With a cry from their leader, the four horsemen broke rank and swarmed the prince who had claimed my heart.
No! I howled my despair and rushed headlong into the fray with little thought and even less plan. Theirs were rudely made swords, heavy with iron. I could taste the metal all around me—blades, bucklers, even the shoes of their horses. I dodged a kick from one of the great beasts, and then the sound of blades clashing thrummed the air.
The brawling of men made me ill. At four against one, Alain stood no chance, yet he held his ground, twisting feverishly in his saddle as Sol danced under him with a warrior’s precision.
In this form, without the numbers of The Hunt as reinforcement, I had little advantage but distraction. And while I had no compunctions slaying brigands in their sleep, these men on horseback were beyond my reach. Thought of crippling the horses who fought only as their masters bid churned with a sickening thud in my gut. But as hard beset as Alain was, there was no choice. My jaws closed on tough tendon bringing a squeal from the horse attached. I clung on, crouching low as the rider’s sword cleaved the air not a handspan above my naked neck. I let go when the horse reared, rolling away from its iron-shod hooves.
I only just gained my feet when my frantic search found Alain swinging at one man while another’s sword flashed, cutting straight at his brow. A moment too slow he threw his buckler up to fend the blow and the sharp edge of the blade bit deep into his forearm. Hackles raised, I gathered myself…
Then suddenly Pel was there, his strong arm scattering the men before him like a berserker from legend.
He was breathtaking, spurred on by his brother’s peril, beating each man back with blows of battering ram force.
Alain rallied immediately, quickly gaining his brother’s side. Together they faced the four brigands, looking for all the world like the gods of Old returned to earth. Had I not already been their lover, I would have pledged myself their thane.
As it was, the brigands backed down before their onslaught, but not before one found courage to cry out, “Beware who you engage in combat. The Duke of Warwick won’t take kindly to your trespassing here.”
Alain sneered. “Remind His Grace that Pellam is king here, not he.”
“And what is that to you? Pellam’s men have not ridden these lands in years.”
“That doesn’t make you any the less subject to his rule. Though perchance that oversight is now being rectified.”
“Recti—? Who are you?”
“Pellam’s sons, the last we checked.”
“Then you’re—Your Highnesses, we didn’t know.” His tone changed abruptly from haughty to contrite.
“Ask for the proof of it,” hissed one of the men in an over-loud whisper from behind.
“Aside from his blood—which you’ve clearly shed enough to see—we bear the king’s ring, his seal, and letters signed by his hand. Indeed, if this is how Cynric treats all travelers, it would seem we need words for Your Grace’s ears alone. Take us to him.”
I whined, seeing blood dripping still from the cut to Alain’s arm. Too, the horse I’d put my teeth to bled from the leg it favored now.
Alain continued to stare down the duke’s man, but Pel heard me clear enough to take my meaning.
“After we’ve bound our cuts and caught our breaths, of course,” Pel said in a tone so reasonable it belied the dervish he’d been only moments before. “How far to Warwick?”
The duke’s man retreated from Alain’s challenge with a half bow. “We could be there before the moon sets tonight at a gallop. By tomorrow afternoon at a walk.”
Alain’s lips quirked into a wry grin. “As you say, it’s been some time since any of my father’s men tread here. There is nothing so urgent we need to be in your hold tonight.”
My own preference to not be confined within the walls of men notwithstanding, I applauded Alain’s consideration and restraint. If he could learn the art of discourse before brawling, he would make a fine king some day.
My heart, open though it could have been to any number of vagrancies, had chosen well, it seemed.
38. Alain
Weeks of travel with Pel and Brinn had almost made me forget what it meant to be a prince in my father’s lands. The deference shown by the men we rode with now should have been expected, my due. Instead, I felt nothing but distinct discomfort at allowing one to see to the gash in my arm and another to unsaddle Sol when we camped for the night. The horse’s startled pull at the reins said he’d been as surprised as me for another to see to his care. And I would have much preferred Pel’s sure hands on my wounded arm than some stranger’s.
Perhaps I was simply spoiled to the love and familiarity of two persons I was coming to know even better than my own self. Perhaps I was simply jealous of having to share time with these soldiers.
“It’s foolish thinking, I know,” I confided to Brinn in a whisper as we lay on my blanket on the far side of the fire from the others. “But I’d hoped for more time with you and Pel before being drawn back into the world. And to have Brinn the woman and not Brinn the Hound in my arms at night.”
She licked the tip of my nose at that, transfixing me with the memory of how her wise tongue could flame me to passion. Shifting uncomfortably on the blanket, I battled my body’s invariable response.
“Don’t tease.” I meant the words as reprimand; they came out a plea.
She stuck her tongue in my ear, flicking it intimately in and out of the sensitive channel, then gently running it along the inner rim before plunging it deep into the canal.
I gasped, and my breeches tented visibly.
“Stop it,” I insisted, struggling to keep my voice low. “What manner of man will they think me if they see me like this with a cur?”
She nuzzled into my neck and nipped the tender flesh where it met my shoulder, her green eyes laughing into mine. But she took it no further. In fact, she rose and padded the short distance to where Pel lay and curled against him. A better fit for tonight anyway, I thought, glad she’d be at hand to help quell the sway of The Beast if it drew near. Pel was already stretched thin by its constant presence.
The thrall he was under terrified me, lost to as he was at times. There had been sincere guilt in the apologies he offered at not coming more quickly to my defense earlier in the day. Never once, though, did he lay the blame at the feet of The Beast, damning himself instead for hesitating.
“As well damn the leashed dog for not hunting,” I had told him. But my words fell on a conviction of heart that could not be swayed.
I closed my eyes against the pain that soultruth knew was coming soon, and for now, slept in the surety of Brinn’s protective watch.
~ ~ ~
Warwick hold was solid and well-fortified, sitting atop a small hillock overlooking expansive pastures where herds of the small and sturdy cattle breed that had grown so popular grazed.
If I remembered my history rightly, my grandfather had gifted Warwick Keep to Cynric’s father in return for valor shown against the Danes at the Battle of Rhuddlan. What was now a squat and serviceable keep had been little more than a longhouse and some scattered buildings before Cynric’s father had taken up residence. Father and son had been busy since.
One of the knights had ridden ahead that morning to announce us, so the gates were open and waiting by the time we arrived.
A flustered-looking seneschal met us with apology. “His Grace went on a hunting holiday this morning, but has been summoned back. He should be here by dinner to greet you himself. “Meanwhile”—it didn’t need his practiced eye to see the state Pel and I were in—“our tailor waits to fit you with new garb, and the chirurgeon would be honored to examine your persons. As for your beautiful hound,” he cocked a bushy brow at Brinn, “His Grace keeps a kennel of prized wolfhounds. I’m certain the master there can accommodate one more.”
With a wicked wink toward Pel, I hesitated, as though contemplating whether to send Brinn to the kennels. She nudged the back of my
knee with her nose. When I looked down, she slitted her eyes, and a low growl rumbled in her throat.
“Insolent, isn’t she?” I said to the seneschal. “I’m afraid she’d make a miserable kennel ward. Probably teach His Grace’s dogs a few bad manners along the way. Best that the brat stays with us.”
With that, Brinn dropped her lovely flanks and pissed on my boot.
Pel didn’t even have the courtesy to pretend not to laugh.
Had it really been weeks since I’d known the luxury of a bath or felt the anticipated drape of an ungrimed tunic? Brinn watched as a young page tended the ritual for both Pel and me in the small bath house that would fit no more than five or six at capacity. It was private to us, given our rank, and the page offered no objection to the hound that had padded in with us.
”I’m sorry you must miss the bath,” I murmured in Brinn’s ear as the page carried away our clothing and Pel eased himself into the warm pool of water.
Eyes laughing, Brinn flicked her soft tongue across the tip of my shaft. It quivered as a lightning bolt of pleasure jolted through me. With a stern look at Brinn, I slapped my cock down and joined Pel in the water just as the page returned with fresh tunics and breeches.
Pel nodded toward the boy who unstoppered a flask of oil that he poured over a bit of lamb’s wool to rub into the cracks of our boots. “I had almost forgotten what it meant to be a prince and have others do for you.”
How could I miss the soulpain that deepened his face with creases no amount of oil could smooth?
“So why does all of this—” he shrugged his shoulders at the bath, the duke’s hospitality, maybe the world itself, “—make me so … uncomfortable?”
Not for the first time fear clutched my heart at the undertone of despair in my brother’s voice. As for the answer, he knew it as well as I. As well as Brinn.
She curled her paws over the pool’s ledge and strained to reach him, stretching shoulders, neck and muzzle across the water. But he was too distant for her to touch. And though he sat next to me, within the length of my arms, he was beyond my reach as well.
The warm water lapped over me, cleaning a summer’s worth of grime from my body, but it could do nothing to clean the stain spreading across my heart and soul.
39. Pel
“Of course Warwick’s still a part of Listeneise,” Cynric protested at sup that night as Alain and I sat at the high table while Brinn sprawled patiently at our feet. “I pledged my fealty to your father before either of you were born.”
Something about the way the compact, wiry man spoke made him seem more agitated than indignant.
“Fealty means more than a simple pledge.” Alain’s tone was measured and firm. “It’s your responsibility to contribute to the collective coffers if you want to enjoy the same privileges and protections as the other landholders under Pellam’s rule.”
“And what protections may those be? There are wolves always at our borders ready to attack. Where is Pellam to keep them at bay?”
“Where is your contribution of soldiers for the cause? Or the geld to pay for more border guards? King Pellam is outfitting a larger contingency to meet the growing threats. Expect a tax collector by All Saints Day to gather your percent of coinage and supplies due.” Alain leaned back in one of the few high-backed chairs in the hall, stressing the comfort of his station. “See that your men treat the king’s taxman better than they treated the king’s sons.”
I approved the ease of my brother’s words and the confidence in his manner.
Cynric’s clenched jaw made it clear he was unused to dealing with any authority other than his own. “And what will Pellam do now there’s a new High King? The young one seems eager to broker peace for the Isle.”
Alain nodded. “Peace is nothing less than what Pellam wants. What we want. We have guarded hoped for a unified future under Arthur, but as you note he’s young yet, inexperienced and unproven. If all it took was a dream of unification, Britain would have been at peace long before the Romans came.
“The issue, of course, has never been if we Britons want peace, but who we are willing to rally under. Each petty king has always demanded peace on his terms or no peace at all.”
“This Arthur is an acceptable term to Pellam, then?” Cynric asked.
Alain shrugged easily. “Father is willing to entertain him as a choice. He needs to prove himself worthy of the title High King, though, before any will pay him serious thought.”
“The druids stand behind him.”
“The druids are not Britain. Nor is Rome or Byzantium, even though pope and emperors would hail it victory should a Roman claim that throne—and hold it. Buying the title through timing and trickery is one thing, Maintaining it is another.”
“Trickery? You believe the stories then? Of magic and omen and the sword encased in stone?”
That gave not just Alain pause, but me as well. Before May Day—before Brinn—I had scoffed at the tales spun by druid bards. I could well see how the duke might not believe us any more than we’d believed those who sang the tales before Pellam and our court. Had we not seen the wonders of The Hunt and The Beast ourselves, would we have believed? How much stock were these men likely to give my claim that the very sword spelled to be given into the hands of the man destined to unify Britain had not only been cleaved in two, but that it was my hand that did the deed?
The wonder that was Brinn lay under the table nuzzling my ankle. As we were loathe to share her secret with brutish men, so was I loathe to share the secret of the sword with any man. I looked to Alain for his answer.
“I have heard many songs of the world’s beginning,” he said at last, having caught my eye, “each quite equally fantastic. It is impossible for all of them to be true, and possible none of them are how it came to be. But whether the songs themselves are true has no bearing on the fact the world exists here and now, and will continue to be no matter which song of beginning I choose to believe—or even if I choose to believe none at all.”
Chuckling, the duke raised his chalice in salute. “Well spoken, my prince!”
The others at table with us drummed their cups on the oaken boards in agreement. I caught a flash of red ears as Brinn abandoned my ankles to swipe an approving tongue at the elbow the wide sleeve of Alain’s borrowed tunic exposed.
“If the wisdom of Pellam’s son is indicative of the generation of sons ready to ascend the hundred thrones of Britain,” Cynric continued, “maybe this nation has a chance after all. Maybe—”
The clamor of dogs announced the arrival of a messenger who, escorted by the seneschal, came straight to the duke. “Your pardon.” The messenger bowed, nearly stumbling with fatigue.
“Granted, if the message is as urgent as your state would make it seem. Speak.”
“King Gyrd’s men are on the move. They’re headed here, no more than a day’s march out.”
“An attack?”
“We counted at least 600 foot, maybe 50 horse. It seems they mean to have your hold if not your lands with this.”
Cynric’s gaze flicked from the messenger’s to the seneschal’s. “How many men do we have here now?”
“Maybe 300 inside the walls. But that’s to include merchants and servants too. We could summon maybe 100 farmers by this time tomorrow. Another 100 more the day after.”
“Five hundred? That’s the best we can muster?”
“It’s been enough to keep the rogue wolves like Dinas at bay. Who would have foreseen Gyrd being able to muster so many and move so quietly and quickly?”
Cynric scowled before he returned his attention to the messenger. “Do they have machines?”
“Not with them. But neither did we see supply carts. Those and catapults could be a day behind.”
Cynric nodded grimly, then removed a thin gold band from his smallest finger and tossed it to the messenger. The knights to either side of Cynric were already pushing their trenchers aside and rising from the heavy oak table.
The duk
e rounded on us, his eyes black with stress. “Where is your father’s help now?” he demanded.
“A good three days distant,” Alain replied calmly. “Same as he was yesterday, same as he will be tomorrow.”
“And what protection is that?”
“As much as what you’ve paid into a ‘standing army’ these past years. Do you truly expect to reap where you haven’t sown?”
“I expect a king to protect his liegemen.” The words may have been strong, but there was no heart in them. It was a gamble he’d taken in amassing his little fiefdom here and treating it as palatine, where king’s law no longer ruled, and the consequence of losing that bet was now marching down on him.
Alain slipped a signet ring from his hand. The duke’s eyes widened at the gesture, and Brinn whined low and anxious. For a moment I ceased to breathe, not out of fear, for I was beyond that, but because I couldn’t be sure I could fulfill the vow Alain was about to make on my behalf. My actions were no longer mine. If The Beast were to beckon again…
I shuddered. My brother had almost died because I’d been too thralled to help him. Even now he and Brinn kept me always in one of their sights. For anything lesser I would have been angered at their constant attentiveness, would have bristled at its overbearing and intrusive nature. In the face of The Beast, though, I welcomed their oversight. But I also knew it bound us together in more than body, more than soul.
Whither thou goeth … It had become a life pledge between us, comforting in its sentimentality, but as a life choice gravely limiting.
“Take the ring to my father,” Alain told the duke. “Tell him his sons ask for aid.”
Shifters After Dark Box Set Page 115