“Bannor!” The quavering cry pursued him across the meadow, more relentless than the icy flecks of snow stinging his face.
Bannor doubled the pace of his long strides, crunching the frozen grasses beneath his boots. He had spent most of his life making war, but now all he desired was a moment of peace. The sluggish ripple of the river drifted to his ears, promising just that.
“My lord!” This time the cry was more urgent. And more breathless.
“Leave me be, Willow,” he called over his shoulder without slowing. “I’ve no wound for you to tend today.”
“Not even the one inflicted by your son?”
Bannor halted at the rim of the riverbank, swearing beneath his breath.
He refused to turn around, even when he heard a desperate panting behind him. Willow came stumbling into his line of vision, her hair dusted with snow and her skirt stained with mud, as if she’d fallen more than once in her stubborn pursuit of him. She would have probably gone rolling right into the river if he hadn’t reached out a hand and snagged her.
As soon as he had her steadied, he took his hands off of her and started down the bank. “You may accompany me if you insist, but I’ll thank you to speak no more of my son.”
She scrambled after him. “How can I speak of anything else? Didn’t you see his face? He was deliberately trying to provoke you.”
“Just as you are?”
She continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “The poor lad was all but begging you to snatch him up by the scruff of his neck and give him the shaking he deserved. When you turned your back and walked away, I thought he was going to burst into tears right there in front of God and everybody. And if he had, I don’t think he would have ever forgiven you.”
Bannor kept walking.
“I don’t understand why you let the boy run wild when he ought to be training in the list with you and your men.” Willow’s voice rose. “And I don’t understand how Lord Bannor the Bold, Pride of the English and Terror of the French, can be afraid of one scrawny thirteen-year-old lad!”
Bannor whirled around on the edge of the river, his eyes blazing, and roared, “I’m not afraid of him! I’m afraid of me!”
Willow stumbled to a halt.
Bannor raked a hand through his hair. “When other men lose their tempers, they shout and bluster and stomp their feet. When I lose my temper, heads roll and blood spills. Men die.” He strode back toward her, holding up his hands. “Look at these hands, Willow. Look at the size of them.” He flexed both of them into mighty fists. “Feel the strength in them. Suppose I should lift one of them in anger against Desmond? Or even Mary Margaret? Why, I could snap one of his bones or crush her wee skull to powder with no more than a clumsy squeeze of my fingers!”
Willow did not know how it was possible for Bannor to look so powerful and so helpless all at the same time. She only knew that if she hadn’t already discovered that she loved him, she would have done so in that moment.
She closed the remaining distance between them and gently enfolded one of his rigid fists in her hand. “I only know that these hands are capable of great tenderness as well as great strength. That they’re more likely to give pleasure than pain.”
His expression remained grim. “They’ve also dealt more death than you can imagine.”
She stroked her thumb over his battle-scarred knuckles. “So you’ve avoided punishing your children for their wretched behavior all these long months for fear you might lose your temper? You’re afraid you might lapse into one of the battle frenzies that served you so well in war, and send one of their impertinent little heads rolling across the floor of the great hall?”
He eyed her warily. “I might. How am I to know I won’t?”
“You’re angry at me right now, aren’t you?”
“Furious,” he admitted.
She continued to stroke his knuckles until his hand slowly unfolded. She inclined her head to press a kiss to his callused palm, casting him a glance from beneath her lashes. “And am I in danger at this moment?”
“More than you know,” he breathed, lifting his other hand to brush a snowflake from her hair.
“I’m not the least bit afraid,” she lied, hoping her tender smile would hide the true extent of her fear. “You are a kind and honorable man, Bannor of Elsinore. A man who would never hurt anyone weaker and more helpless than himself.”
“Ah, but you’re not helpless, my lady.” He stroked his thumb over the softness of her bottom lip, deliberately reminding them both of the tender boon she had lavished upon him the day before. “On the contrary. I’ve never faced an enemy who posed more of a risk to my heart.”
———
When Bannor came marching through the list a short time later with Willow trailing casually behind him, his face was etched with an unyielding determination his men had previously seen only on the battlefield. They exchanged perplexed glances, wondering if perhaps France had broken the treaty, just as his son had predicted, and declared war upon them all.
Several of his more dedicated knights and men-at-arms scooped up their weapons and fell into step behind him, as much out of habit as curiosity. Their stern procession led them into the bailey, where a smirking Desmond had engaged some of the younger pages in a game of hazard they could never hope to win.
“When I’m lord of Elsinore,” he was saying, shaking the weighted dice in his cupped palm, “the priest won’t waste our time with reading and writing lessons. And I’ll see to it that them arrogant squires polish their own boots, so you won’t have to do it. If anyone refuses to do my bidding, I’ll have them tossed in the dungeon ‘til they come crawling to me, begging for mercy.”
Desmond rattled on and on to his captive audience, completely oblivious to the fact that their little eyes kept growing bigger and bigger until a forbidding shadow fell over him. He swiveled around to find his father standing behind him, backed by a dozen grim-faced warriors. As the pages scattered, the weighted dice tumbled from his limp fingers. The dots carved on their faces might declare him a winner, but Desmond knew better.
His father’s fist closed in the scruff of his tunic. As Bannor lifted him to his eye level, Desmond’s feet dangled several inches above the ground.
Bannor’s granite visage cracked into a smile so ripe with paternal affection it made Desmond’s teeth begin to chatter. “I hate to spoil all of your grand plans, lad, but you’re not lord of this castle yet. I am.”
When Desmond started to squirm, Bannor simply heaved the boy over his shoulder and began to march back toward the list. Desmond twisted his head this way and that, frantically seeking an ally among the gathering crowd of gawkers. That was when he spotted Willow.
“Willow!” he shouted, his booted feet scissoring at the air. “Save me, Willow! Father’s lost his wits. He’s in some kind of berserker rage! Please don’t let him tear my head off!”
Willow couldn’t quite suppress her mocking smile as she called out, “ ‘Twasn’t so very long ago that you were begging him to protect you from me. It appears you’ve learned naught since then.”
As the scaffold came into sight, Desmond’s whining soared to a full-blown wail. “Not the finger pillory again! I won’t swear anymore, Father! I swear I won’t!”
As Bannor carried him past the scaffold, Desmond cast the gallows a wistful look. Surely even hanging would be preferable to whatever grim fate his father had in store for him.
Bannor bore him through the bailey, through the list, and through the yawning doors of the stable. As the two of them disappeared inside, a dozen squires and grooms came running out as if they’d been evicted by the devil himself.
The doors slammed shut with a resounding thud, making everyone within hearing distance flinch.
Kell came running up, his eyes shining with excitement, and gave Willow’s skirt a sharp tug. “Did you see that? He’s done for now, isn’t he?”
She put an arm around the boy’s shoulder and hugged him close, suffering her first twing
e of doubt. “Aye, lad, I’m afraid so.”
Twenty Two
Bannor heaved his squirming son onto a bale of fresh hay. He feared the lad might cower and cry, but Desmond bounded to his feet to face him, the trembling of his jaw disguised by a mask of defiance.
Bannor could not have said how much this pleased him.
“Well, get on with it,” Desmond snarled. “Go on and thrash me. We both know I deserve it.”
“I have every intention of thrashing you. When I am ready.”
Desmond threw himself back down on the bale of hay, a sneer twisting his lips. “And when will that be? After you’ve finished training your men? Or stitching the head back on one of Mary Margaret’s dolls? Or slipping your hand beneath Willow’s—”
Bannor cocked one eyebrow, daring him to continue.
Desmond tucked a piece of hay between his pursed lips, staring straight ahead.
“I wasn’t aware you were so eager to be thrashed,” Bannor said, folding his arms over his chest.
Desmond shrugged. “I figured you were the one eager to get it over with. I’m sure you’ve got duties of more import to attend to.” He lowered his voice to a sullen mutter. “The king might need his pisspot emptied.”
Bannor’s temper flared. “While you’re making sport of my loyalty to our king, you might wish to remember that if it weren’t for him, I’d still be a penniless man-at-arms forced to sell my sword to the highest bidder. Everything I have, everything you have, has been a reward for serving him—my title, this castle, the food in your belly, the land beneath your feet. Why, your very mother was a gift from him! A bastard like myself would never have been allowed to so much as touch the hem of Mary’s cloak without Edward’s blessing. However much you resent it, I owe my allegiance to him. I had no choice but to take my place at his side during the war.”
“There’s no need to pretend it was such a great sacrifice! We all saw the fire in your eyes when the time came for you to return to battle. Both my mother and Lady Margaret would cry for days after you departed, but I doubt you ever gave them or us a second thought.”
Bannor was stricken by the truth in the lad’s accusation. It cut deeper than any lash wielded by an enemy’s hand, making him want to strike out in self-defense. He paced the length of the stalls before whirling around to face his son. “War was all I knew. ‘Twas the only thing I ever excelled at. I fought at the king’s side all those years for all of you—to bring honor and glory to the name of Elsinore, to make you proud.”
The boy gave him a wry look that aged his narrow face beyond its years. “Was it our pride that kept you on that battlefield, Father? Or your own?”
Bannor’s gut wrenched as he realized that all of his glorious feats and triumphs meant nothing to this boy who had grown up without a father. He would have fallen on his own sword before deserting any one of the men beneath his command, yet he’d unwittingly done just that. All of his notions of honor and duty and service to his king echoed through his mind, as hollow as the look in his son’s eyes.
He turned away from those eyes, understanding what it meant to be truly defeated for the first time in his life. “It appears I’ve done you a grave injustice. You wanted a father and I offered you naught but a hero. In the end, I was neither in your eyes.”
When Desmond spoke again, his voice was strangely distant. “I ran away once when I was very small. ‘Twas after Mama died. I took one of the swords you’d left behind on your last visit. ‘Twas nearly twice my size, but I still managed to drag it all the way to Elsinore’s border. It took me so long that I thought I must surely be in France. When one of your villeins found me, I struggled to lift the sword and told him he’d best make way, for I was the son of Lord Bannor the Bold and I was off to join my papa in battle.”
Bannor slowly turned to face his son. “What did he do?”
Desmond lifted his shoulders in a sheepish shrug. “He took the sword away, threw me over his shoulder, and carried me straight back to Fiona. I kicked and screamed the whole way.”
“I can’t say that surprises me.” Bannor’s rueful chuckle died in his throat when he saw the tears shining in his son’s eyes.
“You were my hero,” Desmond whispered. “I wanted nothing more than to be just like you.”
Bannor closed the distance between them in two strides, drawing the boy into his arms. “Someday you will be a fine warrior, and a much better father than I ever was. And you will be lord of this castle as well. But not today. Today you need only be my son.” He stroked the boy’s chestnut hair. “I still remember the day your mother laid you in my arms for the first time. She was so proud to have given me a son.”
“She wouldn’t be very proud now, would she?” Desmond mumbled, swiping at his nose.
Bannor tipped the boy’s face up so he could gaze sternly into his eyes. “On the contrary. You’ve been both mother and father to your brothers and sisters all the years I was gone. Your mother would be every bit as proud of you as I am.”
A tremulous grin curved the boy’s lips. “Do you really think so?”
“Aye,” Bannor said with all the conviction he could muster. “I’d wager my life upon it.”
“Wager,” Desmond repeated absently. He scratched his head as if trying to remember something, then snapped his fingers. Hastily disengaging himself from his father’s embrace, he sprinted for the barn door.
“Where do you think you’re going in such haste?” Bannor demanded, striding after him.
“I’m going to collect my hazard winnings before those cheating pages make off with them.”
“Not so fast, lad.” Bannor clapped a hand on his shoulder, freezing him in his tracks. When Desmond cast a timid glance over his shoulder, his father was wearing a devilish grin of his own. “We still have the small matter of your thrashing to attend to.”
———
As the morning wore on and snow began to tumble out of the darkening sky in fat, woolly flakes, Willow paced the length of the list, wondering if she’d done a terrible thing. She nibbled at her knuckle, tortured by visions of Bannor emerging from the barn with Desmond’s broken body draped over his arms, his hollow eyes burning with hatred for the woman who had coaxed him into murdering his son.
Bannor’s men-at-arms and knights slunk away one by one, mumbling this excuse or that. In truth, they were no longer able to bear the sight of Willow’s haunted face, or to endure a silence more ominous than screams of terror or pleas for mercy.
As both Willow’s apprehension and the snow deepened, the children crept out to join the grim vigil, their somber little faces silently reproaching her. Even Edward had nothing to say. Shortly after eleven, Beatrix deigned to grace them with her presence. “I heard what he said to his father,” she whispered to Willow. “If you ask me, whatever he gets is no more than he deserves.”
Willow might have reproached the girl for her spite, if she hadn’t noticed that several of the fingernails Beatrix took such pride in had been chewed to the quick.
When the chapel bells tolled noon, Willow sank down on a bale of hay and buried her face in her hands. She barely felt Hammish’s hand gently stroking her hair.
Her head flew up as the stable door; began to creak open. A hulking figure was silhouetted against the torchlit interior. Willow blinked the snow from her lashes, fearing the worst. But her eyes beheld not a snarling monster destroyed by the curse of his temper, but a smiling man with one brawny arm draped over his son’s shoulders.
Desmond looked taller—older somehow—as if the mantle of the man he would become rested on his shoulders along with his father’s arm. With his green eyes and chestnut coloring, Willow had always assumed he must be the very image of his mother, but for the first time, she saw the indelible stamp of his father in the proud tilt of his head, the stubborn jut of his jaw, the sulky-sweet cant of his grin.
The children sprang to their feet with Beatrix fast on their heels. As they ran to greet their conquering hero, yapping like a pack of
eager pups, Willow gathered her skirts and followed. She had a hero of her own to salute.
“Dethmond!” squealed the twins in unison.
Meg threw her chubby little arms around her brother’s leg while Mary Margaret captured his free hand, swinging it like the end of a skip-rope. At the last second, Beatrix remembered to hang back.
“We was afraid Papa had kill’ded you,” Mary Margaret said.
“He thrashed me,” Desmond confessed, beaming up at his father. “Within an inch of my life.” Despite the boy’s cheerful claim, Willow couldn’t find a mark on him.
Bannor struggled to look stern. “And a long overdue thrashing it was.”
“Did it hurt?” Hammish asked, his brown eyes huge.
“Dreadfully,” Desmond assured him.
Beatrix eyed him down the length of her patrician nose. “I’m surprised you didn’t squeal like a girl.”
“I didn’t let out a squeak. Not even one.”
Bannor cocked an eyebrow.
Desmond ducked his head. “Well, maybe just one.”
Ten-year-old Mary surveyed him with newfound respect. “How very brave of you. I’m almost certain I would have cried.”
“Not me!” Edward claimed, hitching his hips in a clumsy swagger. “ ‘Cause I’m a man, and men don’t cry.”
Kell gave him a shove. “But you smell bad enough to make my eyes water.”
Before the fists could start to flail, Bannor stepped between the two boys and flattened a hand on each of their foreheads to hold them apart. “Your brother and I had a very long talk after his thrashing, and we’ve decided to negotiate some changes in the terms of our treaty.”
Desmond nodded, glowing with pride to be included in his father’s confidence. “That’s right. We’ll no longer eat honeyed pomegranates and fig pudding for every meal. We’ll eat good solid meat and fresh-baked bread.”
“And vegetables?” Hammish piped up hopefully. “Even the foul-tasting ones?”
“Aye,” Bannor said. “Three times a day.” He pointed a finger at Edward. “And you’ll take a bath every sennight, son. Whether you need it or not. And since everyone is exhausted from staying up until midnight the past few nights, we shall remedy that this very afternoon. With a nap.”
Charming the Prince Page 19
