Faerie

by Jacobs Delle

  The boy worked his face into a solemn frown and got down on his knees.

  “What we have seen here today must not be told, for the sake of all those we protect. We shall come up with a suitable lie. A battle with an incursion across the border, in which Fulk was killed. That would do it. The Scots won’t like it, but how can they tell one border raid from another? We shall claim a whirlwind caught us up, which it most certainly did, and it was by God’s grace we survived, which is most certainly true. But we were lost and wandered until we all chanced to meet in time to do battle.”

  The hands joined, one atop another, in the center of the circle. Philippe sighed his relief, anxious to get Leonie back to safety where she could rest.

  “And now you, you rapscallion,” Rufus said to Sigge. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

  Sigge’s face fell. “I’m sorry, Sire. Whatever it was I did.”

  “You are sorry for saving your king’s life? Then you are not the boy I thought you were. Where is that audacious lad? It cannot be this one. How could such a lad become a knight?”

  “I—”

  “A blacksmith’s son? It is not done.”

  “But my grandfather—”

  “A traitor. You, however, are not that man. Nor was your father, whose honor and integrity are beyond question. But you are half Saxon. And still a blacksmith’s son. They will not accept you. They will harass you and brutalize you. You will have no friends.”

  “I don’t care, Beau Sire. I’ll be the best knight there ever was, and I’ll never, ever let you down.”

  “But you must first be a page.”

  “I’ll take him.” The Bishop of Durham and the Earl of Northumbria spoke at once.

  “He’s mine,” Philippe said. “My lady has already spoken for him, and I must honor that.”

  For the first time that day, the Bishop of Durham smiled. “Fulk has no heirs, nor wife. It would please him to have such a brave, loyal lad as his heir.”

  “Hm. Well, I shall think on that. You would have to take the land in tenancy. And he needs a Norman name. Ah, I have it. His father’s Norman name, which he gave up so many years ago. Emilien. One who seeks the highest cause. You’d best live up to it, boy.”

  Sigge-Emilien screamed his joy. But Philippe caught him around the mouth with his hand. “Decorum, Emilien. On your knees quickly and kiss the hand of your monarch.”

  Philippe left the king and his vassals and at last turned back to his beloved. She sat on the grass where only minutes before a battle had raged and she had fought for her own life. Alive and smiling, though fatigue still held its grip on her, she held up her hand to him. He lifted her to standing and into his embrace. There were no words, no way to say his deep emotions, how desperately he wanted her, forever.

  “It’s over.” Her golden hair, her scalp wet with perspiration, rested against his chest.

  “I love you, for all that you are, forever. It’s good that we still have company so you can rest...for now. Already I hunger for you so desperately that I would take you now if they were not here.” He could not stop caressing her, her face, her hair, her back, nor quit the kisses wherever he could find a place for them.

  “I am well now. I love you, my Philippe. Forever.” Her caresses were as urgent as his.

  “Don’t they talk to each other?” Rufus said.

  “Methinks they are talking,” said de Mowbray. “Haps, not with words.”

  Rufus harrumphed. “Those two need a bed.”

  De Mowbray burst into a raucous laugh. “I know just the place. Ilse, my lass, fly them off to Bamburgh, where there’s a chamber fit enough for an Annwyn King and his Faerie bride.”

  Ilse’s wild, switch-like tail swung so hard her hips went with it. She whined and bounced with eagerness for the flight.

  Philippe laughed. “Sorry, girl. I know how you love to fly. But I have another idea. Sire, if you’ll see the boy back to Bosewood, I think you can all manage without us for a few days.”

  “Aye,” said Rufus. “Likely Malcolm’s been set back a bit without Fulk. But where are you going?”

  Philippe grinned back at his king. “I know a beautiful valley where it’s always summer.”

  “Not again,” de Mowbray said with a groan. “I suppose you’ll be wanting me to meet you.”

  “Send Ilse for us.”

  Philippe could have done it with a mere thought, but he waved his hand in a wide circle to build a portal. Now that he knew how it was done, they would not have to bother with long walks through caves. Taking Leonie’s hand, they stepped inside.

  And out to a green meadow, sheltered by tall mountains and blossoming with checkered lilies and red poppies. Hand in hand, they approached the villa with its red-tiled roof and brightly colored walls, stretched out atop the low hill, surrounded by its orchard of ever blooming and ripening fruits.

  At the terrace decorated with festoons of purple grapes, Philippe stopped and moved his arm to her waist. Her lithe body leaned into his as her arm embraced him. Hungry desire was already consuming him.

  “Ah, glorious husband, it is such a beautiful place you’ve made.”

  He laughed. “Glorious, am I?”

  “Oh, most glorious,” she replied.

  Behind the villa, the cascades he had barely noticed the last time tumbled with a soothing murmur into the lake. His thoughts had been of the steaming bath inside and how many ways they could make love in it, but he suspected the newly decorated terrace with its stone benches draped in heavy tapestries and topped with thick, tasseled pillows must have come from her thoughts.

  Or did it need both of them together to make this place?

  “Then, precious bride—for you are most precious to me—what else would you like?”

  She smiled up at him. “It needs music, I think. From a bard’s harp.”

  From inside the villa, tones rising then falling like the cascades of water, echoing off the marble walls, came the warm, mellow music of a harp.

  THE END

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  THE DAYS HAVE passed when an author penned his story alone, unguided by any but his muse. Now writers share with others—critique partners, focus groups, editors, friends who do what we call cold reads, and—now that there are e-books—fans and reviewers who interact with writers in ways they never could before. I’m so grateful to all those who helped me get this book the way I wanted it.

  To Heather Hiestand for great plot-storming, Sophia Johnson for her vivid feel for the medieval paranormal romance, Barbara Rae Robinson for her nitpickiness, and Vonnie Alto and SamMarie Ashe for unfailing support. To Rowena Williamson for sharing her Scottish Deerhounds with me. To the Wet Noodle Posse for their thorough and ceaseless flogging. And most of all, to Eleni Caminis and the author team at Montlake who do such a marvelous job of making a book blossom.

  Many, many thanks.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  A NATIVE OF Illinois, Delle Jacobs has been crafting stories since the tender age of four. She earned a degree in geography from the University of Oklahoma and worked as a cartographer until eventually becoming a social worker specializing in troubled teens and families. Everything changed, however, once she began writing books in 1993, and by 2004, literary success convinced her to quit her day job and focus full time on writing. She is a seven-time finalist for the Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart Award, which she won an unprecedented three times, in addition to numerous other writing awards for her novels, including His Majesty, the Prince of Toads, Lady Wicked, Sins of the Heart, and Aphrodite’s Brew. Along the way she discovered a knack for designing e-book covers, which is a great way to get her creative juices flowing when her book characters are being particularly uncooperative. She lives today in southwest Washington State with her family.

 

 

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