So it was that Shana spent most of the afternoon in the great hall, hoping to catch a glimpse of Thorne when he arrived. She labored long and hard thinking about what to say to him; finally she came up with a message of thanks that would convey her gratitude over the matter of Will, yet leave her dignity intact. But her carefully rehearsed speech was never to be spoken.
Shouts went up as he rode through the gates. Peeking through the doorway, she spied him heading towards the stable. She did not rush out to greet him but lingered in the hall. She had no intention of letting him know she'd been waiting for him!
It wasn't long before he appeared, She sat on a bench near the fireplace, seemingly absorbed in her sewing. From the corner of her eye she saw him approach. She did not look up until he stood before her. Her pulse began to race long before he presented himself before her. Though he was travel stained and weary, to her dismay she could not help but note he was as wickedly handsome as ever.
"Milord!" She forced a benign smile. "I trust the king arrived at his hunting lodge without incident?"
"Why, 'tis odd you should say that, Lady Shana, for we did indeed meet with ill favor not an hour ago."
Only now did she chance to see that beneath his calm, his expression was chillingly hard. Her nerves were suddenly humming with expectancy. "What?" she said faintly, searching his face for some sign of what he meant. "Surely you were not attacked."
"Oh, but we were." She started to question him, but he was already drawing her up, a determined hand beneath her elbow. "Come, milady. I'll show you." She could hardly keep pace with him as he strode to the door which led into the bailey. There they halted.
"We were surprised, milady, by a group of Welsh raiders while crossing through the forest. They wore no armor, their only weapons were bows and javelins, but they fought as if the devil himself possessed their soul."
With a gasp she spied a straggly line of men being led across the bailey. Though their hands and feet were bound, their carriage was erect.
Her gaze veered back to Thorne. "What will you do with them?"
"They are traitors to the crown, princess. In some kingdoms they would be sent to their death at once."
Terror clutched at her insides. "No," she whispered. "No!"
His tone lacked all emotion. "I will not execute them, though 'tis what they deserve. But they will remain in the dungeon until this insurrection has passed." He waited for her to speak. When she did not, he prodded her. "Well, milady? Will you not revile me further? Wish upon me all the curses of the devil?"
"What would you have me say? Would you have me condemn my own people? They fight for independence, for freedom from the English noose around their neck. They fight because they believe 'tis better to die on their feet than live on bended knee to the English!"
His smile was devilish. "Soon, princess, you will be on bended knee to me, your lord and husband."
He left her standing there. Never, Shana told herself scathingly, never! She could not stand to be wed to this man whose monstrous conceit was exceeded only by his insolence.
It was then that the rash challenge she'd thrown at Gryffen rose high in her mind. I entered Langley once without his knowledge—I can leave the same way ...
Escape—that was it, she could escape! Her mind seized on the word. Excitement began to build within her. Four days. Could she possibly find a way out in four days?
But, alas, the right moment never came. Cedric no longer shadowed her like a huge mongrel, but she was seldom alone. Either the seamstress or the steward or one of the maids was always around, pressing her for some such decision about the wedding.
The day of the joust arrived, sunny and bright, the sky gloriously blue and cloudless. King Edward had returned last eve; he had sat by during the final fitting of her wedding gown, and it was he who had sent a maid to help her dress this morning. A feeling of utter helplessness welled up inside her. If she were to escape, it had to be today, else it would be too late! It was then that she happened to see Will leading two horses into the stable.
Exactly where the thought came from, she didn't know ... it was an idea rooted in desperation. She dismissed the maid and ran down the stairs and out into the bailey, which was nearly deserted. No one manned the forge; the marshal and his staff of stable hands were but a skeleton crew; the laundress and her helpers had abandoned the wooden laundry trough for the day, that all might watch the tourney.
Will was just coming out of the stable. She waved to him and hurried forward. "Will!"
His features were wary, but he waited for her. Shana silently rejoiced as she saw that the stable was empty but for the two of them. "Will! The horses you just brought in—will they be used in the tournament today?"
He looked at her rather oddly, then shook his head.
She pressed a finger to her lips and beckoned him close. "Will, I would ask a boon of you. I—I know you have no liking for me. No doubt you wish me gone from here." When he would have said something, she rushed on. "The king would push me into marriage with the earl, a marriage neither of us desires. Will, I would spare us both— the earl and myself—but I need your help."
He hesitated,' then said slowly, "What is it you want me to do?"
"Everyone gathers beyond the walls for the joust; there will be scarce a soul within the keep. Will, if you could leave these horses stabled here, Gryffen and I could leave and return to Wales. No one would know you were involved, I swear. I can make some excuse to return to my chamber, sneak back here and depart before anyone knows I am even gone! But you must let Sir Gryffen know my plan," she hastily considered, "and have him await me here after the earl's match." She paused, wordlessly beseeching him. "Will, I beg of you, for I have no one else to turn to. Will you help me in this?"
His reaction was not as enthusiastic as she'd hoped. "What will happen to me if Gryffen is gone? What if the earl decides not to keep me as his squire?"
Shana bit her lip. In truth, this was something she'd not considered. "Will, I must be honest. I pray that he has already seen your worthiness and he will continue with your training. But if you are unwilling to take the chance, then I would be more than glad to take you back to Merwen with us."
She held her breath and waited—waited endlessly, it seemed. At last the boy nodded. " 'Tis because of you the earl took me as his squire," he said slowly. "Aye, I will do it. I will leave the horses in the last stalls—there." He pointed to the rear of the stable. Shana would have liked to give him a hug, but she suspected he'd not accept it. She settled for a beaming smile and hurried back to her chamber before she was missed.
It wasn't long before one of the king's men came to escort her. Outside the walls, the landscape was a breathtaking maze of green and blue. The sun shone as if in approval, its radiance scattered over thick-set hedges and rolling hills. Color blazed in every direction. Tents and pavilions of vivid crimson, gold, and azure dotted the meadow. Brilliant silk banners whipped in the breeze, flaunting leopards and lions, eagles and falcons, roses and fleur-de-lis. Knights and destriers, squires and armor-bearers lined the field, sporting lances and helms beplumed and gleaming. Even the destriers were decked out in trappings of silk and plumed headdresses.
The held itself was in a lush meadow just beyond the soaring belfry of the village church. These past few days had seen the construction of a small stand for the spectators, as well as a canopied pavilion for the king. Groups of peasants crowded along the sidelines, anxious to catch a glimpse of their ruler.
Shana breathed a sigh of relief when Sir Quentin stepped up to take her hand. He was unable to participate in the tourney because of a wrenched knee. Beside rum was one of the newly arrived guests of King Edward. With raven-dark hair, shining wine-red lips, and brilliant green eyes, she was by far the most beautiful woman Shana had ever seen.
Sir Quentin introduced the two. "Milady, may I present Lady Alice, widow of the late Earl of Ashton. Lady Alice, this is Shana, Princess of Wales."
A smile of greet
ing warmed Shana's lips, for she was determined to be gracious—the lady herself banished the inclination.
Those sea-green eyes scrutinized her from head to toe, leaving her with the sensation she had just been thoroughly, summarily dismissed. "So you are the one Edward has determined Thorne shall wed," Alice murmured at last. "We do hear tales about the wild savage Welsh." She laughed, a tittering sound carried away by the wind, yet there was within that tinkling laugh something brittle and sharp, something that caused a prickle of warning in Shana. "Mayhap it shall not be such a bizarre match after all," the lady went on to say. "Thorne can be quite the barbarian in bed, you know—"
Shana was too shocked to make a reply. Sir Quentin hastily pulled her away. "Pay no mind to her, milady. Lady Alice is known for her outspokenness—and sometimes for speaking less than tactfully." So saying, he began to lead her toward the stands. Shana recovered quickly, insisting they take a place on the first bench out of deference to his injured knee.
The air was teeming with excitement, for spirits were jubilant indeed. Sir Quentin explained how King Edward had declared there would be no captives or ransoms taken this day; the joust was for sport only between single combatants.
Shana nodded. He raised a brow when he discovered her eyes still upon him a moment later. "Is something on your mind, milady?"
Shana was rather embarrassed that she'd been so transparent. She smiled weakly. "Nothing of which I can speak freely, I'm afraid."
"Come now," he teased. "Surely I am not so very fearsome."
"You are not fearsome at all," she admitted.
"Well, then, there is no need to bite your tongue."
"I suppose you are right," she murmured Encouraged by his warmth, she gathered her courage in hand. "I—I must confess. Sir Quentin, I find myself curious as to why you've not yet taken a wife. Or am I wrong and you do have a wife who waits for you as Thorne in ..."
"Hargrove," he supplied. "And no, milady, naught but a cold hearth awaits me there," he gave a low laugh, "for I've not yet found the woman who will have a rogue such as myself."
Shana smiled. "A rogue? You do yourself a disservice, sir, for you are a gentleman and a man of honor. That was evident that night on the wall-walk with Lord Newbury and the earl when you played the role of diplomat so well."
Sir Quentin's expression tightened ever so slightly; Shana did not notice.
"Where, sir, is Hargrove?"
"Hargrove lies an hour's ride south of here, milady, 'tis a modest manor bestowed to me by the late Lord Montgomery."
Shana's smile slipped. "So," she said quietly. "If the king awards Langley to Thorne, you will be his vassal."
"So it would seem," he said lightly. "But who can truly say, for I've learned 'tis better to expect the unexpected. Indeed," he went on, "there are those who humbly accept their fate—and those who seek to change it."
Shana frowned, for she did not fully understand his meaning. But she had no chance to query him further, and then the thought was lost as trumpets blared and drums rolled. All fell silent as a herald stepped up to recite the rules to be observed by each of the combatants. They would fight with blunted lance tip and seek to unseat their opponent, and there would be neither malice nor murder. King Edward then rose, and with a grand gesture, signaled the games to begin.
The first two contestants took the field. One was Sir Geoffrey, the other a knight unknown to Shana. A hush fell over the crowd as the pair took their places at opposite ends of the field. At a signal from the field marshal, they were off, barreling straight for one another. Dust, earth, and grass flew from beneath thundering hooves; dust billowed heavenward. A deafening roar went up when Sir Geoffrey's opponent was unseated on the very first pass.
Over and over again the scene was replayed, but Shana did not join in the raucous cheering. She experienced no elation as the spectacle unfolded before her, only a despairing heartache, for these knights but played at war ...
When next they battled it would be with men of Wales.
Thorne was present at the far end of the field, the power of his masculine presence such that he stood out from all the others. Her gaze was drawn to him again and again, though she willed it not. Over his armor he wore a plain black sleeveless surcoat. Her traitorous mind betrayed her still further, for there was a part of her that saw in him a dashing knight—bold and masculine, mighty and invincible.
A tap on the shoulder drew her attention. She rose instinctively when she beheld the king standing at her side.
"The earl is next on the lists," he told her, then smiled. "You will be a most beautiful bride, Shana." He did not mock her—oh, if only he did, for then she might have summoned a willing defiance.
Sudden tears stung her eyes. She turned her head aside and damned her weakness, though she refused to hide her bitterness. "Sire, I will be a most unwilling bride."
He merely smiled and shrugged, in that shrewd way he had.
"You could stop this marriage if you would, Sire."
"I could," he agreed, taking her hand within his. "But we both know that I will not, for I would seek an honorable peace from your uncles. Power and might, my dear, is often forged from skillful alliance."
"Skillful?" Her laughter held no mirth. "Your Grace, 'twill be a most outrageous alliance."
A hint of coldness entered his eyes. Only then did Shana realize how rashly she spoke. What would she do if he demanded an apology? She would surely burn in hell, for foolish though it was, she knew she would make none.
But it seemed she was to be spared by a most unwelcome source. All at once Thorne's destrier had appeared behind the king. Edward noticed the direction of her eyes and hailed him with raised brows. "Thorne, I do believe you have found a most worthy opponent," he called out.
Shana stiffened, expecting Thorne to tip his lance forward for her favor. In what was certainly a breach of custom, Thorne handed his lance to his squire and dismounted. Her jaw tensed as he came straight toward her, his lips curled in an arrogant smile as he stopped before her. The king merely laughed and transferred her hand to the earl's gloved fingers.
Shana sought to snatch her hand back but he would not allow it. He pulled her slightly away from the stands so that they stood alone. Their eyes collided as he drew her fingers to his lips. "Milady," he murmured. "I beg some token of your devotion—for luck—before I take my place on the field."
Beg? Oh, if only! But alas, she knew better—it was no less than a demand! Yet even as she straightened with resentment, a shiver tore through her at the feel of his lips warm upon her flesh—revulsion, she assured herself. "A dagger 'twixt the ribs?" she suggested.
Oh, she smiled with sweet malice. He allowed her this bit of impertinence, for it would not last beyond the morrow.
He bent his head low. "Princess, 'tis well and good that you speak for my ears alone. But I have in mind something of a more personal nature."
Her smile withered. It was customary for a lady to give her veil as a sign of favor, that the knight might wear it on the field. Her temper simmered, for 'twas his fault she had none to wear! "As you can see," she said coolly, "I have none to give."
His regard was brash and insolent. "Then you leave me no choice but to take my own." He leaned close.
She gasped as she gleaned his intent, catching at his shoulders. "Nay!" she cried in alarm. "Mother of Christ, not here, in front of everyone."
"Why not, I say?" His breath dammed his throat, for by the blood of Christ, she was lovely. Thorne's gaze lingered on the rapidly blooming color in her cheeks. The gown was one of her own, a deep purple that brought out the silver in her eyes. Her neck was long and fragile, her hair bound high in a golden coronet atop her crown.
"You liked it well enough when I kissed you the night on the wall-walk." His lips curved in a faint smile. "I felt it in the quiver of your lips against mine ... the way you melted against me as if your legs could no longer hold you."
She cringed, for wrapped in his tone was the unmistakable
sound of laughter. "You were sotted!" she accused in a whisper.
Not so sotted that he didn't remember exactly how she had tasted—like spring rain upon dry, barren earth—and how her softness molded his hardness as if they'd been made for each other. His arms closed hard about her slender form, dragging her close. A low laugh sounded in his throat at her gasp of surprise, and then his mouth was on hers, sealing her parted lips like a brand of hottest fire.
It was over almost before it began. He smiled, for her eyes were still open, her lovely features more dazed than horrified. He ran a steel-gloved finger down the tip of her nose. "Take heart, princess," he told her lightly. "At least I'll not make you a widow before you are a wife."
Shana's lips still throbbed from his searing possession, but a ready anger stirred to the fore. By God, she would not stay after such an unseemly display! ... But she did. She couldn't look away as he mounted his destrier, a massive chestnut. His squire handed him his helmet and shield. He lowered the visor, his gaze still commanding hers. Then like a gust of wind, he wheeled his mount. The crowd parted to make way for him like the sea at Moses's command.
It was Sir Quentin who pulled her back to the bench. Some tiny sound escaped as she saw that Thorne's opponent was Lord Newbury. The pair couched their lances and the marshal gave the signal.
Thundering hoofbeats rent the air, making her cringe. The destriers charged at full gallop, two great beasts racing headlong toward the other. Shana, unable to withhold a small cry, half rose from her seat as Newbury's lance crashed into
Thorne's shield.
"Ho!" Sir Quentin observed with zest. "He did not even lose his stirrups!"
Shana's gaze was fixed sharply on Lord Newbury. His lips were contorted, his features arresting and intent, his eyes glittering and emotionless. She shivered, for she sensed in Newbury a desire for violence.
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