While most knights traveled on horses that were designed for travel, lighter-weight animals that were swift, comfortable, and agile, Trenton didn’t hold to that philosophy. He traveled on his destrier, a massively heavy-boned warhorse that he’d taken into battle many times. The beast had been a gift from his father as a yearling, fifteen years ago, and was perhaps the smartest and most experienced battle horse in all of England.
Trenton was rather particular about the horses he rode on, and owned, resulting from a bad experience when he’d been a young lad, riding an old nag halfway across England because it was the only horse available. He and his brother had been forced to share the animal, and since that time, Trenton only rode horses that could accommodate his bulk easily and didn’t crush his manhood. That meant he didn’t ride on small or even medium-sized horses. Of course, the saddle had a good deal to do with that, too, and he had the finest saddle made, one he could ride in comfortably for hours on end.
His preference for horses and saddles was peculiar, indeed.
At the end of the row of tied-up horses stood his enormous warhorse; he could see the outline of the horse’s back, taller than all of the other horses, when he approached. He whistled low to the animal to let him know he was approaching. The horse’s massive head shot up, eyeballing Trenton in the darkness, nickering softly to him. A horse that could bite off men’s hands or stomp them to death had a definite fondness for his master.
Trenton slipped into the stall, rubbing the big, black head affectionately. Dewi was the horse’s name, named for the Welsh dragon god, simply because the horse was the closest thing Trenton had ever seen to a fire-breathing dragon. Dewi’s big lips pulled at Trenton, nipping at him playfully, and Trenton avoided the seeking lips as he untied the horse’s tether and backed him out of the stall.
Leading the animal to the front of the stables and tying the lead rope around his muzzle to prevent him from trying to snap at anyone, Trenton proceeded to check over the horse to ensure the rough travel hadn’t done any damage. Dewi seemed well enough, now swishing his big tail at Trenton, as he was hungry and trying to prompt his master into procuring his food. Trenton slapped the big, black butt of the horse, grinning because the horse was doing everything it could to try and force him to go and get his morning meal. When Dewi started to lift his hind leg, as if to kick out at Trenton, the man laughed softly and decided he should hunt down a stable servant so his spoiled glutton of a horse could be fed.
The very subject of a meal had him thinking about the previous night’s feast with Lysabel and her daughters. The children had been adorable and delightful for the most part, with their mother’s sweet face. At least, he thought so, although the youngest girl did look a good deal like Matthew. It had been a long time since Trenton had lingered on thoughts of a woman, but he’d gone to sleep with thoughts of Lysabel on his mind and even now, visions of her lovely face and tinkling laughter filled his head.
In fact, he’d been unable to really sleep well because of it. He kept thinking of that long-limbed little girl he’d known; one who would run and play and jump with her siblings, and one who would sit on her father’s lap and listen to him tell stories until she fell asleep. Of course, Trenton hadn’t really been part of the family – he’d been a squire for a few years before Matthew knighted him, but he was always there, always around the family, and always watching. He remembered well the mostly-blond Wellesbourne children, except for Lysabel and Rosamunde, who had their mother’s glossy bronze hair, and then William, who inherited red hair. He remembered them all, but he’d never given any of them much thought.
Until now.
Now, he was thinking of one of them in particular.
God, he was insane for doing it. This was all so foolish and confusing. His conversation with Henry came to mind, the one before he’d come to Stretford, where Henry reminded him what a terrible record he had with women. It wasn’t untrue, and a terrible record was putting it mildly. But there was so much more to it.
It wasn’t as if he’d been careless…
His first wife, Alicia, had come through his father. Gaston knew the woman’s father and he’d brokered the agreement, which had been a good one until Alicia had died trying to push forth an enormous son, who died also, but that was something Trenton tried not to remember.
He’d been young, and he’d loved Alicia, and her death had been devastating. Memories of the pretty girl with the silly laugh only made him ache for what could have been. He remembered their marriage, of falling in love with her, and of the good life they had together. She was patient with him, and he appreciated that. Then came her pregnancy; they’d both been thrilled. When the day of birth arrived, he remembered the anticipation of waiting for his son to be born – two days of waiting – before the physic came to tell him that his wife had died and the child with her.
In disbelief, he’d run up to the chamber where she’d been laboring, convinced the physic was lying, only to find Alicia dead upon their bed with her legs splayed and the child stuck between them, halfway out. He remembered seeing two little legs emerged from her womb and after that, he didn’t remember much else. Somewhere in the chaos, he remembered vomiting as the physic scolded him for even looking upon his dead wife.
He’d learned his lesson.
He would never look again.
He didn’t look when his second wife, Iseuld, had been murdered by her father. She was dead; everyone told him she was dead, so he took them at their word. They’d been visiting her father’s home shortly after their marriage because her father, a greedy baron, had demanded the meeting. He wanted money from Trenton, and some of the de Russe fortune, because he felt entitled to it now that his daughter was married into the family.
Trenton had sent word to his father to come and help him negotiate something that had confused him, because the demands for money had come directly from the father. Never Iseuld. Finally, when the father evidently couldn’t get Iseuld to cooperate with him, he threw her out a window and told everyone that she had killed herself, but servants who had heard the arguing told otherwise. It had been murder.
Another wife dead.
And then came Adela…
He sighed heavily as he thought of his current wife. If ever a mistake had been made, he had made it with her. Another marriage brokered by his father had seen him wed Adela of Brittany, the illegitimate daughter of the Duke of Brittany. In theory, it should have made a fine marriage, but in practice, it was a horror. Adela was petty and spoiled, and had male “friends” who had followed her from France. Henry had alluded to her whoring ways and it only upset Trenton in the sense that Adela had sullied the de Russe name. She spat upon it every chance she got, and she hated the very sight of Trenton because she liked to pretend she wasn’t married at all. It was a horrific situation but one that he couldn’t do anything about.
But it also made it impossible to find any happiness of his own.
That included the daughter of his father’s best friend.
Slapping his horse on the rump again, he realized he’d been lost in thought. The sun was starting to rise because the horizon was growing lighter, and Dewi was still swinging his tail around, deliberately trying to hit Trenton with it. At least, that was Trenton’s belief. His horse was smart enough to do such a thing.
With thoughts of Lysabel still on his mind, he headed off in earnest to procure feed for his pig of a horse.
Her mother was looking for her, but she didn’t want to be found.
Brencis Alixandrea de Wilde was up and running. She liked to wake up early and rush to the stables to help the stable servants feed the horses before her mother or her nurse could corral her and make her go back into the manse, where her nurse would commence with lessons on language or art. Lately, she and her sister had even been subjected to writing their names, at the insistence of their mother, though they weren’t to mention such a thing to their father. He evidently didn’t like it that girls should learn to write.
&nbs
p; But Brencis’ love was first and foremost with horses. If it had four legs and a long face, she was in love with it. She’d been begging for a pony for two solid years, but her father never listened to her and her mother could only say that her father would “think about it”. That wasn’t good enough for Brencis; if she couldn’t have a pony, then she simply wanted to be where the horses were. She wanted to smell the hay and the horsey smell of the stables.
So, she slipped from the manse, across the kitchen yard, and over to the stables. Since the sun was rising, she knew the stable servants would be feeding the horses and she very much wanted to help them. She ran the last several feet, entering the stable in a flash. Although the servants weren’t anywhere to be found, she could hear them. She was about to turn and go look for them when a new horse standing right inside the stable caught her eye.
Even though it was dim in the early morning light, Brencis could still see what a beautiful animal he was. He was very big, with a flowing black mane and a flowing black tail, something that delighted her. He looked like a horse from one of the stories her mother told her, stories of knights on fine chargers who would ride to save their ladies fair. Surely this was the charger of a great knight, because he certainly looked like one.
She was intrigued.
Brencis made her way towards the horse carefully, inspecting his muscular legs and fat butt. And he was shiny, so very shiny; even the weak light reflected off his black coat. When he sensed her approach and his nostrils began to flare, she began to speak quietly to him.
“Pretty horse,” she said softly. “You are the prettiest horse I’ve ever seen. Do not be afraid of me. I only wish to pet you.”
She kept repeating the words, over and over, crooning to the horse in her soft little voice and completely unaware of the danger she was in. The horse was probably forty or fifty times the body weight of a six-year-old child, and absolutely gigantic next to her, but Brencis held no fear. All she knew was that she loved him already.
She moved closer.
In her sweet little voice, she continued to talk to the horse, wisely staying fairly far away because the horse’s nostrils were flaring and he was craning his neck around to look at her. Close and closer she came, however, speaking softly, finally holding out her hand to him so he could see that she was approaching. The horse snorted when she came close and laid his ears back along his skull, baring his big teeth. Brencis came to a halt.
“You are very mean,” she said sternly. “I came to be friendly with you, but you are mean. I have brought treats with me, but I do not think you deserve one. Well? Why are you so mean?”
The horse continued to bare his teeth at her but he couldn’t do much more since he had a lead rope tied around his muzzle. But that didn’t seem to deter Brencis; she began to dig in the pockets of the little apron she wore.
Out came a small pear, one she held up to the horse.
“If you are polite, I shall give this to you,” she said. “Well? Are you going to be nice?”
The horse’s ears perked up when he caught sight of the pear. It was enough of a gesture that Brencis carefully held the pear out to the horse and he sniffed at it, promptly sucking it up with his big lips and chomping down on it. Brencis pulled out another pear.
“See?” she said. “If you are nice, then I shall give you a treat. Here is another one.”
She held out another pear, and the horse snatched it from the palm of her hand. As he did so, she was able to get in a scratch or two on his velvety muzzle. He continued to chew, and his aggression had died down, so she patted him on the nose again.
“You are a very big horse,” she said. “But I fear that someone has been mean to you. Is that why you are so mean?”
Trenton chose that moment to return to the stable, a bucket of dried grain in his hand. When he looked over and saw Brencis standing in front of his horse, the bucket hit the ground and he ran to her, faster than he’d ever moved in his life, and grabbed her around the body, pulling her away from the horse in the same motion. As Brencis yelped in fright, Trenton put himself in between his horse and the little girl.
“What were you doing?” he demanded. “Did he hurt you?”
Brencis found herself wrapped up in Trenton’s iron grip. “Nay!” she insisted. “He’s my friend!”
Trenton set her on her feet, making sure to keep himself between her and his man-eating horse. “Him?” he repeated, confused and just the least bit terrified. His heart was still beating up in his throat. “You must be mistaken. This is my horse.”
“He is? He’s very big.”
“And very mean.”
“I know, but I told him if he was nice, I would give him a treat. He was nice, so I did.”
Trenton had no idea what she was talking about. “You… you gave him a treat?”
“Aye.”
“When?”
“Now.”
His confusion grew and he stood straight, hands on his hips as he looked between his horse and the little girl. He peered closer at the horse, who did, indeed, seem to be chewing on something.
“What did you give him?”
“A pear.”
Trenton didn’t know what to make of it. He had the meanest horse in all of England, so he thought, so this made no sense to him at all. He eyed her.
“Show me your hand.”
Brencis complied, holding out her right hand.
“The other hand,” he said.
Two hands were produced. Trenton touched them, just to make sure she wasn’t missing any fingers, before sighing heavily and struggling to calm his beating heart. He was still worked up about what he’d seen when he’d entered the stable – Lysabel’s youngest daughter standing close to his gnashing, thrashing warhorse, an animal who had been known to kill men outright. He scratched his dark head.
“Didn’t he try to bite you?” he asked.
Brencis shrugged. “Nay,” she said. “But he did show me his teeth.”
“He was warning you away.”
She looked around him, at the big horse that happened to be looking at her, too, perhaps looking for another treat. Trenton could hardly believe it. Taking the little girl by the shoulders, he turned her back towards the bucket he’d dropped.
“Go pick up the bucket,” he told her. “Bring it over here.”
Brencis did as she was told. She scampered over to the bucket and picked it up, lugging it back over to Trenton. He’d spilled very little when he’d dropped it, because it had fallen upright, so there was virtually none missing. He took the bucket from her.
“Thank you,” he said. “Now, you will please do me a favor. Do not go near my horse. He is very aggressive and I do not wish to see you injured.”
Brencis cocked her head curiously. “He will not hurt me,” she said. “See for yourself.”
With that, she pulled another pear from her pocket and held it out to the horse, who stuck his big neck out to claim it. Trenton went to pull her back but he couldn’t help but notice that Dewi wasn’t showing any signs of aggression to her. The animal simply slapped his big lips against the pear and ate it right up.
“See?” Brencis said. “He likes me.”
Trenton was at a loss. Scratching his head again, he didn’t know what to make out of any of this. Putting the bucket of grain on the ground in front of the horse, he loosened the lead rope muzzle and Dewi began to eat heartily.
“I am not sure what has come over him, but he is not a pleasant horse,” he told the child. “In the future, please do not come around him when I am not present. I fear what he might do to you.”
Brencis wasn’t happy about it. “But… but he likes me.”
Trenton nodded. “I can see that,” he said, realizing that she was hurt that she couldn’t count the horse among her “friends”. “And you are a very nice lass, but all the same, just be careful with him. He is a dangerous animal.”
Brencis watched the big, black horse as he chomped on his grain, snorting and blowi
ng out the dust from the bucket. She sighed sadly.
“Does he have a name?” she asked.
Trenton nodded. “His name is Dewi,” he said. “That is the Welsh dragon god. He is a very fierce animal, I assure you.”
“Dewi,” Brencis repeated. “Have you had him a long time?”
“A very long time. He is sixteen years of age.”
Brencis looked at him. “He is older than my sister.”
“I know.”
Her gaze lingered on him a moment before returning it to the horse. “I have always wanted a pony,” she said. “When do you suppose I will be old enough to have one?”
Trenton could hear the longing in her voice, wanting something so badly. It was rather sweet. “I am not sure,” he said. “What does your mother say?”
Brencis started to move towards the horse to pet it, thought better of it, and stopped. “She tells me that my father is thinking about it,” she said. “He has been thinking a very long time. I do not know why he will not let me have a pony. I have promised him that I will take very good care of it, but he has told me that ponies are for boys. Is that true?”
Trenton shook his head. “Nay,” he said. “That is not true at all. Ponies are for boys and girls.”
“Then you think I can have one someday?”
He smiled faintly. “I am sure that is a possibility.”
It was an encouraging answer, but not enough of one. Brencis was very disappointed that she didn’t have Trenton’s full approval.
“When did you have your first pony?” she asked.
Trenton had to think about it. “My father gave me my first horse when I was eleven years of age,” he said. “His name was Lightning, but he didn’t move very fast. He was rather old.”
Brencis was listening closely, hoping he’d give her a clue as to how she could coerce a pony from her own father.
“I will name my pony Pegasus,” she announced. “My mother told me a story about Pegasus. He was a magical horse.”
Dark Moon (The de Russe Legacy Book 6) Page 6
