Desire

by Amanda Quick

  “Aye. There were no signs of her being dragged across the flower beds.”

  “Or along the graveled paths. The pebbles were undisturbed.”

  “You are a keen observer, my lord.”

  “You mean for a thick-skulled, overly muscled knight?”

  “Hush.” She covered his mouth with her fingertips. “I never actually called you that.”

  “I beg your pardon. My mistake. I do not know how I came by that impression.”

  “No more of your teasing, sir. I have had quite enough.”

  “Aye, madam.”

  Clare fell silent for a few seconds and then she sighed. “It is so difficult to imagine anyone killing a harmless old woman like Beatrice.”

  Gareth thought back on his years spent hunting violent men. “Unfortunately, ‘tis only too easy to imagine someone committing murder. The real question is why.”

  “To steal a book?”

  “Books are valuable, ‘tis true, but only to scholars. I do not believe there are many such who would actually kill for one. And even if a man were determined to lay hands on a book, you must admit that Desire is a very distant, out-of-the-way place to travel merely to steal one.”

  “Many scholars have braved the perils of the roads all the way to Spain and Italy just to get hold of certain books. In a sense my father died because of his thirst for the treasures stored up in the Arab treatises he hunted.”

  “I had not thought of it in that fashion, but you’re right. Sir Humphrey risked his life to seek out books. Mayhap someone else is prepared to do the same.”

  “It is at times such as this,” Nicholas of Seabern said mournfully, “that I comprehend the true extent of all that I lost when I failed to win the hand of the lady of Desire. I trust you appreciate your good fortune, Hellhound.”

  Gareth followed his gaze to where Clare stood outside a yellow-and-white-striped tent. She was haggling with a merchant. From the few words that reached him, it was obvious that his wife was driving a hard bargain. She appeared to be enjoying herself immensely.

  “Aye,” Gareth said. He felt a rush of pleasure at the sight of her. She was as vibrant and warm as the spring day. Her eyes were bright with excitement and her hands moved gracefully through the air as she emphasized a point. A few strands of her hair had escaped her yellow net. “I am not one to take fortune for granted.”

  “She’ll make you a nice profit on this one sale alone.” Nicholas took a large swallow from his mug of spiced wine. “And there are two more days of good bargaining ahead. You’ll be richer than that fat London merchant before the fair is over.”

  Gareth knew that the merchant in question had come all the way from London to purchase the perfumes of Desire. He was a short, stout man of middle years. His shrewd eyes gleamed with the delight he took in bargaining with an opponent of equal skill. He was dressed in a finely embroidered wool tunic. His cap and mantle were trimmed with fur and velvet and he wore costly rings on his plump fingers.

  Nearby Joanna stood outside a green and white tent. She was hard at work dealing with two other merchants. She was selling quantities of exquisitely embroidered sweet bags and scented pillows. She appeared to be enjoying herself as much as Clare was.

  Ulrich and one of Gareth’s men-at-arms lounged idly between the two tents. They munched hot pies as they kept watch on the tables laden with the wares of Desire. Pickpockets and petty thieves were as much a part of a busy fair as the peddlers, merchants, jugglers, and acrobats.

  Gareth rested his hand on the hilt of the Window of Hell and surveyed the array of colorful tents and peddlers’ stalls that had been set up in front of Seabern Keep.

  The fair had attracted not only the inhabitants of Seabern and Desire but a number of other people from miles around. Pennants flapped in the breeze. Musicians strolled through the crowds with lutes and drums. Tradesmen sold food, spiced wine, and ale. It was a busy, energetic scene and, Gareth knew, a lucrative one for all concerned.

  “Do not bemoan your loss to me,” he said to Nicholas. “Seabern will see a healthy profit from this fair. Everyone here is making money and spending it.”

  “Aye.” Nicholas grinned. “I should look on the bright side of the matter. You could say that I get to enjoy some of the benefit of your lady’s talents without having to put up with her sharp tongue and clever wit.”

  “I’m pleased that you do not intend to hold my good fortune against me.”

  “Nay.” Nicholas took another swallow of the wine and assumed a philosophical expression. “And I’m pleased you do not feel the need to run me through with the Window of Hell.”

  “I have been entirely convinced that there is no great need to kill you, Nicholas.”

  “I told you so.” Nicholas clapped him on the back. “So the lady was a virgin, after all, eh? I’ll confess it crossed my mind that Raymond de Coleville might have had her, but I’m not surprised he failed to seduce her, too. Clare’s got the pride of a queen.”

  “Aye.”

  “And blood made from ice water, if you ask me.”

  “I did not ask your opinion.”

  Nicholas ignored that. “She’ll be grateful when you leave, you know. She has no use for a husband.”

  “Mayhap she will discover one.”

  Nicholas hooted with laughter, nearly choking on his spiced wine. “God’s eyes, man, but that’s an excellent jest. Didn’t think you had a sense of mirth. Well, then, as we’re neighbors and we both owe allegiance to Thurston of Landry, I say we may as well be friends.”

  “An interesting thought.”

  “No offense, but your lady would have made my life a hell on earth.” Nicholas shook his head. “’Tis all that education they gave her when she was young. Ruins women, you know. She actually demanded to wed a man who could read. Can you credit it?”

  “Astonishing.”

  “Of what use is such a skill to a knight with a good strong sword arm, I ask?”

  “You do not know how to read?” Gareth asked casually.

  “Nay.” Nicholas belched. “Never saw the point of it. I can hire all the scribes and clerics I need to deal with my accounts and such. Reading is a waste of time and energy for a man.”

  He could remove one suspect from the list of possible murderers, Gareth thought wryly. Nicholas of Seabern was no doubt quite capable of killing anyone who got in his way, but it was unlikely that he would have gone to the trouble of strangling the recluse for the sake of a book that he could not even read.

  “My lord.” Clare lifted a hand to summon him over to the green and white tent. “Will you come here a moment, please?”

  “You must excuse me,” Gareth said to Nicholas. “My lady wants me.”

  “Aye,” Nicholas said grimly. “And likely this is only the start of it. Mark my words. ‘Twill get worse as the years go by. She’s in the habit of giving commands. You’ll spend your days running hither and yon at her whim.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Aye. I can see it now. She’ll summon you and dispatch you and set you to hopping about like a damned servant.”

  “A man must pay a price for everything.” Gareth strolled toward Clare.

  She fixed him with a seemingly benign smile when he joined her and the merchant. Her eyes, however, glittered with bright warning. “My lord, I would like you to meet Edward Kingsgate, a very clever merchant who sells my perfumes to his customers in London.”

  “My lord.” Kingsgate doffed his velvet cap and swept Gareth a deep bow. “I am honored, sir.”

  “Merchant.” Gareth looked at Clare for further guidance.

  Clare’s smile sharpened. “My friend Kingsgate, here, has just struck a very good bargain for himself, one that leaves me only the very smallest of profits.”

  “Nay, my lady,” Kingsgate protested, “you have had much the better of the bargain. Indeed, I shall be left with only a few pennies once I have paid my expenses for this journey.”

  Clare drummed her fingers on the tab
le. “Kingsgate wishes to drive the price down still further on the grounds that he fears robbers on the road back to London.”

  “I shall be obliged to hire armed guards,” Kingsgate explained smoothly. “You know how the roads are, my lord. Extremely dangerous, to say the least. And I shall be carrying a very valuable cargo. I must protect it.”

  Gareth finally understood what was going on. “You need not concern yourself with the added cost of hiring armed men to guard the shipment. I will send three of my best men to escort you and the goods to London.”

  The merchant blinked rapidly as he assimilated that information. “Your own men, sir?”

  “Aye.” Gareth rested his hand on the smoky crystal pommel of the Window of Hell. Kingsgate’s gaze followed the movement. “I assure you, they are well trained and experienced in dealing with cutthroats and thieves.”

  “Ah. I do not doubt it. Your reputation assures me of the truth of that statement,” Kingsgate murmured.

  “There, you see?” Clare said quickly. “You will be spared the added cost of hiring your own guards. At the same time, you will have the security of knowing that your goods and, indeed, your very life are protected by men in the employ of the famous Hellhound. What more could a man ask as a guarantee of safety?”

  Kingsgate cleared his throat. “As you say, madam, what more could a man ask? Very well, then, if you will supply the guards, we have a bargain.”

  “Excellent.” Clare’s eyes shone with satisfaction. “I shall look forward to doing business again with you in the fall, Kingsgate.”

  “Aye, madam. Good day, my lord.” Kingsgate swept Clare and Gareth another deep bow and trotted off with a pleased expression.

  “Thank you, my lord,” Clare murmured. “You handled that very well.”

  “I try to make myself useful, madam.”

  She gave him a sharp look. Then her eyes softened. “I vow, we make a good team, sir.”

  “I am glad you are pleased.”

  Gareth was about to ask her if he could fetch her something to eat while she was between customers when he spotted William running toward the tent.

  The boy was panting with exertion. He looked relieved to see both Gareth and Ulrich. He waved his hand frantically to get their attention.

  “My lord, sir,” William gasped as he came to a halt. “One of you must come with me. Dallan is in the midst of a terrible fight with a pickpocket. The thief has a dagger and he will likely stab Dallan.”

  Gareth glanced at Ulrich. “I’ll see what this is about. Stay here and keep an eye on our fortunes.”

  “Aye, my lord.” Ulrich grinned. “Try not to have any accidents with the pickpocket’s dagger. You have been known to be somewhat clumsy of late.”

  14

  Gareth saw immediately that Dallan was hopelessly overmatched.

  The pickpocket was skinny and wiry and not much older than the minstrel. The rigors of his profession, however, had not only toughened him, they had endowed him with basic dagger fighting skills and absolutely no sense of chivalry. He did not appear to mind in the least that his opponent was unarmed.

  Although he was at a serious disadvantage, Dallan had somehow managed to corner the thief behind a large brewer’s tent. There was blood on Dallan’s arm, but most of it appeared to be spewing from his nose, not a dagger cut. Gareth was grateful for that much. He did not relish the thought of explaining to Clare how her precious minstrel had gotten himself nicked.

  It was obvious that Dallan was compensating for his lack of skill with sheer, unswerving determination. He faced the pickpocket fearlessly, as aggressive as a young hound with its first boar.

  The pickpocket, accustomed to a more stealthy approach to such matters, seemed genuinely confused by his opponent’s relentless assault. Nor did he like the attention the fight was receiving.

  Several of the brewer’s customers had ambled around the corner of the tent to watch the brawl. Loud cheers and shouts of encouragement filled the air as the two young males circled each other. For once Dallan was not twitching.

  The pickpocket’s eyes darted nervously left and right. He was clearly searching for an opportunity to bolt past Dallan and escape into the crowd.

  Gareth swept the ring of onlookers with a single glance, seeking the source of Dallan’s newfound boldness.

  He spotted her at once. She was a pretty girl with blond curls, blue eyes, and a jaunty green cap. Her expression of rapt excitement and her glowing cheeks told its own story. Dallan had found himself a maiden in need of rescue.

  “Halt, both of you.”

  Gareth strode into the middle of the fight and seized each young man by the scruff of the neck. He gave them both a brief, rough shake. Then he held them apart until they came to their senses long enough to comprehend that an outsider had interfered in the battle.

  “This brawl is ended,” Gareth said.

  “He started it.” Dallan wiped his bleeding nose with his sleeve. “He tried to steal Alison’s purse.”

  “I did not. He lies.” The pickpocket glowered at Dallan. His dagger had miraculously disappeared into the voluminous folds of his shabby clothes.

  Gareth reasoned that Alison was the name of the girl hovering nearby. He glanced at her. “Do you still have your purse?”

  Alison looked first startled and then decidedly uneasy at finding herself addressed by the lord of Desire. She flushed a deep pink. “Aye, m’lord. ‘Tis safe enough.” She patted the small leather pouch that hung from her girdle. Her eyes kindled with feminine admiration as she gazed at her champion. “Thanks to Dallan.”

  “Bah, I never laid a hand on her purse.” The primitive fury of battle faded from the pickpocket’s gaze. Wariness took its place. He measured Gareth with a quick, assessing glance, obviously recognizing him. As a professional thief, he would have learned early to mark men of rank in the crowd so as to avoid costly miscalculations. An unfortunate choice of victims could lead to a bad end for his kind. “I’m innocent, m’lord. I swear it on me mother’s grave.”

  “He’s a rogue and a thief,” Dallan declared.

  “Mayhap,” Gareth said quietly. “But ‘tis as important for a man to know when to end a battle as it is for him to know when to begin one. You’ve saved Alison’s purse. One chivalrous act a day is enough for any man.” He looked at the pickpocket. “Off with you. And take care that my squire-in-training is not obliged to deal with you a second time.”

  The pickpocket stared. “Squire-in-training? By my oath, I didn’t know he was yer man, m’lord.”

  “You do now,” Gareth said.

  “’Twas an honest mistake,” the pickpocket whined. “Could ‘ave ‘appened to anyone.”

  “Begone.”

  The pickpocket needed no further urging. He whirled around and melted into the crowd.

  Disappointed with the tame outcome of the event, the onlookers drifted back to the ale tent to refill their mugs.

  Dallan looked at the blood on his sleeve and then raised dumbfounded eyes to Gareth’s face. “Did you mean that, my lord? I’m going to be your squire?”

  “I’d be pleased to have such a brave man in my service.” Gareth held out his hands. “Will you swear fealty to me, Dallan of Desire? Think well before you give your oath on this. I demand absolute and unswerving loyalty from those who serve me.”

  “Dallan of Desire.” Dallan repeated the words as though they were a magical incantation. He put his hands in Gareth’s, fell to his knees, and bowed his head. “My lord, from this day forward, I vow, I am your man.”

  “T’is done, then.” Gareth glanced at Alison and William, who were watching the small ceremony with awed expressions on their faces. “You two are my witnesses. Henceforth this man shall be known as Dallan of Desire and he is in my service. He has the right to my protection and in return he has vowed allegiance to me.”

  “Aye, my lord,” William whispered excitedly. “I cannot wait to tell Mother and Lady Clare.”

  Alison gazed upon Dallan a
s though he had recently been transformed from a brave minstrel into a hero from a legend. “You serve the Hellhound of Wyckmere,” she breathed, clearly entranced by his improved status in life.

  Gareth resisted the urge to grin as Dallan staggered to his feet. “Go and wash the blood off, Squire-in-training. You will frighten the ladies.”

  “Aye, my lord.” Dallan straightened his thin shoulders.

  “I’ll help you get cleaned up,” William volunteered eagerly.

  “I’ll fetch a cloth,” Alison said.

  Gareth watched as Dallan was led off by his admirers. There was a new swagger to the minstrel’s step and masculine pride in the set of his chin.

  It was astounding how a man’s view of himself and the world altered once he knew he belonged somewhere, Gareth thought.

  “Alone at last.” Gareth lowered himself down onto the large square of brightly striped cloth that Clare had spread out on the grass. He leaned back on his elbow and gazed out over the busy grounds of the fair. “Thought I’d never get rid of Dallan. The lad’s been at my heels all afternoon.”

  “I’m surprised at how eagerly he entered your service.” Clare handed Gareth one of the hot pies stuffed with minced meat and nuts that she had just purchased from a nearby stall. “I would never have thought he’d have been so enthusiastic about becoming your personal squire.”

  “Squire-in-training,” Gareth muttered.

  “Is there a difference?”

  “Aye. Young Dallan has a long way to go before he qualifies as a fully trained squire. He does not yet know one end of a lance from the other.”

  “I vow, he has certainly undergone a great change today.”

  “Becoming an instant hero will do that to a man.”

  Clare smiled. “It was very generous of you to make him into a hero, my lord.”

  “No one can make a man heroic. He has to do it for himself. Dallan has courage.” Gareth took a large bite out of his pie. “I hate to have to tell you this, madam, but you’ve lost one of your admirers. I fear he has chosen to devote himself to another lady.”