Immortal Champion

by Lisa Hendrix

  “I would never needlessly harm a good animal,” Henry protested. His offended look shifted to one of mischief. “And you can confirm that, once they get her back.”

  Lucy half groaned, half laughed. “The poor groom. She’ll have him thrashed.”

  “I made it seem the beast chewed through her tether. But if Anne insists on blaming the boy, I will confess my sins. They are already so many, this one will make little difference.” His gaze traveled down to her breasts and back up. “And my sins will likely be more if I spend more time in these woods with you.”

  Lucy grew suddenly aware of how very alone they were, for having so many people nearby—far more alone than they had been in the garden, where the men on the walls could have heard her if she cried out. Lady Eleanor and the others were well gone, and the leaves muffled the sound of the revels, leaving them fainter than the buzz of the midges in the bushes. True privacy was such a rare thing in her life. Excitement thrilled through her, heated her blood.

  “We should go, my lord.” She took a step toward the path. “This way.”

  “This way, you say?” He started forward, then grabbed both her hands and tugged her around. “Or was it this?” As she started to laugh, he spun her the other direction. “Or this?” All the way ’round again. “Oh, no. This is it.”

  She was laughing so hard by now, she could hardly stand. She grabbed at his cote. “Stop, my lord. Stop.”

  He stopped quickly, his hands at her waist to steady her. With eyes locked on hers, he pulled her close.

  She ducked around him and darted off.

  “Ah, that way,” he shouted, hard on her heels.

  She might have outrun him if the path had been wider, but her gown caught on branches and brambles, and within a few paces, he had her. He spun her around and carried her back against the wide trunk of a tree, his body hard against hers, holding her there.

  He skimmed kisses over her face, his breath warming her skin, his lips grazing cheeks, temple, brow in turn before lingering a hair’s breadth from her mouth. “I have captured you twice now. I demand ransom.”

  She turned her head, so his kiss landed on her cheek. “I will not pay, sir.”

  He pulled away to squint at her. “Why not?”

  “Paying the ransom would mean you must release me.”

  His squint narrowed, crinkled into a wolfish smile, and he gently cupped her chin to turn her face to his. “We shall negotiate that.”

  She didn’t turn away this time, instead meeting his kiss head on, following his lead as he showed her how she might convince him. Her heart pounded in her ears, so loud she was sure he must hear, and indeed, he kissed his way down to where the pulse throbbed in her throat.

  “Don’t be afraid, fair Lucy.”

  “I am not.”

  It was a lie. She was terrified. It was a dangerous game, this, with no possible loser but she. She’d been thinking about nothing else since those moments in the garden. And yet she was elated, too, and when he shifted back her mouth, she threaded her arms around him, opened to his teasing tongue, and relished his groan.

  They hung there against the tree, their kisses going from gentle to feverish and back again. Henry’s hands began to wander, smoothing the length of her arms, measuring the span of her waist. Once again, he kissed his way down her neck, nuzzling aside the edge of her gown to nip at her shoulder before he moved lower.

  The heat built in Lucy’s blood as her imagination raced ahead. Breasts. He would find her breasts next, unlace her gown, and push it aside for his lips. Her nipples tightened, ready, and she knew, knew how wonderful it would be.

  And she knew she couldn’t let it happen. “Stop, my lord. Please.”

  “Ah, Lucy, I cannot.” He held her pinned with one hand while the other came up to cup one breast and round it. He traced its upper curve with his tongue. “I want you so very much. Come deeper into the woods and lie with me.”

  She threaded her fingers into his hair. Temptation whispered in her ear, urging her to pull his head down, to lift to his searching mouth, to say yes.

  “No.” She tugged his head up. “No.”

  He shifted his kisses to her mouth. “I hear your words.” Kiss. “But they make no sense.” Kiss. “When your lips say yes.”

  “I do much enjoy your kisses,” she admitted. “But—”

  He stopped her mouth with another kiss, then found his way to her ear where he did some wondrous thing with his tongue that made her breasts ache for the same attention. She sighed.

  “You will enjoy the rest as well,” he whispered with the voice of a fallen angel. “We will find much pleasure together, I promise. Say yes, Lucy.”

  “No. No, and forever, no.” She tightened her grip on his hair and yanked.

  “Ow!” In a flash, he grabbed her wrists and pinned them to the tree above her head. His eyes glittered with a mix of amusement and anger. “You dare hurt me, wench?”

  “As you would hurt me, my lord.”

  He kissed her again, long and slow, releasing her hands and guiding them around his neck. “I would never harm you, Lucy-fair.”

  No, he wouldn’t, not that way. For all his efforts to lift her skirts, Henry Percy was a good man. She felt it. She could see it his eyes. Ah, la, Lady Eleanor was right. “But you would.”

  “How?” He put a hand on either side and pushed away to look down at her. “How could I?”

  “By taking the only thing of value I have in this world and giving me nothing in return.”

  “I would give you my heart.” He flushed and fidgeted, as uncomfortable as a boy kneeling for confession. “I think you may already own it.”

  Lucy blinked furiously at the tears that welled up, unwilling to let him see that it was those words she both wanted and feared most of all. She strove to keep her voice light. “Little good it will do me. I am a bastard daughter of a second son and you … you are Percy of Northumberland.”

  “That means nothing just now.”

  “It will again, and when it does, I will find myself in possession of a heart far too high to take notice of someone of my station.”

  “Never. We are meant for each other.” He cupped her jaw, his thumb stroking her cheek. “Can you not feel it?”

  Oh, yes. “What I feel is of no matter.”

  “Then you do feel it.”

  She tugged his hand away. “When I marry, if I marry, it will be to some small knight or merchant who doesn’t mind a bastard wife with no land and only a small dowry. When you marry, it will be to someone high. Someone like my lady.”

  “Your lady would be a bastard once removed, but for Parliament and the Pope,” he reminded her. “And I am a small knight, with nothing but my horse.”

  “But you will have Alnwick and the whole of Northumberland back one day, and with it a well-born bride from whom you will expect chastity.” She watched his eyes as her truth struck home. “I owe the same chastity to my husband, whoever he may be, and I owe him my heart as well, if I can give it. If I present either to you, they will be gone forever.” She swallowed hard against the lump that swelled in her throat and stepped away from the tree. “I am not for you.”

  When she looked back at him, his face was impassive. “We should rejoin the others.”

  He motioned her to go first, and she stepped past him and somehow put one foot in front of the other to lead the way through the strip of woodland that separated the two meadows. As they stepped out into the sunlight, she saw the group at the far side of the lea and sighed. Safe at last.

  The thought had no sooner formed in her head than Henry’s fingers closed over her shoulders. He pulled her back against him and put his mouth by her ear. “You are for me, Lucy-fair. Hear me and know it. And know as well that I will do whatever I must to have you.”

  He released her, and she fled.

  SOMETHING HAD PASSED between Henry Percy and Lucy, that was certain. Eleanor took comfort in the knowledge that they hadn’t been alone long enough for anything
too rash—unless Henry had been an utter knave and forced himself on her, in which case Eleanor would personally see him lashed.

  But Lucy bore no signs of struggle on her, nor any marks at all that Eleanor could see, except a mossy twig stuck in her hair, and she could’ve gotten that simply by walking through the woods. It was her wide-eyed distraction and the way she avoided Henry that hinted of more than a walk.

  Eleanor desperately wanted to know whether the more had been good or bad, but with the others around, it was impossible to pry. After an unsuccessful attempt to lure Lucy off to one side—Mary interrupted with a request for Lucy’s aid with a string game, a move which Eleanor suspected was deliberate—she decided to set aside her curiosity for later when she had Lucy alone in chamber. For now, she would lie back, pretend she didn’t care that Sir Gunnar was missing, and enjoy the rest of the afternoon.

  And a glorious afternoon it was, without Queen Anne to cloud it, full of sun and games and copious amounts of Portuguese wine that Raffin’s man Cedric had liberated from Her Grace’s stock. Late in the day, the bigger boys wanted to joust with reeds, so Henry and Raffin took them off to the other side of the lea, along with the younger ones to play at squire and varlets to serve as mounts.

  As Eleanor wove together a few flowers, Mary coaxed Lucy into singing. Sadly, she was too distracted by avoiding Henry’s looks to keep to the song. When she forgot the words for the fifth time, Mary signaled for her to stop.

  Red-faced, Lucy twisted her hands in her lap. “Your pardon, my lady. Perhaps a different song.”

  “I don’t think that will solve the problem,” said Eleanor.

  “It is not entirely Lucy’s fault,” said Mary. “The men are quite noisy. I do wish they’d gone off farther.”

  “No you don’t,” said Eleanor. “If anything, you’d rather they were closer, the better to watch Raffin pose for you.”

  Mary turned nearly as red as Lucy. “He does not pose, for me or anyone.”

  “He does, and you enjoy it,” countered Eleanor, laughing now. The budding affection between Mary and Raffin pleased everyone around them, even if neither of them wanted to admit to it. Their marriage had been contracted long ago as a way to consolidate the Ferrers fortune, to which Mary was heir, with the Neville. The king himself had promoted the match as yet another boon of the Neville-Beaufort alliance. Since they had entirely different parents, the Church had no complaints—but then it seldom did when fortunes were involved, a fact to which Eleanor’s own betrothal was witness. At least Mary would like her husband. “Go on. You can be the gallery and cheer for them.”

  “I suppose we may as well, as little peace as we have.” The eagerness with which Mary rose betrayed the interest she pretended not to have. “Come along, everyone.”

  Lucy and the others got up, too, but Eleanor stayed seated. “You go ahead. I want to finish this.” She held up the golden circlet of dent-de-lions she was weaving. “Tell them the champion shall have a golden crown.”

  They all set off except Lucy, who came back over and began collecting stray blossoms into a nosegay.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Staying here with you.”

  Eleanor was torn. She could take advantage of the time apart to quiz Lucy, or she could send her over near Henry—where it seemed she wanted to go, if those sidelong glances were any sign. Ah, well, there was always tonight. “There’s no need for you to stay. Go. Enjoy yourself.”

  “And leave you alone?”

  “I can hardly be alone in a meadow full of people. You will not even be out of my sight.”

  “But—”

  Eleanor flapped her hand at her. “Go, I say.”

  “Yes, my lady.” Lucy heaved a sigh that made it sound like she didn’t want to go after all, then hurried to catch up with the others.

  Apparently Lucy was as confused about what had happened with Henry as Eleanor was. Fortunately, Henry himself seemed not at all confused, flashing a broad grin as Lucy came across the field behind Mary.

  Satisfied that she’d done the right thing, Eleanor quickly wove in the last of the yellow dent-de-lions, set the completed crown aside, and lay back to enjoy her free moment.

  Lulled by the sun-warmed cloth, the gentle buzz of the bees in the flowers, and the wine, she soon hung on the edge of sleep, her thoughts wandering unformed until they drifted into dream. An odd noise tugged at her, but not enough to rouse her, and in her dream, Carolus crawled out of a bee skep and began to tell of the bull that loved a maid.

  The noise came again, louder now, a low, snuffling sound that drew her away from the story. Lazily, she rolled her head to the right and cracked one eye.

  A bull, the one in the story she was sure, stood in the shadows at the edge of the wood, not a dozen yards away, looking at her. In her dream, Eleanor smiled at how clear it all was and sat up to have a better look.

  He was an imposing beast, all blocky head and broad, muscled chest, with streaks of red in his curly yellow pelt. He would be terrifying if it weren’t a dream, but it was a dream, because Lucy would surely be screaming if it weren’t and because she could still hear Carolus’s soothing voice. Cradled in that certainty, she picked up the crown of flowers meant for a champion and climbed to her feet.

  Noble. Gentle. A god in disguise. Carolus’s words followed her into the shadows and right up to the bull, where she carefully hung the crown over one dagger-sharp horn. The beast lowered his head, bowing to her, and the motion exposed his withers and the terrible scars that marked him. Eleanor gasped.

  “Who did this to you?” she whispered, but of course he didn’t answer, for bulls don’t speak, even in dreams. The scars striped him all the way down his back, like some monstrous whip had torn him over and over. That any beast, even one disguising a god and in a dream, could take such cruel punishment and still have such a sweet spirit was a remarkable thing. Touched by his dignity, she knelt in a deep courtesy.

  The bull lowed, a mellow, plaintive sound, and stepped closer still, so close she could smell the grass on his breath and see the dark centers of his eyes. Unnerved, Eleanor put out a hand to fend him off, and as she touched him, an odd wave of contentment swept over her, so strong it washed everything else away, even Carolus’s honeyed voice, leaving her afloat in some strange world that included only her and the bull and a deep sense of calm.

  So when the great beast slowly lowered himself to his knees, it seemed natural. Proper.

  “Zeus,” she whispered, and still caught up in the thrall of the dream, climbed onto his broad, scarred back and let him carry her away.

  CHAPTER 11

  ELEANOR CAME BACK to herself with a start.

  God’s toes, what was she doing? Heart racing, she slid off the bull’s back and scrambled away. He swung his head to look back at her and plodded on, unconcerned.

  It seemed so dark. How long had she been riding that fool beast? More of the dream-thrall melted away and she realized with a shock how deep in the woods she must be, how very far off the path. Could he have carried her as far as the demesne forest?

  She spun in circles, trying to get her bearings, but the trees grew so rank their branches blocked all but small patches of the sky, and after such a wet winter, every trunk hung thick with moss, confounding her efforts to tell north from south.

  A branch snapped, and she jumped, but it was only the bull, still moving off into the murk. Beyond him, though, a faint glow painted the spaces between the trees. Hoping the bull knew where he was going, and that she wasn’t being even a bigger fool than she already had been, she fought back the panic and followed him toward the light.

  It was with a deep sense of relief that she hurried out into a narrow glade. Overhead, the scattered clouds glowed with the red and gold of sunset. Oh, good, west was that—

  She froze.

  Facing her, looking not at all gentle or noble, was the bull, who now appeared bloodred beneath the sunset sky, even to his glittering eyes. He pawed the ground and snorted
, and she backed up quickly in the direction she’d come.

  A scream behind her drove her forward again before she realized it was only a magpie on a low branch behind her. The bull lunged forward, a short feint. With a shriek, Eleanor scrambled behind the nearest tree, startling the magpie, which swooped down off his branch and fluttered around her head screeching like a mad thing. The bull lowered his head and charged.

  Halfway across the glade, he crumpled, his legs going out from under him as though bow-shot. He hit the ground with a crash that shook the earth and lay there in a heap, shuddering and moaning.

  The bull began to transform before her, his hulk spasming and shrinking as though the clay of his body were being wrenched away by some unseen hand. Hooves and horns receded, muzzle shortened, body deformed and flattened. His moans rose to an unnatural keening, a sound of such despair and agony that it sent terror streaming through Eleanor. Horrified, she tried to tear her eyes away, but she couldn’t, any more than she could move, or scream, or even breathe. All she could do was watch, aghast, as the bull vanished, gradually replaced by what lay within.

  Not a god at all, but a man. Then he arched back and she saw his face clearly, contorted in pain, and the truth slammed through her.

  Gunnar.

  An anguished howl tore from his throat and he writhed as though being held to the flames of perdition. Eleanor dug her nails into her palms, silently pleading for the agony to stop, for whatever terrible power gripped him to release him. Finally, an eternity later, he collapsed, limp and unmoving, with only the sound of his groans to say he lived.

  Tears streamed down her cheeks as she struggled with what she’d just seen. A bull become a man? Her mind rejected the very idea. It must be her dream turned nightmare, all part of the same madness that had carried her here to this forsaken place.

  But no, she was awake now. That was one of the few things she was certain of. She didn’t even have to pinch herself to know; the sting of her torn palms told her this was no dream.