Robert made a snorting noise. "I've never seen so ill-bred a pup. He's neither lymer nor levrier nor brachet. He has no sense. He'll ruin the hunt."
"Nay, he's no hound at all," Thomas agreed mildly. "But smart he is, and strong, and see how he quivers? He'll be a fine hunter when he's trained. The others will flush us a hart, and we'll let him in only at the end. You'll see."
The small party went into the forest on foot, crossing a small bridge over the river, and following a winding path deep into the vert. The morning was cool yet. Wispy mist curled around the ash and beech and oak, and the damp earth and bark gave off heady aromas. Thomas breathed the scents deeply.
Here, in the trees, with the quiet of dawn and the dogs straining their leashes, sniffing eagerly for spoor, did Thomas feel at home. His ears picked up the faintest crack of twigs, and his nose knew the faint scent of animal on the wind, and his feet made little sound in his soft boots. Here he was master.
The day before, they'd taken hawks to the meadows nearby the river and brought home a brace of ducks and a goose. Thomas did not mind hunting fowl, but neither the birds nor their prey held for him such pleasure as did the dogs and the quarry of summer deer or a winter boar. They snuffled through the woods, pausing at a scent here, the droppings of a beaver, the hidden scent of a bird there.
His pup halted at every dazzling bit of spoor in the entire forest, examining them closely and with whimpering little whines. Each time, Thomas allowed the pup to imprint the scent, then tugged his collar firmly. "Nay."
When the sun broke the horizon, they halted for a breakfast of cold meat, bread, and ale. Robert fell on the food like a beast, eating his portion in a trice, then eyed the food in Harry's hand with a longing eye. Harry, stout and greedy, did not notice, but Thomas grinned and handed the rest of his bread and butter to the boy. "By your appetite, you'll be near a man by summer next," he said.
"My father was tall." He eyed Thomas over the bread. "Not so tall as you, but taller than most."
Thomas comfortably shifted, willing to accept the boy's softening, however momentary it proved. When Robert was not entirely devoted to surliness, he was rather a handsome lad, with the same wide gray eyes as his sister, the same tumble of wheat-and-sunlight curls. "The ladies like a tall man." He winked.
"So I've seen."
"Did they like your father?"
"My true mother—" the emphasis spoke volumes of the hidden resentment he held toward Elizabeth "—was a very great beauty, you know. Famous across all of England, and she chose my father from a field of suitors."
"Ah, so your sister and you must look like her."
"We do." That arrogant tilt of the chin again. Then he seemed to remember he had the extra bread, and gave Thomas a sly glance. "I've never seen a man so tall as you."
Thomas chuckled. "Nor have I, lad—save my own father and his before him. 'Tis said we come from a land of giants, across the waters."
He sobered, thinking suddenly of his father's first wife, a slip of a girl from a weakening noble family who had died in fiercest agony trying to birth a son so large. Alice had tended the birth, and told him the tale as they traveled. "'Tis not always so fine for the ladies who must birth the babes we get on them."
An expression of horror crossed the boy's face. "Men do not speak of such things to one another, sir! Such secrets are best left in the darkness, where they belong." Disgusted, he threw the bread on the ground and stalked away.
Thomas sighed. Never could he please the boy for long. Always some little misstep set him off. With a shrug, he grabbed the bread his pup eyed longingly and wrapped it in a bit of cloth for a reward.
Not long after breakfast, one of the hounds found what they sought, and gave off a low howl. Thomas led his pup to the spoor and this time stood by while the dog examined it at length. While the dog was absorbed, Thomas carefully scanned the area for clues to the size of the deer. At shoulder height, he spied a branch stripped of leaves. One of the guards silently waved and put his hand on a patch of velvet from the stag's horns, giving Thomas a gapped grin.
Thomas pulled his pup from the spoor, and took the bread from his pocket. Giving the pup his reward, he rubbed his head and flanks and murmured encouragements. "Good dog."
Kneeling, Thomas stretched his hand out above the droppings. A big hart, too. No warmth, but the scent was still strong. "Robert," he said quietly. "Climb that tree and see if you see him."
Nimbly, Robert did so, and pointed to the west. Thomas nodded and gave the signal to loose the greyhounds. Harry unleashed them, and held his horn at the ready, the dogs quivering at his feet in agony of waiting for the signal. Quickly, Thomas took his pup and rounded the general area Robert had indicated, his feet silent.
When he thought himself well ahead of the stag, he unleashed his pup and gave him a spat on the flanks, "Go!" The dog barked, then tore into the brush, and faintly heard the sound of the horn, followed by the sudden savage barking of the hounds.
He ran behind his pup easily, following the sounds of the chase, his senses alive and aware, his heart soaring with the pursuit.
The dogs brought the stag to bay on a rise, and Thomas rushed in ahead of the panting guards, dagger at the ready if his pup did not see immediately what he was to do.
At that moment, Robert lunged into the fray, lance held high, a bloody cry on his lips, and Thomas had only time to give a single shouted warning: "Robert!" before the pup leapt with pure, savage grace and fastened his sharp young teeth on the stag's throat. The stag twisted, desperate to escape, and Robert cried out, too late, as one of the horns slashed too close and cut his face. He stumbled backward, but the stag danced in wild-eyed fear, his dangerous sharp hooves flailing, his head with the deadly horns tossing.
Thomas, on the other side of the beast, could do nothing but shout at the horror-frozen guards, who seemed not to understand the greatest danger was not the horns, but the crushing weight of the beast when it fell. Robert staggered blindly, dropping the lance in his terror, one hand over his face.
With a roar, Thomas ran at the stag, and with a powerful spring, leapt half on the stag's back, keeping his head well down, away from the thrashing rack. His weight, together with the dog still attached to his throat, finally brought the beast down—away from Robert.
Feeling the beast's collapse, Thomas leapt free, his dagger flying from his hand. He saw Harry rush forward, and with a sword thrust, put the beast to death.
In the sudden stillness, Thomas, breathing hard from the chase, stared at Robert with fury. "It might have been you on the ground there."
Robert dropped his hand, and Thomas saw the smear of blood over his face. "Not if your hell-born hound had not come between us!"
Resolutely, Thomas turned from him, too angry at what might have been to speak. Meanwhile, his pup bounded over, a great grin on his stained muzzle, and Thomas bent down to give him the attention he craved—and deserved—after his performance. The dog would be a treasure when his training had been finished. "Well done, boy!"
Harry and the other guard knelt over the stag to begin the business of skinning and quartering the beast. Harry gave a chortle. "He'll feed the whole village!"
Thomas put the dangerous finale from his mind. He would deal with Robert later. "Aye," he said. "Let's take him whole, to roast."
The bailey smelled of baking bread and clear summer morning, and Lyssa was happily plucking flowers from the garden to weave into a wreath for her head when a messenger rode through the gates. At the sound of the horse, she glanced up from the wreath of spicy pink-and-white gillyflowers. Spying the king's crest, she jumped up and ran to meet the messenger, her heart pounding with mingled hope and worry. If he'd a husband for Isobel, she would be happy. If it was news of a bridegroom for Lyssa, she would be wretched.
She took the letter, sealed with the king's ring, and directed the messenger—a hearty, dark-haired man who bowed deeply when Isobel, all flying hair and bobbing breasts, ran over to see what news had
come—to find refreshment in the hall. Isobel barely noticed him—and he a noble lord with a fine face! "See to his comfort," Lyssa said.
"But what news?"
"What do you await with such eagerness?"
Isobel sighed. "Oh, why must you ever be so difficult? 'Tis not as if we have any great excitement here. Mayhap the king will come to visit, and bring music and laughter and young men with him."
Lyssa waved the messenger on. He cast one last longing glance toward the flushed Isobel, and left them.
"Will you stand all the day holding it in your hand, or will you open it?"
Lyssa sent a silent prayer winging toward heaven—let it be her and not me!—then slipped a nail beneath the wax and unfolded the good parchment.
My dear cousin,
I have good news. That step-daughter you spoke of is famed for her beauty, so it was no trouble to find willing suitors. I have chosen Stephen de Kivelsworthy to be her groom. He is well-landed, a fine knight—and he is a young pretty thing himself, so mayhap that will please her. He leaves today for Woodell, with a retinue of guardsmen to protect you all. As for you, I have me a hunch you have no love of marriage and will not mind I have had me not an hour to devote to the matter of a husband to safeguard your lands. Soon.
Lyssa let go of her breath, and gave Isobel a beaming smile. "Good news," she said. "The king has found you a husband!"
"A husband?" Isobel's dainty brows drew down. "I have no wish for a husband."
"Oh, not just any man," she said. "Stephen de Kivelsworthy, whom Edward said is young and pretty and will please you."
Isobel backed up. "No! I will not marry him."
"Can you not even wait to see him before you reject him? Mayhap—"
"No!" She whirled and ran from the yard, her hair flying behind her like golden ribbons.
Lyssa narrowed her eyes. The girl was spoiled. What did she know of the loathsomeness of some husbands? Grabbing her skirts into her fists, she was about to go after the girl and box her ears, but a sudden stir from the gates stopped her.
Robert came through first, his face bloodied from a nasty gash below his eye. He looked disheveled, furious, and dirty, and when Lyssa would have halted him to examine the cut, he violently ducked away. "Do not touch me!" Lyssa let him go.
The dogs came next, leaping and swarming in a pack, half-crazed by the smell of the meat. Thomas and Harry carried a stag, its feet lashed to a stout branch they carried between them. Its horns dragged a line through the dust. Delighted, Lyssa rushed forward. "What a feast we shall have tomorrow with that beast roasting in a pit!"
Thomas grinned. "Indeed, my lady." He, too, was grimy from the hunt, his hair mussed on his shoulders, his hands dirty, a streak of something dark across the side of his tunic. Blood. Robert's or the stag's?
But with the stout branch hanging from his immense shoulders, the smile of victory on his beautiful mouth, his azure eyes glinting happily in the dark face, he was a vision of knightly strength and health. After a fortnight, Lyssa thought she would be used to the sight of him, but it had not happened. Each time she saw him anew, the same small jolt went through her chest, the same odd weakness settled in her hips and knees.
She drew closer, almost as if he were some magic beacon. "I see your pup has had a good day, as well."
"Aye." Thomas let a group of villeins ease the branch from his shoulder, and shook his arm as if to waken it. "He'll be fit to take boar by winter. He's a fine animal."
The pup, sitting in adoration at the knight's feet, wagged his tail, making feathery patterns in the dirt. Idly, Lyssa wondered if that was how she looked, leaping toward him like some friendly hound the minute he appeared.
"I'll send a girl to draw you a bath, sir," she said, waving her hand as if she could not tolerate the smell of him.
Thomas only laughed, the sound booming out, rich as mead. "You mislike my stink?" With a quick move, he stepped forward and grabbed her by the waist, hauling her up against him in a mocking display of force. Lyssa went rigid against him, dizzily aware of his hard thighs, of the line of his ribs against the softer flesh of her breasts. He held her tightly, his blue eyes glittering down at her. "A man risks life and limb to bring back meat, and she whines about his smell?"
Harry cackled, as Lyssa knew he was meant to do, and she knew that unless she played along, she would reveal to all that she was like that devoted pup of his, and all the besotted women swooning round the castle. With a toss of her head, she lifted one hand and delicately pinched her nose.
She heard the others laughing, but when she stopped pushing at him, he'd tightened his grip just enough that her body was close against his, and his hand—that huge, skillful hand, spread open on her back, and the light in his eye changed. The teasing remained, but there was more, too—a flare of his nostrils, and the smallest parting of his lips, which somehow made her want to part her own, made her want to see his tongue.
And all at once, she grew aware of a stiffness against her belly. As if he knew the exact moment she noticed it, he leaned closer, putting his mouth close to her ear. "The hunt makes man randy."
It was an outrageous comment, but she was engulfed by him, his arms and his body and his voice. His hair brushed her face, and she was startled at the silkiness that fell against her mouth.
But most dizzying of all was the true smell of him, heat and sunlight and that dark note of forest floor mingled with sweat and leather and horse. It filled her head, and gave her visions of lying with him and sweating and crying out. Her spine felt thin and weak, like a single unwaxed thread, and she wanted more than anything for him to lower his great, dark head and kiss her.
She shoved at him suddenly—and he let her go, a knowing in his eyes. Swallowing, she regained her dignity, and brushed at her skirts, and said, "My deepest gratitude for your hunting skills, sir."
His eyes dancing, he bowed low. "A grand feast we'll have on the morrow."
"That we will—and I have me much work to do to prepare." She turned, clapping her hands to call for a girl to take Lord Thomas to the bathhouse.
* * *
The stag, rubbed thickly with salt and garlic, was set to roasting in a pit over a low fire. Tall Mary's father had gone to town and brought back with him musicians, and raisins and white sugar for cake. From her chamber, Lyssa heard the faint barks of the cook, and the sound of the piper practicing. The air was redolent with roasting meat and baking cake. It would be a fine celebration.
But Lyssa felt strangely tense. One by one she'd tossed through her tunics and surcoats and a casket of jewels, and could not decide what she wanted to put on. With a sigh, she sank to a stool, yanking ribbons from her hair in frustration. "'Twill not matter. Why do I care?" She scowled at Alice. "And do not say what a fool I am. E'ry woman in the village is like as not tossing through her things as I am, hoping to catch his eye."
Alice chuckled, and took up a brush, made with boar bristles. Gently, she took the ribbons from Lyssa's hair and worked free the small braids Lyssa had woven in this morning. "'Tis only fitting for women to hope for the eye of a man so gentle and strong, is it not? Brutal we all know, and stupid, and ugly—but rare do they come as Lord Thomas, fair and good and wise all at once."
"It matters not what he is," Lyssa said quietly. "My king will name my husband."
"Aye—but there'd be no harm in taking pleasure in his company, now would there?"
"Pleasure?" Lyssa returned sharply. "If you speak of bedding him, I have no interest in such things."
Alice laughed. "Not that, child. Only the simple pleasure of laughing and being admired. 'Tis not so huge a thing, but a woman likes flattery and the twinkle in an eye." She swayed to look into Lyssa's face. "I saw the pair of you when he returned from the hunt—'twas good to hear you laugh aloud, milady. Laughter keeps a heart light and young."
"I had not thought of it that way." She closed her eyes as Alice began to brush her hair, firmly. A glorious sensation, the bristles on her scalp, the ease it
gave her tight neck and shoulders. "He is a lively companion. There is much laughter in the hall when he appears. Was it ever thus with him?"
"Nay, he was a brooder as a youth." Her voice lilted with that strange accent. "Too proud, too sensitive, too full of himself. Here, the sun is warm. The land is kind, and it made his heart kinder and wiser."
Lyssa could see him that way, a sullen boy, too tall and gangly and awkward, those bright blue eyes flashing anger instead of laughter. It made her smile to think of it.
Alice finished her brushing. "Will ye listen to me, milady, and let me dress you proper for the feast?"
"Since I have not been able to choose," Lyssa said with a wave at the tangle of cloth, jewels, belts, and slippers on her bed, "I would welcome your help."
Alice clapped her on the shoulder vigorously. "All right, then." She plucked a simple green linen tunic from the pile and tossed it over her shoulder, then fished out a gossamer surcoat, made of the finest white silk in a weave so loose that the garment was near transparent. Around the edges, Lyssa had woven gold-and-green silk threads. "These," Alice said definitely, turning. "Then we'll choose the rest."
Lyssa stood and waited for Alice to help her remove the gown she was wearing. "Ah, my lady, you've a fine form. Not so skinny as you look in your gowns."
With a rueful smile, Lyssa touched her far-too-generous hips. "'Twas an aspect my husband found displeasing." She shrugged, and her hair fluttered around her thighs. "'Tis something I've spent no time bemoaning, though Isobel will certainly tell you I'd have been better to have more breast and less buttock."
"That girl!" Alice shook her head, lifting the tunic for Lyssa to bend into. "She's as vain as a peacock, and twice as foolish. She does not know what ease those hips will give you with your babes when they come."
Lyssa captured the weight of her hair, lifting it free of the fabric so Alice could pull the close-fitting tunic around her. "So my mother always said." A shadow of remembered pain passed over her heart. "She died in childbed. Nine times she went, and only twice gave her husband a live child."
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