By Right of Arms Read Online Free PDF Page A

uncomfortably clad in full armor. Against whom? This conquered mistress left alone and bound? The weight of the battle accouterments made his simple task of lighting candles a difficult one.
    Aurélie kept her eyes fixed on the figure in the doorway while light began to gather around her. He was not huge like his messenger. He was generous of build, but did not wear his armor, or carry a weapon. He, she thought with contempt, was confident that his men could protect him now, and he had left behind his mail and helm and gauntlets. He stood poised in the frame of the door, garbed in a short, dark gown, a quilted gambeson, and chausses. His style of clothing was not ornate, but neither was it modest. Even at first glance she could judge his apparel to be of high quality.
    He frowned at the sight of her. Then, turning, he spoke to his guard. “You may leave us now. I shall be here only a short time.”
    “I would stay, my lord, lest she has some weapon hidden in her clothing.”
    The man laughed lightly. “If I am felled by a woman of such slight strength, I deserve my wounds. Go. This business is between the two of us.”
    The guard shrugged and passed his lord, closing the door as he left. The man did not advance quickly, but leisurely contemplated Aurélie. His serious expression did not change and, if she could fairly judge, there seemed to be something of pity in his brown eyes.
    “I am Hyatt,” he finally said. “I have claimed this hall and all the possessions and goods herein. And the people.”
    “And my husband’s life,” she said.
    “Aye, and other soldiers of your house.” He made a half bow. “I am grieved to deliver the news. Many were killed. I bring to you the knowledge that Sir Giles died a warrior’s death on the field of battle. You may bury him with pride.”
    His words came so easily, with such a beautiful command of the Gascon language of her homeland, that her chest swelled with pain anew. There was nothing to grasp but this confirmation that all was lost. He did not scorn her, laugh at her, abuse her, or even take much boasting in his accomplishment. She wished to see the ugly face of his messenger. It was easier to bear the cruel mocking of the victor than abide this young knight’s compassion and courtly manners. In the wake of losing all she valued, he stood at ease in her bedchamber, looking down on her.
    “Will I be allowed to bury my lord?” she asked quietly, a slight catch in her voice.
    “Perhaps on the morrow.”
    He approached her, pulling a small knife from his belt as he came closer. He held it before her for a moment, judging her expression. She showed no frightened surprise; she feared neither him nor death.
    He knelt and turned her so he might cut the straps that bound her wrists. She pulled her arms loose and rubbed the soreness with her fingers. He was still kneeling, his face close to hers, and she could see in his eyes a softness that she did not understand.
    He took one of her hands in his and judged the redness for himself. “Had you not strained against the ropes, you would have suffered far less,” he said, his voice as smooth as a polished stone.
    “It is my nature to strain against so cruel a thing as this,” she returned, lifting her chin.
    He smiled in a quick, fleeting manner before his face grew serious again. In that brief smile, his eyes lit and his expression became momentarily bright. For an instant Aurélie forgot why he was there, leaning so close to her. Had the moment occurred at a dinner or joust, her heart would have leapt in some aroused excitement. His handsome face, tanned no doubt by many days of travel toward her home, was strong and flawless. There was nothing of weakness in his hard and implacable warrior’s expression; his beard was thick brown, his brows heavy and brooding, and his mouth wide and firm. “This I understand, madame. I am likewise plagued by a natural fighting will.”
    She instantly found fault with his beautiful