Dear Readers– Thank you so much for the hearts, stars, and comments! I'm so glad you're enjoying the story and incredibly grateful to know my characters come to life in your minds and hearts.
If you're one of Maxen's critics: I agree that he's behaving like an uncouth ass! Kerin isn't blameless, either, but without conflict, there'd be no story. Please try not to judge them by modern standards. Their story is set in the 12th century, where a warrior lord wasn't encouraged to "get in touch with" his emotions. Also, this IS non-con! Love- Stefanie
–-o–- NOTE –-o–- The Long Betrothal is [now] a FIVE-part series. While it's possible to read the sections out of order and not get lost, there's an actual story to back up all the naughty bits, and it's more fun if you start at the beginning! (This chapter has more story than sex, BTW.)
–-
Soldiers don't dream.
His father's words ringing in his head, Maxen lay staring into a darkness so complete, he may as well not have opened his eyes at all.
Soldiers don't dream. Women dream of babies and dresses and songs of courtly love, but soldiers sleep soundly in the knowledge their duties have been done.
Three times his father had told him that in the weeks following his mother's death. Maxen was only six at the time, and he'd been present when she slipped and fell on the stone steps at his grandfather's home, landing in a twisted, silent heap. The third time he'd woken crying from the nightmare, perhaps ten days after her funeral, Dyfed had hauled him from his bed, beaten him, and banished him to the outer bailey. After five nights in the stable, he'd been allowed to return to his own bed, and he'd never cried again, nor dreamt, as far as his father was concerned. Soldiers didn't dream.
Maxen learned quickly. It was a good thing, too. The year after her death, he'd been fostered to a Scottish laird with seven other boys– some belonging to the master of the house. Maxen was the youngest of the bunch, and took a beating every day as it was. To have woken crying in his semi-permanent Highland home would have been akin to suicide.
In the years since then, Maxen had seldom been plagued by either nightmares or dreams, and in any case, would take no notice of even the most troubling– he'd seen and done much worse on the battlefield in full sun. Since arriving at Penrhyn Tywyll, however, he'd been haunted on a nightly basis by the same dream for which his father had beaten him two decades before, with one significant exception: instead of his mother, Kerin was the woman slipping from his grasp.
In the darkness he lay listening to her breathing, as he did every night after he'd woken sweating and anxious. She was still sleeping on the pallet near the hearth, where she snored softly. Even her snores were ladylike.
The small smile of which he'd been unaware faded quickly. For the better part of the past week, he'd kept Kerin locked in their chamber. He hadn't planned it that way, but every time she left the room, she tried to escape, and she was very good at escaping. Twice she'd gotten as far as the barbican gates before one of his men noticed her missing or saw fit to stop her. It was especially infuriating because an hour before her first escape attempt, she'd come to Maxen with a proposition. If he'd release her men unharmed, Kerin would consent to the marriage and endeavor to be an obedient and agreeable wife for the remainder of their lives.
Though her bargain was uttered with sweet sincerity and Kerin's hands were folded in a show of meekness, Maxen was enraged. So, she was willing to martyr herself for her lover's freedom? Maxen seriously considered digging an oubliette in which to imprison the lad for life in the moment of fury which followed the request. He bit back the impulse and glared down at Kerin.
Agreeable and obedient?
So far, she'd been neither.
"I'd be happy to release your men, my lady– "
Kerin's eyes flew to Maxen's face, but the blooming joy in them disappearanced when she saw his expression.
"– as soon as they pledge their fealty to me."
She pursed her lips, folded her arms, and frowned, all sign of her recently promised obedience fleeing.
He waited and, when Kerin apparently chose to withhold her opinion, left the room, feeling no better for having angered her.
–-o–-
He'd taken to visiting Kerin's man in his home "belowstairs", as Geralt said, referring to his accommodations jokingly as servant's quarters rather than the makeshift donjon it had become during Maxen's tenancy.
The second time he visited the older man, Maxen took with him a chessboard he'd found among the old king's belongings, hoping Geralt knew the game. He did, and from then on, they played for an hour every day.
Eventually, Maxen touched on one of the topics they avoided. "Tell me why her people defend the Lady Kerin. I see naught to inspire them to pride."
Geralt cast a sharp eye up at his captor, unable to stop the whistling intake of air through his teeth as his body tensed in automatic ire at the affront.
Maxen didn't response to the unspoken threat, though he hadn't missed the other man's reaction.
"There is much to inspire if you look past your preconceptions, my lord."
Maxen snorted. "I find little admirable about a lass who would slay her younger brother to placate noblemen she'd never met."
Geralt's hand froze momentarily above the board. He set the rook down and responded slowly, without lifting his eyes. "Everything my lady has done has been for the good of her people."
Maxen was tired of hearing about this non-existent paragon of virtues. Abruptly, he stood, his voice abrasive in the cool, still air. "Why do you cleave to her so tightly, man? She's but a girl."
Geralt neither rose nor tensed this time, but met Maxen's eyes solemnly. "Nay, my lord Maxen; she's a queen."
After a long moment of silence, Maxen stormed out, and did not return the following day. He liked Geralt, but didn't delude himself by hoping that Kerin's loyal retainer would divulge whatever secret his mistress was keeping.
–-o–-
Even after he imprisoned her in their chamber, Kerin disrupted Maxen's peace. He'd go up to fetch her down for dinner and find her tutoring the village children in music or art, or seated on the floor weaving wondrous stories for their entertainment. Maxen was forced to start rotating men daily when he discovered the soldiers he'd stationed at her door were taking afternoon tea with her and the children they allowed to visit. Admittedly, Maxen hadn't expressly forbidden them from taking tea, or admitting children, or bringing treats to Kerin's kitten– which she'd named, maddeningly, Sir Furball, completely ignoring its gender– but he shouldn't have to spell out the rules of captive etiquette to experienced warriors.
Prisoners weren't supposed to be coddled, but his men were no more immune to Kerin's charm and wit than her villeins.
They were practicing in the courtyard with staffs and spears when Maxen's sparring partner suddenly stopped fighting. Maxen took the opportunity to strike, of course, and Dunestan collapsed with a metallic thud. The men nearest paused to stare.
At Maxen's right hand, Edon chuckled. "Huh. Dunestan isn't usually that slow-witted."
Maxen frowned. "That wasn't slow-witted, that was no-witted. What–?"
He pivoted slowly, seeking a reason for Dunestan's distraction. In only a moment he'd located the cause.
Though she'd chosen a path as close as possible to the spot where a battlement met the flat side of the keep, Kerin wasn't completely concealed by the protruding tower. Even in her plain brown dress, it was much too light for Maxen to miss his intended wife picking her way down the steep stone wall.
