When Robert de Beauchamp opened the door, Prince Lionel fell into the room. With all he had imbibed, the stairs proved too much for his rubbery legs. He was accompanied by Lady Elizabeth Grey, who was none too steady on her own pretty legs.
“Can’t manage, Rob. As usual, you’ll have to help me.”
Robert hauled him to his feet, wrapped Lionel’s arm about his broad shoulders so that he took most of his weight, and led him to the massive curtained bed.
Lionel fell upon it, laughing like a clown. “Lift her on the bed for me, Rob. Can’t manage her myself.”
Elizabeth was so tipsy that when Robert picked her up, she mistook him for the prince.
“Get her some of my special wine,” Lionel said with an owlish wink.
“By the look of things, she’s already had a bellyful,” Robert said, laughing.
“Not yet she hasn’t, Rob, but she’s going to get a bellyful,” Lionel said with a leer, patting his cock. A crease came between his brows. “Limp as a bloody lamprey,” Lionel muttered.
Robert watched Elizabeth closely for the effects of the verbena and calamint, as she sat on the wide bed and sipped from the goblet. It had always had a marked effect on the serving wenches and he was most curious to learn how it affected a virgin. He didn’t have to wait long.
Lionel fumbled with his codpiece, finally managing to get it unlaced. “Shit, why can’t I get it up?”
Robert knew it was his extreme youth, combined with the heavy drinking. The insatiable urge was there, but his ability to perform was nonexistent tonight.
Lionel’s good nature returned. “Can’t manage, Rob. As usual, you’ll have to help me.”
Robert grinned as he stripped off his chausses and climbed onto the wide bed.
Elizabeth’s giggles turned to tears. Even though she was intoxicated and inflamed with the verbena and calamint, she knew she shouldn’t be on this bed with these two men.
Robert pushed her back and mounted her.
“Christ, when I watch you fuck, Rob, it excites me more than doing it myself!”
Brianna’s candle burned so low, it almost extinguished itself by the time she blew it out and climbed into bed. Her dreams began with fragments of sights, sounds, and words from the day just lived out.
“Hasn’t he made love to you yet?” Her friend mocked her chastity, but then Joan had a vast experience with many different men. Brianna’s dream changed. She was holding hands with Robert. She reached up to touch his wheat-colored hair. He smiled into her eyes and bent to whisper a little romantic nonsense. Suddenly, the chamber door flew open to admit the dark, dangerous warrior who claimed to be brother to her betrothed. They could not be brothers; they were opposite in every way. One fair, the other swarthy; one good, the other evil; one kind, the other cruel. He advanced upon them with his drawn broadsword.
Hawksblood pierced Brianna with his pale, ice-blue gaze. “Name my sword and I will spare him.”
“Its name is Mortalité!” she cried.
Hawksblood began to laugh as he advanced upon her. “I only promised to spare him.”
She fell down before him. He raised his sword on high. Then it plunged down into her. It was not his sword, however, that entered her body. It was his male center. He had taken her virginity!
Brianna awoke with a scream upon her lips. Her eyes flew open to see Adele standing in the doorway. “Oh, it cannot be morning,” Brianna protested.
“You must hurry if you don’t wish to earn Princess Isabel’s wrath,” Adele urged.
Christian Hawksblood, astride an Arabian with Salome upon his wrist, surveyed the scene before him and thought it was like a magnificent hunting tapestry he’d seen upon a palace wall. Then the tapestry sprang to life, engaging all his senses.
The princess, with nine young ladies in attendance, was resplendent this morning. She was adorned in royal purple, her palfrey draped with a silver cloth beneath its saddle.
Hawksblood’s eyes sought his lady immediately. She wore crimson from head to foot. Her glorious hair was plaited and bound tightly with ribbons, her tabard had wide sleeves with slits up each side to ease her movements in mounting and riding. Even her boots were crimson leather and around her neck hung an ivory hunting horn, chased with gold.
Prince Edward’s hunter was glossy black, his saddlecloth black silk with the dragon of Wales embroidered in gold. His boots and chausses were black, his doublet, deep forest green. As well as the prince’s gentlemen, grooms, squires, falconers, and servants were in attendance, all wearing their own liveries.
The hoods on the hunting birds were as splendid as the finery of their owners, all embroidered, bejeweled, and brightly plumed. Above the shouts and laughter, Hawksblood heard the winding of the horns, the bells on the harness of the princess’s palfrey, the piercing shrieks of the falcons and hawks, and the neighing and stamping of the impatient horses as they milled about the pack of baying retrievers.
Christian Hawksblood stood out from the others, as he intended. He wore a sleeveless shirt of Saracen chain mail so fine it was the envy of every warrior. It was polished so highly, it dazzled the eye. Beaten silver bracelets adorned with uncut amber were clasped about his biceps, and his long black hair was drawn tightly back and fastened with a silver clasp, emphasizing his sharp, slanting cheekbones. His weapon belt held an ax, a spear, and a long, curved scimitar. He wore one plain black leather gauntlet. His black kidskin boots came up to his thighs. In contrast, his squire, Paddy, wore sober Lincoln green, like the other squires in Prince Edward’s household.
Princess Isabel stared with hauteur at the foreigner. “Edward, he breaks the rules. He carries a gerfalcon. Only royalty has the right to fly such a bird!”
“Christian’s mother is an Arabian princess.” Edward hid his amusement as his sister’s attitude did an about-face. The light of speculation kindled in her eyes and she walked her palfrey toward the newcomer. “I am delighted you are joining us this morning. Any friend of Edward’s is a friend of mine.”
“Thank you, Your Highness.” Though Hawksblood’ bow was deferential, his air was superior. He piqued her pride, yet at the same time piqued her interest.
“Where the devil is Elizabeth Grey?” Isabel demanded of Joan of Kent.
“I don’t know, Your Highness, she doesn’t confide in me,” Joan replied. To Brianna she whispered, “She’s her bloody friend!”
The princess eyed Brianna’s crimson with a sulky mouth. “Lady Bedford, go and find her. You may catch us up.” She lifted her silver hunting horn. “Joan, you go with her.”
Prince Edward took a firm hold of his sister’s bridle. “Obviously Elizabeth doesn’t wish to hawk, but Brianna and Joan do. Let’s be off, ladies.”
Joan sent him a secret smile of thanks and in return Edward winked at her.
Brianna kept her lashes lowered to avoid eye contact with Christian Hawksblood, but as they headed out through Windsor’s park she found him at her side.
“You haunted my dreams last night, my lady.”
Her lashes flew up and her cheeks became crimson as her ribbons as she recalled her dream of him. Logic told her their dreams could not be the same, yet he seemed so intense and compelling, he defied logic. What was this strange power he had over her? With effort, she concentrated upon her horse and her merlin, perched upon her wrist.
Christian removed his falcon’s hood. “This is Salome, my other lady.”
Brianna glanced angrily at his bird, ready to make a disparaging remark, but the sheer beauty of the raptor prevented her. Her plumage shone with the subtle hues of almost indescribable colors. Her head had the proudest curve she had ever seen.
As they neared the river, a heron arose from the water and half a dozen falcons, tercels, goshawks, and lanners were cast into the air. Christian rose in his stirrups to cast Salome. Brianna caught her breath as the bird flew straight up, then began her dive, speeding past the other hawks in just seconds. She struck the heron with a balled-up foot, then grasped it
with her sharp talons and sped back to her master. After Christian put the offering in his saddlebag, he praised her lavishly and rewarded her with a morsel fished from his weapon belt.
“Why is she superior to our birds?” She fully expected him to proudly boast of the way he had trained her.
“She was captured along the Persian Gulf in the wild. She did not need to be taught to hunt.”
To her dismay, Brianna found him fascinating. She looked about for Joan, but saw her disappearing through the trees with Prince Edward. Up ahead, Isabel was causing a scene. Her tercel had flown to the top of a hundred-foot oak and would not return. It had caught a fish crow and was devouring it. Isabel was in the midst of browbeating a falconer, a groom, a squire, and two servants. The falconer swung a lure and whistled a three-note call over and over. The bird ignored it. The princess threw a tantrum.
As Hawksblood approached, the princess appealed to him. “The servants are useless, could you help me, sir knight?”
He frowned. “It is a fallacy that only a starving bird will hunt. As you see, a starving bird fills its craw.” He rode to the far side of the oak for an unimpeded view of the hawk. Brianna followed him, yet stayed a distance back to keep her merlin unruffled. She wondered what the princess expected him to do, climb the damn tree? She observed him closely as he quietly walked his horse beneath the branches and held out his free arm.
Hawksblood stilled to gather his power, then projected his entire focus upon the raptor. It took two full minutes of silence before he managed to merge with the creature long enough to subdue its will. It flew to his wrist like a tame dove.
Princess Isabel was fulsome with her praise, yet demanded over and over to know how he had done it.
“It was just chance, Your Highness. The bird simply decided to return at that moment.”
Brianna knew this was not true. Even Isabel rejected this possibility. Finally the princess pressed so persistently for an explanation, he said, “Your falcon is a male; mine female. It was Salome who lured him down.” The mystery was solved for Isabel, but Brianna suspected the dark Arabian had more to do with the bird’s behavior than his falcon had. When he handed the hunting bird back to the princess, Brianna noticed that though it had landed upon his bare wrist, it left no mark with its razor-sharp talons. Then she noticed that though he was a warrior, he had no scars. At least none on his face or magnificent bared arms. That was unusual. Every man she knew, old or young, displayed scars as badges of courage.
While Christian Hawksblood was occupied with Princess Isabel, Brianna took the opportunity to spur her horse and catch up with the other ladies. She felt slightly alarmed that a part of her wanted to stay at his side, engage him in conversation and watch his every move. It was almost as if he exuded some nameless power over her.
She successfully eluded him, but his squire stayed close to her. When they entered the forest the squire rode just ahead of her, as if he were guarding her path. When he held aside some low branches that could have badly scratched her face, she felt grateful for his attention. At least his squire was comfortably ordinary with his commonplace looks and livery.
The hawking was good on this fine morning. The hunters bagged heron, partridge, and many other game birds as well as hares and coneys. Brianna caught up with Joan and then Prince Edward snowed them both how to cast their birds more effectively and how to thread the jesses through their fingers to keep their hawks more secure while they rode through the forest.
When the sun was almost above them, they rode into a clearing that was suitable for their alfresco meal. The grooms took charge of their mounts, the falconers collected their birds, while the servants and the prince’s gentlemen laid out the tablecloths and food. Though there were only ten ladies hawking, the entire party, counting all their retainers, numbered over fifty.
When Princess Isabel arrived she made certain she was the center of attention. “Christian de Beauchamp saved my life!” she announced dramatically. “A wild boar almost gored my horse. He killed it with his bare hands.” She launched into a blow-by-blow reenactment, but when the hero came into the clearing, he looked no worse for wear. When he sat down on the ground between Brianna and Paddy, Isabel’s mouth became sulky. “I shall ruin my gown if I sit upon the grass. Lady Bedford, please go and fetch the saddlecloth from my palfrey.”
Brianna, quite accustomed to Isabel’s demands went off toward the horses. She was shocked when she saw the size of the boar slung across Hawksblood’s saddle, and though he had many weapons with him, there was neither blood nor wound-marks on the carcass. When she returned with the cloth of silver, Isabel occupied the spot she had vacated. Brianna felt relieved and sat down on the other side of Paddy.
Everyone was enjoying jacks of ale, cider, or mead. Everyone that is, except the princess. “Surely there is wine? Edward, whatever were you thinking of?” she complained.
“Bella, hawking is thirsty work. Wine doesn’t quench the thirst half so well as cider. Try the mead. No one else is complaining,” Edward said pointedly.
“Perhaps there is wine in my saddlebags, or mayhap one of the grooms brought some. Lady Bedford, please go and ask them.”
It was quite obvious to Christian Hawksblood that the princess was determined to ruin Brianna’s lunch. It only seemed fair for him to ruin Isabel’s.
When Brianna returned empty-handed, she caught sight of Hawksblood’s face. It was rapt with focused attention. His eyes glittered aquamarine as they stared at the princess.
Paddy handed Brianna a jack of mead. It was delicious; sweeter than honey. Isabel, however, thought differently. “Ugh! This mead is bitter. It must be rancid!” Her eyes narrowed. “Did someone put something in mine to spoil it? Here, Lady Bedford, taste this.”
Brianna sipped the mead and handed it back. “I think it’s delicious, Your Highness.”
Isabel tried it again. It was so bitter on her tongue, she spat it out. “Faugh! You must be mad.”
Brianna alternately watched Christian Hawksblood and Princess Isabel. Each time she selected an item of food, it tasted dreadful to her. For once, Brianna did not think Isabel was doing it to be difficult. She looked exactly as if everything she tasted was bitter as gall. Hawksblood had such a look of satisfaction on his dark face, Brianna suspected he had actually spoiled Isabel’s luncheon. She engaged Paddy in conversation. “Do you believe in the power of magic?”
“I’m Irish, Lady Bedford. Magic and casting spells are as real to me as the wind and the rain.”
“What of Arabians, Paddy?”
“Cock’s bones, they make us Irish look like amateurs.”
On an impulse, she asked, “Does Hawksblood have a name for his sword?”
“That he does, lady. His broadsword is Mortalité in name and in truth.”
Brianna caught her breath. It was the same as her dream. She had known it would be so!
“He has another sword named Maelstrom.” Paddy’s humor got the better of him. He leaned closer as if imparting a confidence. “He has a secret weapon. A curved scimitar we all refer to as Killbride.”
Brianna recoiled. She needed no one to tell her he was a dangerous devil. Her instincts did that.
“ ’Twas meant to amuse you, lady,” Paddy half-apologized.
She felt foolish and laughed with him. He was brimful of Irish blarney. “In truth, I don’t envy his bride. He just might kill her with fear.”
Christian and Edward moved apart from the ladies and stood laughing together. Princess Isabel decided she’d had enough of the great outdoors and declared everyone was to return to Windsor Castle. Most of the ladies trooped after her and the servants began to pack up the remnants of the meal. Brianna and Joan walked toward their horses. “Do you find Christian Hawksblood strange?” Brianna asked.
“Well, he certainly looks different from the other men today,” Joan agreed.
“I wasn’t exactly referring to his looks. I can’t really explain what I mean, I just have a feeling he has strange powe
rs.”
“Perhaps he has cast a spell upon you,” Joan teased.
Brianna lifted her chin. “He doesn’t attract me, he repels me!”
“He is most chivalrous, Brianna. Last night he rescued me from William de Montecute and escorted me safely home, whether I wished to be safe or not.”
“I saw you walking with him. Joan, I think we should both be more careful about being alone with men.”
“Oh ho! You were alone with Robert de Beauchamp and his wooing overstepped the boundaries! Isn’t love exciting?” Joan asked breathlessly.
Brianna smiled ruefully at Joan’s enthusiasm. She certainly didn’t find it exciting, but then again she didn’t think she had quite fallen in love yet. The girls were riding alone. Isabel and the rest of her ladies were long gone. The forest path narrowed, then forked. Brianna rode ahead of Joan, but when she turned to speak to her companion, Joan seemed to have disappeared. She called her friend’s name, but there was no reply, only a faint echo of her own voice.
The forest seemed strangely still and quiet as Brianna listened for the sounds of any members of the hawking party. Only an eerie silence met her ears. She touched her heels to her mare so it would quicken its pace. Nothing looked familiar as she cantered along and she began to suspect she was becoming hopelessly lost. A little bubble of panic arose in her breast as the woods seemed to become more dense.
What if a wild animal scented her horse? To be alone in the forest was foolish and unsafe. The silence made her more nervous than the cracking of twigs and the rustle of leaves would have done. Perhaps the uncanny stillness indicated a storm was brewing. She reached for her hunting horn. A sharp blast or two would soon alert someone. She looked down in dismay to see that her ivory and gold horn was missing. How could she have been so careless?”
Suddenly, she heard another horse approaching. Her knees felt weak with relief. Then she stiffened. Coming toward her through the dense trees was Christian Hawksblood. Slung around his neck was a crimson silk cord holding her ivory horn. He lifted his head like a predator scenting its prey. His dark, hawklike visage compelled her to flee.
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