes, he could hardly doubt her further. Yet he was not appeased. And he turned to Nigel, who had come forward to help her remount the animal. “Why have you let her keep such dangerous pets?” Wulfric demanded.
N
igel led him away before answering, “Because they are no danger to her. I did warn you she has a way with animals, large or small, wild or merely frightened. It matters not, she can tame them. So be easy, Wulfric, that horse will never hurt her. For yourself, though, treat it as you would any other destrier, with extreme caution. Her pets are tame for her, not necessarily for others.”
Milisant was still slightly trembling with anger. He had done it again, shown her that he had no care whatsoever for animals, that they were nothing to him if they did not serve his personal needs, and even then were likely nothing to him. Kill them, beat them—what did it matter? They were just animals. Marry a man like that? Never!
Thirteen
“You should not have shouted at him in front of his men, Mili.”
Milisant turned to see that Jhone had moved her small palfrey near, though not too close to the much larger Stomper. They had both fallen behind the others, though, so there was no need to worry that they would be overheard even with the distance between them.
“Think you I care if he gets embarrassed?” she told her sister.
“You should. Some men react very badly to that, even seek revenge for it of one kind or another. We do not know yet whether he is such a one.”
Milisant frowned. Several of Wulfric’s knights had been present in the bailey during their altercation, including his brother Raimund. So Wulfric had likely been embarrassed—if he had stopped being angry long enough to notice.
“Was I supposed to thank him for nearly hitting Stomper?” Milisant mumbled.
“Nay, of course not. ’Twould merely behoove you to make sure no one else hears what you say to him—if what you have to say is less than pleasant.”
Milisant grinned and replied, “Less than pleasant, eh? Verily, I will needs speak to him always in whispers then.”
Jhone smiled back. “You jest, but just keep it in mind and your temper in hand. ’Tis easier for a woman to swallow her pride than for a man.”
“Is it? Now, I would think ’twould be the opposite, since we have the smaller throats.”