Authors: The Quest
And the dreams.…
A faint flush warmed her cheeks, and her hands tightened around the carved wooden curve of her chair arm, fingers
bunching the silk that bore her fathers device. Mary and Joseph! that she should even think on such a thing when Rolf sat so near her and all were crowded about them. Yet if she was honest with herself, she would freely admit that the night dreams haunted even her days.
Why else would she look at him and recall the rough scrape of his beard against her breast, the heated caress of his palm upon her thigh, and the searing excitement of his kisses? Their last encounter had left her with a restless yearning that extended even into her soul. Yea, he haunted her well, this dream-dragon of the night. And the solid substance of the man was no less haunting, no less disturbing.
Turning, Rolf settled his gaze lightly on her. Beneath the dark, gold-tipped bristle of his lashes, the green eyes studied her for a moment. “Do the accoutrements please you, milady?” he asked in a low tone, startling her.
“Yea, lord,” she replied softly, “they please me full well. I am most flattered.”
He smiled slightly and turned away again, his attention bent toward the knight on his left, a baron from Nottinghamshire. Sir Guy sat on Annice’s right side, and she felt him stir.
Offering a honeyed sweetmeat as if it were dipped in gold, Guy murmured softly, “Take only a bit, milady. ’Tis sweet upon the tongue, like honeyed words.”
She looked up at Sir Guy’s face but saw no hint of double meaning in the guileless hazel eyes. There was only a faintly questioning lift to his brows. Slowly, she took the proffered sweet.
“My thanks, Sir Knight. Honeyed treats are usually sweet, though ofttimes cloying, I think.”
Guy smiled. “Yea, and ’tis a wise woman who recognizes it. It has been said that you are very wise, fair lady. P’raps even wise enough to enchant fierce dragons.…”
Her brow arched. This sort of conversation was common enough in royal courts and keeps, but she had not expected it in le Draca’s remote castle. Here there had been little of the thrust and parry that passed for normal speech; most talk was plain enough. For Sir Guy to engage in the roundabout prattle slightly surprised her.
Forcing a smile, she said easily, “ ’Tis said that dragons pursue only maidens, and that attribute is long in my past. Fie, that I should consider enchantment when I have been treated most gently.”
Guy’s hazel eyes were half-hidden by the lowering of his dark lashes, and a faint, worldly smile touched the corners of his mouth. “Thou dost naught need to bandy words with such as me, milady. I well ken thy predicament,” he said in English.
His words caught her by surprise. Never had she expected frank speech in a familiar tongue spoken by so few nobles. Most did not bother to learn the native speech of the land but preferred the more courtly French most oft spoken.
Lowering her eyes, she said softly, “I do not understand your meaning, Sir Guy.”
“Nay, but I think thou understands full well. Hast thou ever thought that it maun be lonely being a dragon?” Sir Guy drew back a bit, studying her before he turned away to the man on his right.
Rather bemused by this byplay, Annice frowned down at the silver cup holding her wine. Sir Guy had not been in the hall enough for her to know him well; she had only instincts to guide her. Duplicity was considered a necessary virtue in royal courts, as well as the ability to parry sly words and innuendos. Somehow she did not think Guy FitzHugh was making idle conversation, but attempting to ease her fears. Or warn her.
She shifted slightly, glancing toward Rolf. He was bent toward his neighbor, talking softly about falconry and the merits of hunting around his keep. There was to be a hunt on the morrow in celebration of the betrothal and to add to the feast. Any game brought in would be added to that already brought in by the huntsmen, and be cooked to appear at the table. Already delicious and varied scents emanated from the kitchens, wafting on vagrant breezes. It seemed that though the marriage was not of his choice, the Dragon intended that it be a merry occasion.
This should have pleased Annice. So why did she have this unsettled feeling, as if she were about to embark on a perilous journey?
Reaching for her wine, Annice curled her fingers tightly around the slender stem to still the sudden shaking of her hand. Jewels studded the cup, blinking red and green and gold in the light of fire and candle and torch. Wrought of silver, the cup bore carved dragons with tiny emeralds for eyes, slavering tongues of ruby, and gold-tinged scales. Everywhere she looked, everything she touched, all around her bore the mark of the dragon.
Including her dreams.
“Hast thou ever thought that it maun be lonely being a dragon?”
Guy’s words rang in her ears, and she slanted another glance toward Rolf. Lonely? The dread Lord of Dragonwyck? It did not seem possible.
She drew in a deep breath and took a swallow of wine. It was rich, potent, heavy with spices on her tongue. A warm path from mouth to stomach gave mute testimony to the strength of the wine. P’raps that was what gave her the courage to lean forward and capture the attention of the man she would wed in two days’ time.
“Milord.” She lifted her goblet when he turned. “My thanks for your generosity”
An amused smile touched the hard lines of his mouth, making him seem less fierce and more cavalier. “Do you thank me for the wine, milady?”
She shook her head. “Nay, ’tis your generosity of spirit that earns my gratitude. The Beauchamp colors are most dear to me, and I would not have thought any man had guessed.”
For a moment Rolf studied her face, dark lashes shadowing his eyes. “I well remember finding precious the colors of my father’s house, especially after a long absence. I thought you might feel the same,” he said slowly.
Their eyes met, and Annice caught her breath at the intensity of his gaze. Gold specked the green of his eyes, tiny striations that radiated from the dark centers. She could not say what she saw there—wariness or curiosity—for it quickly vanished, hidden from her by the swift lowering of thick lashes. Gone was the brief glimpse of emotion, and in its place the casual indifference she was more used to seeing.
Rolf stretched out a lazy hand to lightly clasp her wrist. He drew her arm to him to sip from her cup, shadowed eyes watching her.
“Much sweeter from your own lips, I would think,” he murmured when he released her wrist and cup.
“You are ever the gallant courtier,” Annice responded in a light tone to match his.
“Nay, never think it.” Rolf’s smile did not reach his eyes. “I say only what I mean, lady fair.”
“Always, milord?” She arched a brow, determined not to let him best her at this game of verbal chess. “I think you jest.”
A faint grin squared his mouth, teeth white against his dark beard. “I would be amiss if I were to say an untruth, would I not? Why do you think differently?”
Having neatly put her again into a defensive position, Rolf gazed at her with an innocent expression. Annice glanced down at the cup she still held, then looked up at him through her lashes, forcing her lips into a demure smile.
“Fie, milord, ’tis only by your words that I may judge. If you say that you would be amiss to tell me an untruth, then I must agree.”
Genuine amusement laced his low laughter. “Aptly done, milady. You are adept at jousting with words, I see.”
“I may only credit my short stay in my cousin’s company for anything I have learned. I am but a poor player compared to a man of your vast reputation, my lord.” Annice caught and held Rolf’s gaze. Her heart lurched when he put his hand atop hers. She had meant to tease him a bit, to match his insouciance, but the expression in his eyes had grown intent. Light-tricked, the green of his eyes had taken on a subtle golden glow like that of a flame. She looked down again, focusing her gaze on the jeweled goblet in the curve of her hand and his. She could not bear that gaze resting upon her too closely.
“Most times,” Rolf said, “I do not play games.”
The sudden seriousness of his tone, coupled with the intensity of his gaze, threw her into confusion. She looked up
at him wordlessly. Gone was the ready reply on the tip of her tongue.
On her other side Guy FitzHugh leaned close. “My lord,” he said drawing Rolf’s attention to him, “Lord Henry de Sauvain tells me that you intend to use your lanner falcon on the morrow’s hunt. Do we expect to flush wood ducks or herons?”
Annice pressed her spine against the back of her chair while Sir Guy and Rolf spoke of the merits of hunting birds and prey. The conversation washed around her like tidal currents, ebbing and flowing in a ceaseless roar. She was grateful for Sir Guy’s intervention. Most likely, he had done it a’purpose to give her time to recover. Was she that obvious? Or had he been eavesdropping?
Probably both, she answered her own questions. But this one time she would forgive, for he had rescued her from floundering in helpless reaction to le Draca’s mercurial changes of mood. ’Twas that swiftness in moods that still caught her off guard, and she determined to be better prepared the next time.
Drawing in a deep breath that smelled of wood smoke and roast meat, Annice politely turned her head toward the men discussing the morrow’s hunt. The talk had changed from the virtues of a lanner falcon over a lanneret, to the choice of game to be pursued.
“Two of the pages brought in fewmets,” Sir Guy was saying, “so I understood we were to hunt boar tomorrow.” He idly turned his empty goblet of wine upon its footed stem, twisting it between his fingers as he divided his attention between Lord Rolf and the lady. He had heard the talk between them and known the instant Lady Annice had foundered. Well aware of his liege’s moods, he had prepared to rescue her.
It didn’t help that le Draca must be aware of his intent. There was a faintly amused tilt to Rolf’s mouth that let Guy know he comprehended his intercession. He must be wondering why. But as Guy had no inclination to reveal his reasons for helping Lady Annice, he launched into a lengthy argument for hunting boars instead of birds.
“Some of the barons are grown restless, and a vigorous
hunt for a dangerous prey would take the edge from their quarrelsome natures,” Guy pointed out. “Hawking is too tame a sport for men after a long winter. ’Tis the new year, and boars are growing fat in the forests.”
“Boars are still lean after the winter months, Sir Guy. And the dogs are too fresh and eager. ’Twould be a disaster.”
A squire paused to replenish the empty goblets of wine, and Guy waited until Rolf had sipped from his cup before he said with a sigh, “ ’Tis only the dogs that are fresh and eager, I see. Some of us have grown lazy of late.”
Rolf’s frowning gaze rested on him for a moment. He toyed with the stem of his goblet, blunt fingertips grazing the jewels with quick, restless motions.
“Do I detect a challenge in that observation, Sir Guy? Or do you think to lesson me on the choice of game for our hunt?”
For an instant Guy thought he had gone too far. Then he met Rolf’s uplifted gaze and saw the gleam of interest in his eyes. He relaxed slightly, smiling.
“A challenge, of course,” he said promptly. “I have grown lazy with inaction these past winter months. The new year finds me chafing for a new sport.”
“I would think last month’s failed quest would be enough sport for any man,” Rolf muttered, then gave a shrug. “But you do have a point. The visiting barons are much too rowdy and should be given an opportunity to exhaust themselves.”
Satisfied, Guy took another sip of wine. ’Twas his thought exactly. The barons should all exhaust themselves into a stupor, including his liege lord. Weariness was the best antidote he knew for lust.
“Yea, milord,” he merely said blandly, “I agree.”
He would have added more, especially as Rolf was gazing at him with a narrowed stare that portended a sharp question, but at that moment a noisy clamor at the doors of the hall gained his attention as well as the Dragon’s. Men were struggling, and there was a flash of silver and red amidst the sable and gold colors of Dragonwyck. A muffled oath rose above the chaos of the hall, delivered in rough English, and Guy rose to his feet.
Rolf was already standing, his hand upon the hilt of the
dagger in his belt. Alarmed, Guy put out a restraining arm at almost the same instant that he heard Lady Annice’s soft cry.
Between them, she still managed to gain her feet, her protest sharp and loud. “Do them no harm! ’Tis my vassals who have come to pay me honor, and I will not have them stayed.”
Turning toward le Draca, Annice demanded, “Would you forbid my own vassals entry, milord? Fie, I think it would commend you well to greet them with open arms, for as you will be my husband, they must now swear to you as overlord.”
Anger sparked her blue eyes, making them glow with the hard sheen of deep-hued sapphires. Guy subdued his admiration, the savage expression on Rolf’s face taking immediate precedence.
“My lord,” he intervened smoothly, “ ’twas I who sent word of your impending marriage to the lady’s vassals. With time so short, I knew you would want as many of them present as witnesses as could arrive in time. Pray, forgive me for failing to mention it earlier, but with my travels between Seabrook and here, I fear that I did not think to tell you of my presumption.”
“Presumptive, indeed,” Rolf said so coldly that Guy felt a moment’s misgiving. His heart thumped hard. Had he earned his lord’s enmity for his daring? He prayed not, for he fervently wished to do him no ill.
Sliding a glance toward the end of the hall where Dragonwyck men-at-arms still barred entry for the northern barons, Guy waited for what seemed an eternity until le Draca gave a sharp jerk of his head. “Bid them enter and well come,” he said shortly. “They have traveled long and hard to reach Dragonwyck and, as my lady’s vassals, should be greeted with due respect.”
His voice had lifted to be heard down the length of the crowded hall, now quiet at this new and interesting event. The men-at-arms lowered their weapons and stepped back, and the ruffled vassals gave them a brief, hard look before coming forward.