by Jaye Peaches
“Why,” she said, “it’s a merlin.” The sleek blue feathers ran down to its tail, while under its belly, the white breast was flecked with acorn brown.
“And yours,” he said.
She covered her mouth, bottling her exclamation of delight.
“You like her?” he asked.
“I do.” She beamed up at Gervais and he reflected her smile with one of his own.
“She’s already trained by my falconer, so all you have to do is teach her to respond to your calls.” He signalled to Tobias, the falconer, who stepped forward.
Tobias exchanged the long mews jesses that kept the merlin tethered to her perch, for shorter ones for hunting. The thin leather straps were attached by an anklet to each leg, then in turn to a field leash, which would link to a glove. Gervais chose a leather gauntlet for Tilda and she slipped it onto her right hand. Tobias handed her a small piece of meat, and she held it by the perch between her finger and thumb. The merlin obediently hopped from the perch to her hand. She weighed little compared to the larger saker. The bird tore at the strip of meat with her beak and pecked enthusiastically.
“It’s important to keep them lean and hungry, my lady,” Tobias said. “Or else they’ll never come back when released to fly.”
“She’s well manned then?” Matilda asked.
“Indeed, my lady. You know something of falconry?” Tobias asked.
“A little. I watched my father manning—training a new falcon—and paid attention. Can we fly her? Oh, please, my lord.”
Gervais pursed his lips. “I suppose.”
The merlin was returned to its perch while the horses were brought round from the stables. Tilda mounted her mare, a gentle palfrey befitting her stature, and Gervais his gelding, and they rode out of the castle, down the paths to the meadow. Behind them followed Tobias and his assistants, each carrying a small perch and bird.
She watched Gervais first with his saker, and he explained his actions succinctly. He lifted his arm and the saker took flight. The bird soared and swooped down on a small rabbit emerging from a warren hole. The fight was brief; the rabbit lost.
“I shall call mine... Zeus,” she said, grinning.
Gervais laughed. “For a female?”
“Oh. Then... Diana.” She held out her gauntlet and accepted Diana onto her wrist. She spoke low to the bird, soothing it as it settled and calmed. She fed it a tiny piece of chicken with bones, which kept it busy long enough for her to keep it familiar with her voice. With her hood removed, Diana shook out her wings, and upon Gervais’s instruction, Matilda released the jesses from her hand.
She thought for a moment it was a mistake. Diana circled upward in a spiral, climbing the invisible currents of air with such speed, it was hard to track her movement. “Where’s she going?” she said, alarmed, shading her eyes from the bright sun.
“Wait,” said Gervais.
A small flock of pigeons fled the nearby trees, driven out by one of Tobias’s boys. Among them was a small white dove. Diana hovering for a second, abandoned her climb, and swooped down with her legs stretched out. With precision, she skimmed the tops of the grasses, shot up, and using her razor-sharp talons struck the dove and gripped it tight. The two birds tussled, spinning in the air, before Diana claimed her quarry. She dragged it down to the ground and sat on it, pecking at the white feathers. Tobias ran over to claim the kill. Relieved of her prey, Diana darted here and there, tempted by other small birds.
“Magnificent,” Matilda said. “Did she not do well, my lord?”
“Brilliantly. Now, this is important, call to her. She must come to you, or she will never be your companion.”
Matilda picked up the leash and lure; she swung it around her head, clumsily at first until she had the measure of the arc. Diana ignored her and the offering. She flew across the meadow, enjoying her freedom. Tilda bit her lip, and glanced at Gervais, who seemed unperturbed by the merlin’s stubbornness.
“Whistle,” he suggested.
“I can’t.”
“Dear lord.” He dismounted and stood by her, whistling softly.
Diana’s bell answered. From out of the blue sky, she dived, catching the lure and nearly pulling the leash from Matilda’s hand. Hungry, the bird pecked at the raw meat, and Matilda waited for her to finish before replacing the hood. Tobias collected Diana from Matilda’s gauntlet and returned the falcon to its mobile perch.
“Did you enjoy that?” Gervais asked.
“Oh, yes. Thank you. It’s very thrilling. And she’s so beautiful. It’s a pity to keep her captive in the mews.” Matilda tucked the gauntlet in her saddlebag and accepted Gervais’s help in mounting her steed.
He lifted her up by the waist and adjusted her stirrups while she smoothed down her skirts.
“A pity?” he said belatedly. “She’s safe in the mews. There’s no competition for food.”
“But she can only fly free when you let her. Is that not cruel?” Agitated, Matilda fingered her reins. Would Gervais understand the hidden message in her question?
Gervais stroked the palfrey’s mane. “It’s the only life she’s known. She was born in captivity, bred to hunt.”
“But if she hadn’t been? What if she refused to hunt for you, or won’t come to the lure?”
He ceased caressing the mane and touched her hand, stilling it. “Do you think I would destroy her because she can’t be tamed? And regardless, is it not the ultimate quest of a good falconer to win over the trust of his bird?”
“Yes. It is his duty, is it not?”
“So, you need not fear for your Diana, she might not survive in the wild, but she’ll not be forgotten in her mews and although she can hunt, she will never experience the threats or challenges that the darkest acts of nature conjure up. For what if she cannot find a mate, or fails to build a nest for her young? What if she travels to the wrong land, and suffers at the hands of those who would bring her harm?” Gervais’s hand squeezed Matilda’s harder.
“I understand. She is captive and yet still free to hunt, but not to live as her cousins do, or her neighbours. She must enjoy the pleasures of a lesser freedom, the morsels given to her, and trust the strictures of the mews and its guardian.”
“Yes, you do understand, I think. And I shall breed from her. Tobias will be tasked with finding her a mate. Such a bloodline must be maintained. As for my Artemis, she will be the last. There are no other sakers in the land.” He lowered his arm and collected the reins of his horse.
She trotted over to his side. “Poor creature. Is that not unfair? Is it not best for her to be released and find her way home?”
Gervais mounted and wheeled his horse around to face the castle. When he spoke, he wasn’t looking at her. “She’ll not fly away. I tried to release her, and she came back.”
She blinked a tear away. “For some captivity is necessary, it seems.”
He said nothing. With a kick of his heels, he cantered ahead of her, and she followed slowly with the others and the birds.
Chapter Twenty-Three
She lay on her belly, purring contentedly. Gervais’s hand rested heavy on her bottom, his fingers slotted between the warm cheeks, the tips of them tickling her furrow. The last trembles of her orgasm washed away, and he removed himself from her side and flopped back on the bed.
“You know me too well,” she murmured into the pillow.
“My little bird,” he said. “Perhaps I should use feathers to tease you.”
She turned onto her side. “I should be intrigued by the notion, but part of me is worried tickling me with feathers might incur your displeasure.”
He propped himself up on his elbow. “How so?”
“I shall giggle myself into a fit, and not achieve anything desirable. I’m very ticklish.” She coiled a strand of her hair around her finger.
“Coyness will not save you. There is only one way to find out... but for now, you must depart.” He shifted his gaze to the far door.
The embe
rs of the fire lit the path she must take. Every night it was the same pattern, and although the daytime progressed, especially since they both enjoyed flying their falcons together, the nights ended bluntly, crafted to please him, and not her.
“Why?” She had asked the question many times, and he offered a curt reply that reminded her of obedience.
“Try to understand, Tilda, I have never slept with a woman. It is unnecessary.”
Another weak explanation, she thought.
She gathered up her robe and wrapped it about her nudity. With a dutiful curtsy, she left him reclining on the bed, naked and apparently satisfied. The corridor leading to her apartment was dark and the candle she carried lit up only a few strides in front of her. The stone walls dominated, crowding her progress, and the oppressive structure added to her frustrations and worries.
She deserved a better answer and she spun around on her heel. Returning to the door of his chamber, her foot knocked against something on the floor. Crouching, she explored cautiously. She touched something cold, metallic, and familiar in shape. A key.
There was a shimmer of light under the door—he was still awake. Why had he locked himself in his chamber? Was he expecting the company of somebody else that night and the key was a signal for entry? The thought blossomed in her head and it explained everything. Matilda wasn’t his only bedfellow, another supplanted her every night.
She slotted the key into the hole, turned it, and flung open the door. Thrusting the candlelight forward, she stared at the bed: it was empty.
A low growl reached her, but it wasn’t Ivan, because the dog was sleeping outside with Lionel. The gruff exclamation came from near the narrow window, and stepping into the moonlight from the gloomiest corner, was a stark Gervais, lord of the castle, naked and fully endowed.
The mammoth erection was poised, ready for attention, and deeply coloured by engorgement. He stepped forward, and the candle she carried lit his face from below, casting strange shadows, and the expression created was one of fierce anger and disappointment combined. His lips snarled, his teeth bared, and the bushes of his eyebrows met above the bridge of his nose. He clenched and unclenched his fists.
“My lord,” she said tremulously, and she shifted her feet backwards, nearly tripping on her robe.
The sound of her voice startled him. He blinked as if suddenly aware of a change that wasn’t apparent to her. He ceased moving, grabbed his fur-lined cloak from a nearby chair, and covered himself. But it was too late; she had seen it.
“What are you doing here?” he said, exasperated.
“The key...” She dropped it on the floor.
“I left it there, but not for you, you foolish girl.”
Then her suspicions were true. She drew herself up. “Who joins you, sir?” she sneered.
The restless Gervais glared at her, then her words penetrated past his wild demeanour, and he shook his head. “Nobody. I sleep alone, I told you. It is for Lionel, the key. For the morning.”
He locked himself in, but why? Should she believe him?
“Then why not let me stay?” she pleaded. “Do you not need my company? It appears you desire something of me.” She pointed with a wavering hand at the bulge hiding behind his cloak.
“It’s not for you. Get out.”
“Then who—”
“Nobody. Take the key and lock me in. Do it,” he barked, and she jumped to obey.
She left him there, standing in the middle of the room, his eyes blazing brighter than any fire.
She dropped the key by the door and ran along the corridor to her own chamber. She flung herself on her bed, sobbing and distraught. What had she done wrong? And why, given his appalling dismissal, was she feeling such a strong pull to be with him? His lust was not for her, it seemed, but neither was it for another. What tormented him was something secretive, only the dark night saw him so, while an hour earlier, he had treated her with a gentleness, something that he had striven to achieve for her benefit, and now she realised her efforts had only left him half-finished. She was not good enough for him. If that was true, then they would never love each other. For what she had learnt from her infatuation with Geoffrey was that passion needed fulfilment to survive.
Her crying woke Sara. The silent maid lay next to her mistress, wiped away her tears, and petted her until eventually Matilda fell asleep.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Sleep failed him, as it often did. He paced the room, sweating out the fever in him until dawn encroached, and he finally managed to sleep for an hour or so. Lionel slipped into the room with the necessary basin of icy water. Lionel never raised an eyebrow on Gervais’s suffering, since it had become a familiar feature of the nights. What troubled Gervais most was that the affliction had worsened, not improved. He had assumed Matilda would help, but it seemed she only augmented the Zalim. What cure was there if no woman could satisfy him?
He had scared her. The look of fright on her face had imprinted on his heart and scored it. He must make amends, for it wasn’t her fault; she was innocent. And he could no longer hide the Zalim from her or expect her to swallow his excuses. If he genuinely believed she had the potential to marry him, then he must learn to open his heart and accept her in.
Comfortable in his clothing, and no longer driven by dark forces, he asked where he might find his betrothed.
“She is by the oriel window of the Great Hall, sewing, I believe,” Jacob said.
Gervais seated himself at his desk and picked up a quill. He dipped it in the ink and on a clean sheet of parchment, began to write. The story he told was not something he had ever considered in its entirety, having only recalled parts of it when necessary. Now he strung it together without too much emotional embellishment, and omitting certain facts, such as names and places.
He blotted the ink and folded the sheets of paper.
She was there by the window, her pale face drawn down by shadows. She’d not slept well either. She rose, curtsied, but didn’t look him in the eye.
“Please sit, Matilda.” He waited for her to smooth down her skirts, then he approached and knelt on one knee.
Matilda’s eyes widened, astounded by his unusual behaviour.
“I would ask you to forgive my behaviour last night.” He held up a hand to curtail her premature response. “You entered my chamber when you should have not, but I frightened you, made you think that I cared not for you. My feelings toward you are unchanged. I had a waking nightmare, as I do most nights, and that is why I sleep alone. It is for your protection.”
He waited. Her dainty teeth chewed on her lip.
“What do you want from me, Gervais? My love? My body?”
“All these things,” he said emphatically. “But at the moment, your forgiveness.”
“Then I give it. But that is not itself sufficient. No more lying to me. Why do you have these strange dreams and why do they alter you?”
He rose and slipped onto the chair behind him. He wove his fingers together and hung them loose between his knees. Could she understand the nature of the beast? Was it possible for her to calm it?
“Marriage will be my salvation. In that fate, I pin my hope,” he confessed.
“Salvation from what? You speak in riddles. Love is what marriage should bring, yet you make no mention of it.” Haughty Matilda had returned, which was not unexpected. She held his gaze steady in her own. Over a matter of weeks, she had matured, and grown in womanly abilities, but still she was ignorant of the world beyond her upbringing. Only the spell at the convent had enlightened her sufficiently for Gervais to believe she might pass the trials needed for her to become his wife.
“I find it hard to tell you. I am a man of few words when it comes to explaining my mind, my reasons for acting so unnatural last night. I am not a fully formed man, not in the way you understand. Part of me has been taken and I cannot reclaim it, not without your help possibly. I don’t know, to be honest, if marrying you will work out. I pray in my own fashion, that I
can discover this love you pine for, and hope it will bring me peace.”
Matilda laid open her palms. “For God’s sake, just tell me. What is it that you are? A knight? A soldier? A hunter?”
“All three. I am also... a Zalim, a beast.” He watched the strangeness of his words form puzzlement on her face. She neatly furrowed her trimmed eyebrows and frowned.
“I don’t understand,” she said, as he expected. “You are like any man, I believe.”
“In my flesh. But my soul has been given away.”
Her face fell, downcast and saddened. “You are the devil’s—”
He chuckled. “No, no. At least, not as he would like, I’m sure. For the devil would not be happy that I imprison myself in my room, or that I have forsaken my fellow Zalims, and have given up the hunt.”
She rolled her eyes a fraction, then brought them back to his observant stare. “I wish I knew of what you are speaking. Do you want my love or not?”
“I do,” he said humbly. “But first, you must read something. It is fortunate that you can both read and write, as many of your fair sex have not learnt to do.”
“My father, and my mother in her kinder days, were both insistent that I am educated. But the convent only gave me a psalter to read.”
“Then you will find my story different.” He rose. “Go to my private solar, and there on my writing table, you will find a few sheets of my writing. Read them. I shall wait here for you.”
She hesitated, then with a shrug of her taut shoulders, she left him. It was some time before she returned.
Chapter Twenty-Five
I belonged to a mercenary brotherhood—the Order of Zalim, which not only trained the best fighters and huntsmen, but excelled in the pursuit of women in the form of secret games. The purpose of the hunt is to capture willing women, young courageous virgins or unmarried maidens with stout hearts and vigour. The winning knight was entitled to her as a prize for as long as he wished. Women, some of noble rank, volunteer; some are proposed by fathers hoping for a good match with a knight of the Order, for the brethren are of warriors of repute, and rich, too. The Order’s hunts are organised once or twice a year and take place across the eastern provinces in wild places. Occasionally the Order is called to a city, and the hunt is permitted by the city burghers who have sons wanting to join the Order and wish to avail themselves of the Grand Master. There is always a feast afterwards during which the losers drown their sorrows and the winner exhibits his prize, and not always in a manner that is not fitting to the lady’s rank. But she cares little given the prestige of the hunt.
