Read Online Keeper of the Dream by Penelope Williamson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Penelope Williamson
Ads: Link
sex thickened and hardened with a fierce and instant response. He felt a sudden need to bury himself in this woman and just forget, forget everything.
Raine jerked his head in the direction of the river. She mouthed the word
later
and passed by on a cloud of laughter and cinnamon hair. Raine thanked the knight for the wine and moved on.
He finally spotted his black dragon standard flying from the center pole of a red tent twenty yards beyond, wherea group of squires and foot soldiers had gathered around a fire. He heard the lilting notes of a crwth, accompanying a clear, sweet, and very familiar voice.
“Taliesin!” he roared.
The song halted in midchord. The crowd around the fire dispersed like leaves before the wind. Taliesin emerged with his instrument—a Welsh version of a viol—its bow tucked beneath his arm. He walked toward Raine with his lazy, lanky stride, hair flashing coppery in the sun. He smiled; Raine did not smile back.
“I ought to beat you to a blood pudding. Where the hell have you been?”
Taliesin lowered his eyes meekly to his boots, an act that didn’t fool Raine for a minute. “I’ve been sort of busy.”
Raine felt a stirring of alarm. “Busy doing what?”
Taliesin lifted his head and fastened wide, coal-black eyes onto Raine’s face. He looked as innocent as a virgin in church. “Why, taking care of your interests, sire. Of course.”
“Oh, of course. And did it possibly occur to you that my interests might lie in the general area of riding into battle with my squire at my side, not with some wet-behind-the-ears page who probably still sucks his thumb at night!”
Taliesin shrugged. “He was the best I could do on short notice.” His mouth quirked into a grin. “Besides, I understand you managed just fine without me. You even saved the king’s life. I’ve already composed an ode about it. Would you like to hear it?”
“Christ.” Raine shuddered at the very idea.
He started for his tent and the youth fell into step beside him. For the hundredth time Raine wondered what possessed him to put up with Taliesin as his squire. The boy made a better poet than he ever would a belted knight, and the last thing Raine needed in his life was a cursed poet, for the love of Christ. He wasn’t even surewhere Taliesin had come from. One day the boy who had been serving as Raine’s squire for five years had been killed by a stray crossbow bolt, and the next day Taliesin was there. And was still there two years later, though it seemed a week didn’t go by when Raine wasn’t threatening to have the boy flogged within an inch of his life.
A pot of bean potage simmered over the fire in front of his tent. Raine scooped up a ladleful and tipped it into his mouth. While he ate he worked one-handed to unbuckle the baldric that supported his scabbard and sword. Taliesin helped him off with his cumbersome, heavy coat of mail. It jingled softly as the squire laid it down on a nearby patch of grass. Later it would be cleaned by soaking it in a tub of vinegar and then polished to prevent rust.
Raine rubbed at the raw, red marks the mail had left on his neck and wrists. The bliaut he wore beneath his armor was smudged black, stained with sweat, and flecked with mud and dried blood. He thought about a hot bath and sighed because he would have to wash off in the cold river instead.
He had picked up his sword and scabbard and started toward the tent when he felt Taliesin’s eyes on him. “What?”
The boy cleared his throat and a guilty flush stained his pale cheeks. “Sire, there’s something you should—”
Raine held up his hand. “Whatever it is you’ve done this time, I don’t want to hear about it. All I want right now is wine to get drunk on and a wench in my bed.”
Raine missed seeing his squire’s eyes widen with alarm. He was imagining running his hands through that cinnamon hair, watching it flow over his thighs as she lowered her head, took him in her mouth…. He reached
Raine jerked his head in the direction of the river. She mouthed the word
later
and passed by on a cloud of laughter and cinnamon hair. Raine thanked the knight for the wine and moved on.
He finally spotted his black dragon standard flying from the center pole of a red tent twenty yards beyond, wherea group of squires and foot soldiers had gathered around a fire. He heard the lilting notes of a crwth, accompanying a clear, sweet, and very familiar voice.
“Taliesin!” he roared.
The song halted in midchord. The crowd around the fire dispersed like leaves before the wind. Taliesin emerged with his instrument—a Welsh version of a viol—its bow tucked beneath his arm. He walked toward Raine with his lazy, lanky stride, hair flashing coppery in the sun. He smiled; Raine did not smile back.
“I ought to beat you to a blood pudding. Where the hell have you been?”
Taliesin lowered his eyes meekly to his boots, an act that didn’t fool Raine for a minute. “I’ve been sort of busy.”
Raine felt a stirring of alarm. “Busy doing what?”
Taliesin lifted his head and fastened wide, coal-black eyes onto Raine’s face. He looked as innocent as a virgin in church. “Why, taking care of your interests, sire. Of course.”
“Oh, of course. And did it possibly occur to you that my interests might lie in the general area of riding into battle with my squire at my side, not with some wet-behind-the-ears page who probably still sucks his thumb at night!”
Taliesin shrugged. “He was the best I could do on short notice.” His mouth quirked into a grin. “Besides, I understand you managed just fine without me. You even saved the king’s life. I’ve already composed an ode about it. Would you like to hear it?”
“Christ.” Raine shuddered at the very idea.
He started for his tent and the youth fell into step beside him. For the hundredth time Raine wondered what possessed him to put up with Taliesin as his squire. The boy made a better poet than he ever would a belted knight, and the last thing Raine needed in his life was a cursed poet, for the love of Christ. He wasn’t even surewhere Taliesin had come from. One day the boy who had been serving as Raine’s squire for five years had been killed by a stray crossbow bolt, and the next day Taliesin was there. And was still there two years later, though it seemed a week didn’t go by when Raine wasn’t threatening to have the boy flogged within an inch of his life.
A pot of bean potage simmered over the fire in front of his tent. Raine scooped up a ladleful and tipped it into his mouth. While he ate he worked one-handed to unbuckle the baldric that supported his scabbard and sword. Taliesin helped him off with his cumbersome, heavy coat of mail. It jingled softly as the squire laid it down on a nearby patch of grass. Later it would be cleaned by soaking it in a tub of vinegar and then polished to prevent rust.
Raine rubbed at the raw, red marks the mail had left on his neck and wrists. The bliaut he wore beneath his armor was smudged black, stained with sweat, and flecked with mud and dried blood. He thought about a hot bath and sighed because he would have to wash off in the cold river instead.
He had picked up his sword and scabbard and started toward the tent when he felt Taliesin’s eyes on him. “What?”
The boy cleared his throat and a guilty flush stained his pale cheeks. “Sire, there’s something you should—”
Raine held up his hand. “Whatever it is you’ve done this time, I don’t want to hear about it. All I want right now is wine to get drunk on and a wench in my bed.”
Raine missed seeing his squire’s eyes widen with alarm. He was imagining running his hands through that cinnamon hair, watching it flow over his thighs as she lowered her head, took him in her mouth…. He reached
Similar Books
