Untamed

by Elizabeth Lowell

  Dominic grunted. “That could mean only that they are clever, not virtuous. What about the Reevers? Are they here, too?”

  “No. They’re with Duncan’s cousin north of here, at Carlysle, one of Lord John’s manor houses. Or rather, one of your manors.”

  “Not yet. Not until I wed the daughter and the father dies.”

  “Two days until the wedding. I doubt John will survive the feast that follows.”

  Dominic turned from his brother to Blackthorne Keep, looming above the green hill where it dominated the landscape. Lord John had spent himself into poverty building the four-story keep with its thick stone walls and blunt corner turrets.

  No expense had been spared to make the place into a military stronghold that would be all but immune to attack. Surrounding the keep at a distance of thirty yards was a half-finished stone wall. Completed, the wall would have been twice the height of a mounted man. But stone gave way to wooden palisades whose weaknesses Dominic’s keen glance catalogued in a single moment.

  At least John had the sense to dig a wide, deep moat to slow attackers. Even so, the keep is too vulnerable. A few buckets of Greek fire against the palisades and the outer wall would be breached. The keep itself would last no longer than the knights’ ability to endure thirst.

  Unless there is a well within the keep itself…. If not, I will see to that lack immediately.

  Dominic looked again at the looming stone structure astride the hill that was struggling to turn green. A gatehouse had been set into the partially completed outer wall. The bridge over the moat had yet to be lowered.

  “Where is the gatekeeper?” Simon demanded. “Are we expected to lay siege?”

  “Patience, brother,” Dominic said sardonically. “John deserves our pity more than our anger.”

  “I’d rather put my gauntlet in his Saxon face.”

  “You may get the chance.”

  “Do I have your vow on that, my liege?” Simon retorted.

  Dominic’s laughter was as hard as the metal of his helm.

  “Poor John of Cumbriland,” Dominic said. “His father and grandfather couldn’t hold back the Norman tide. Nor could he. Now he is dying of a wasting disease and has only a female for an heir. What a pitiable state. One might almost think him cursed.”

  “He is.”

  “What?”

  Before Simon could answer, a slow grating of chain and cogs announced the lowering of the drawbridge.

  “Ah,” Dominic said with savage satisfaction. “Our sullen Saxon has decided to bow to his Norman peers. Tell the rest of my knights to come forward quickly.”

  “On their war-horses?”

  “Yes. Intimidation now could save us bloodshed later.”

  Dominic’s cool assessment of tactics came as no surprise to Simon. Despite Dominic’s courage and skill in battle, he had none of the blood lust that some knights did. Rather, Dominic was as cold as a Norse winter when he fought. It was the secret of his success, and quite unsettling to knights who had never encountered such discipline.

  Just as Simon turned his horse toward the forest, Dominic called out to him.

  “What is this about John not outlasting the wedding feast?” Dominic asked.

  “He’s far more ill than we knew.”

  There was silence followed by the sound of a mailed fist meeting a mailed thigh.

  “Then hurry, brother,” Dominic said sharply. “I want no funeral to interfere with my marriage.”

  “I wonder if Lady Margaret is as eager to wed as you?”

  “Eager or dragging feet like a donkey, it matters not. My heir will be born by Easter next.”

  2

  ALONE IN HER ROOM ON THE fourth floor of the keep, Meg unlaced her overtunic and tossed the worn russet wool cloth onto her bed. Her floor-length inner tunic quickly followed. The cross she wore around her neck gleamed like liquid silver in the candlelight. With each step she took, dried rushes, herbs, and last summer’s flowers rustled underfoot. Hurriedly she pulled on the simple tunic and coat of a commoner’s daughter.

  A woman’s laughter floated up from the great hall on the floor below. Meg held her breath and prayed that Eadith was too busy flirting with Duncan to bother about asking after her mistress’s needs. Eadith’s constant chatter about Lord Dominic’s brutal strength and cold demeanor had worn Meg’s nerves.

  She didn’t want to hear any more. She wouldn’t even be presented to her future husband until the wedding tomorrow because her father said he was too weak to leave his bed. Meg didn’t know if that was true. She did know that she would be married tomorrow to a man whom she had seen for the first time only yesterday.

  The wedding was being rushed too much for Meg’s peace of mind. The vision of Dominic le Sabre condensing out of the mist astride a savage battle stallion had haunted her sleep. She had no desire to lie in pain beneath a cold warrior while he planted his seed within her infertile body.

  And she had no doubt it would be an infertile, painful mating. Denying the harsh knight any children would be small recompense for a future spent being harrowed by a harsh Norman plow.

  Chills coursed through Meg’s blood at the thought of it. For many years she had known what had driven her Glendruid mother to walk into the forest and never return, abandoning her daughter to John’s harsh hand. Meg would rather not have known, for it was like seeing into her own future.

  Perhaps the legends are right. Perhaps there is another, more gentle world just beneath ours, and its entrance lies somewhere within the ancient burial mound. Perhaps Mother is there, whistling to the falcon on her wrist while her great striped cat sleeps in her lap and sunlight pours around her….

  A woman’s laughter spiraled upward, interrupting Meg’s thoughts. She frowned. The laugh was new. Rich and sultry, like a summer wind. It must belong to the Norman woman Meg had spied from her room. Even at a distance, the woman’s black hair and red lips had been enough to turn any man’s head.

  What do I care that Lord Dominic’s leman is a beauty? Meg told herself impatiently. More important that I get free of the keep before Eadith comes trotting to me with the latest tale of Norman brutality. Whether true or not—and I often wonder!—Eadith’s tales are unnerving.

  With flying fingers Meg stripped away the embroidered ribbon that was twisted through her long braids. Impatiently she braided her long hair again and tied the ends with leather strings. A simple headcloth with a twisted leather circlet completed her costume.

  Meg hurried from the room and down the winding interior stone stairs to the second floor of the keep. By the time she reached the bottom, one of her braids was half undone. Like a fall of fire, her bright, red-gold hair spilled down the neutral gray wool of her short coat.

  Servants bowed quickly as Meg passed through to the attached forebuilding that guarded the keep’s entrance. No one thought her common clothing odd, for she had been running free at the keep since she was thirteen and her marriage to Duncan of Maxwell had been refused by the king. At nineteen, an age when most women of her station had a husband and a handful of babes, Meg was an old maid whose father despaired of heirs.

  Nodding to the servant who opened the door, Meg stepped out of the forebuilding onto the steep stone stairs that stretched down to the cobblestone-covered ground of the bailey. Her soft leather slippers made no noise while she descended the mist-slicked steps. As surefooted as a cat, she glided down the stairs to the open bailey where the wind searched through granary and kitchen alike, ruffling the feathers of fowl trussed and waiting for the hatchet.

  Overhead the gray sky was streaked with tendrils of light blue. The incandescent circle of the sun burned palely through veils of mist. The fragile, silver light of spring fell around Meg like a benediction, lifting her spirits. To her left came the liquid call of birds within the dovecotes. To her right came the high, keening cry of a gyrfalcon being taken from the mews to be weathered on a block of wood in the yard.

  Before Meg had taken two steps toward the gateho
use, a black cat with three white feet and startling green eyes trotted toward her, yeowing happily, fluffy tail held high. Meg bent down and held out her arms just as the animal leaped lightly, confident that he would be caught and held.

  “Good morning to you, too, Black Tom,” Meg said, smiling.

  The cat purred and rubbed its head against her shoulder and chin. His long white eyebrows and whiskers made a startling contrast to his black face.

  “Ah, you have such soft fur. Better than the white weasels on the king’s cloak, I allow.”

  Black Tom purred his agreement and watched his mistress with unblinking, green eyes. Talking to him quietly, Meg carried the cat to the gatehouse.

  “Fair morning to you, m’lady,” said the gateman, touching his forehead in respect.

  “And to you, Harry. Is your son better?”

  “Aye, thanks be to God and your medicine. He’s lively as a pup and curious as a kitten again.”

  Meg smiled. “That’s wonderful.”

  “Will you be going to see the priest’s falcon after you’ve seen to your herbs?”

  Emerald eyes searched Harry’s face as she asked, “Is the small huntress still refusing food?”

  “Aye.”

  “I will see her.”

  Harry limped toward the huge double doors that opened onto the keep’s outer yard when the bridge was lowered over the moat. A smaller portal was set within the massive timber of one door. He threw open the portal, allowing a rectangle of misty daylight into the dark gatehouse. As Meg walked through, Harry bent forward and spoke quietly.

  “Sir Duncan has been asking after you.”

  Meg turned quickly toward the gateman. “Is he ill?”

  “That one?” Harry scoffed. “He’s strong as an oak. He wondered if you were ill. You weren’t in chapel this morning.”

  “Dear Duncan. It was kind of him to notice.”

  Harry cleared his throat. Not many men would have described Duncan of Maxwell as kind. But then, the mistress was a Glendruid witch. She had a way about her that soothed the most savage creatures.

  “He wasn’t the only one to notice, I hear,” Harry said. “The Norman lord was fair put out not to see you.”

  “Tell Duncan that I am well,” Meg said, hurrying through the door.

  “’Tis certain you’ll see him before I do.”

  Meg shook her head. Her unraveled braid shimmered in waves of fire as she hurried forward, speaking over her shoulder.

  “My father has asked that I not attend his sickbed after chapel. As Duncan rarely leaves Father’s side these days…” She shrugged.

  “What shall I tell Lord Dominic if he asks?” Harry said, giving his mistress a shrewd look.

  “If he asks—which I doubt—tell him the truth. You saw no well-dressed lady leave the bailey this morning.”

  The gateman looked at the simple clothes Meg was wearing and laughed. Then his smile faded and he shook his head sadly.

  “You are your mother’s daughter, always wanting to be outside stone walls. Like a falcon she was, crying to be free.”

  “She is free, now.”

  “I pray you’re right, mistress. God rest her poor soul.”

  Meg looked away from Harry’s wise, faded blue eyes. The pity he felt for her was all too clear in his expression. She was Glendruid, daughter of a Glendruid woman; and like her mother, she wouldn’t be free short of death.

  Just beyond the fish pond a kingfisher waited hopefully for a meal to disturb the still surface of the water. In the reeds at the edge of the pond, motionless as a statue, a heron gleamed ghostly gray. Ravens called hoarsely from the battlements at the top of the keep. As though answering, one of the gardeners berated his helper for stepping on a tender new plant.

  For a moment it was as though nothing had changed, as though Meg was still a child and her mother was singing softly of love lost while Old Gwyn embroidered runes on Meg’s undertunic, where they could be felt but not seen; as though no arrogant Norman knight had ridden up to the keep, demanding a wife, an estate, and heirs to stretch into a future no one could see.

  Meg breathed in deeply, drawing the clean air into her body, savoring its chill spring scents. Her skirts swirled in a gust of wind. The cold bite of the air on her legs warned of an uncertain spring, riven by the death throes of the hard winter past.

  The cry of a wild hawk keened over the meadow where green shoots pushed through the last year’s hay stubble. Nearby a sparrow hawk fluttered above the meadow, seeking the first meal of the day. A few days past, the priest’s falcon had hovered just like that, then stooped to the kill. But the kill had been contested by an untamed falcon thrice her size. Before the priest could intervene, the gallant little bird had been sorely wounded.

  Abruptly Meg turned and went back to the gatehouse. Her seedlings could wait. The falcon could not.

  As though expecting her, Harry opened the door before she had taken three steps, allowing her to hurry back through into the bailey. When she set Black Tom down on the damp cobbles, he gave her a look of green-eyed disbelief.

  “You can’t come with me just yet. I’m going to the mews first,” she explained.

  The cat blinked, then calmly began grooming himself as if he had never expected to be taken for a romp through the catnip in Meg’s herb garden.

  As soon as Meg came in sight of the wooden buildings that housed Blackthorne Keep’s array of hunting birds, the falconer came forward, relief clear on his face.

  “Thank you, mistress,” William said, touching his forehead. “I was afraid you would be too busy with the wedding preparations to see the wee falcon.”

  “Never,” Meg said softly. “Life would be so much poorer without the fierce little creatures. Have you my gauntlet?”

  William handed over a leather gauntlet that he had made years ago for Meg’s mother. It fit the daughter as well. Scarred and scored with long use, the leather was silent testimony to the razor talons of the hunting birds.

  Meg went to the mews that housed the wounded bird. She had to bend slightly to enter, but once inside she could stand freely. After a moment her eyes adjusted to the semidarkness. She spotted the sparrow hawk on a perch in the darkest part of the mews.

  When Meg went over and offered her forearm as a new perch, the bird refused. Meg whistled softly. The sparrow hawk stood on first one foot and then the other. Finally, with stiff, slow movements and a dragging wing, the bird was coaxed onto her forearm.

  Meg walked to the door of the mews and held the little hawk in the wash of daylight. Eyes that should have been clear were cloudy. Plumage that should have been luminous with subtle shifts of color from gray-blue to buff looked chalky. The grip of the bird’s talons was uncertain on the gauntlet.

  “Ah, little one,” she whispered sadly, “soon you will be flying skies no man has ever seen. God speed you from your pain.”

  Gently Meg replaced the sparrow hawk on its perch. For long minutes she whistled and murmured softly to the bird. Slowly its clouded eyes closed. As soon as she was certain movement wouldn’t disturb the falcon, she turned to go.

  When Meg emerged from the mews, Dominic le Sabre was standing behind the falconer.

  Her steps faltered as she looked up into bleak gray eyes and a face drawn in clean, harsh angles. Where other men wore long beards or none at all, this warrior had closely clipped his black beard and mustache. Nor did he have long locks of flowing hair to gentle the planes of this warrior’s face; his thick, black hair had been cut short to fit beneath a battle helm.

  Tall, powerful, motionless, Dominic le Sabre engulfed Meg’s senses for the space of one breath, two, three. Then as certainly as she had sensed the death unfolding in the sparrow hawk, she sensed Dominic’s rigid self-control, a fierce dominion over himself that permitted no emotion, no softness, nothing but the icy calculations of power and progeny.

  At first Meg thought Dominic’s self-control was as seamless and icy as winter itself. Then she realized that deep beneath the
warrior’s cold restraint there was an echo of suffering harshly contained. The discovery was as unexpected and poignant as hearing a meadowlark sing in the midst of night.

  Dear God, what has this man borne that caused him to deny all but a faint echo of human emotion?

  On the heels of that thought came another, more disturbing one. Despite everything, there was a savage masculine fire in Dominic that called to Meg on a level of her being she had never known she had.

  And something within her was stirring, stretching, answering.

  It frightened her. She, who had walked in fear of nothing, not even the most ferocious beasts of the forest.

  “Mis—” began William, perplexed by her stillness.

  Meg cut across his words before he could give away her identity.

  “Good day to you, lord,” she said to Dominic.

  In front of William’s surprised eyes, Meg touched her forehead, saluting Dominic as though she were a cotter’s wench rather than the lady of the keep.

  “The priest’s small falcon soon will be free,” Meg said to William in a low voice.

  “Ach,” he said. “The good father will mourn her keenly. He loved to go hunting with her. Said it lifted his soul like nothing but a fine mass.”

  “Is one of the birds ill?” Dominic asked.

  “Father Millerson’s falcon,” William explained.

  “Disease?” Dominic asked sharply.

  William looked to Meg.

  “Nay,” she said in a husky voice. “It is a battle wound won from a wild hawk, not a plague to empty the mews or dovecotes of their birds.”

  When Meg touched her forehead again and turned to leave, Dominic said, “Hold.”

  He found he was intensely curious about the young woman who had emerged from the mews like flame from darkness, her eyes as green as sunstruck emeralds. Those magnificent eyes told much of her thoughts; sadness as she left behind the dying bird, surprise at seeing Dominic in the mews, and…fear? Yes, fear.

  He frightened her.

  Then as Dominic watched, the girl’s eyes changed in the manner of the sea going from day to night. Now nothing moved to give away her thoughts.