Juliana Garnett (20 page)

P’raps solitude was what he needed most. Certes, he had much to think about lately. Paramount in his mind was his marriage to Lady Annice. Of late she was ever on his mind. Natural, he supposed, as he was to wed her. Yet he knew there was more to it than that. When he thought of her, he did not consider her importance to him in political terms or as a means of retrieving his son, but as a woman. And a woman that he desired. Thick russet hair, blue eyes that could sparkle with amusement or grow fiery with anger, and a fair face with creamy skin—yea, his desire for her grew with every passing hour. ’Twas most difficult for him to conceal or control. As she well knew.

There were moments, as this morn before the hunt, when he was certain he saw the knowledge in her eyes. She knew that he wanted her. That he thought of her when he knew he should not. But when he finally took her, would she be thinking of him, or of her beloved husband? Would there be a ghost in their nuptial bed, the memory of another man between them? Aye, ’twas a bitter draft to swallow, this need for one particular woman.…

Rolf roused himself from thoughts of Annice. ’Twas foolish to linger too long alone during a hunt. Glancing down at the lance in his hand, he removed his gauntlet and ran his palm along the length of the wooden shaft. It appeared whole and unharmed from the mishap, and the gleaming iron blade was unbroken. A damaged lance could well mean a man’s life if he was careless.

He took a step and heard the sharp snap of a twig beneath his booted foot. A rustle of dry leaves sounded behind him. Not far away a limb suddenly dropped from a tree to plummet earthward, landing in a shower of leaves and loud crackling. A shrill whinny slashed the air, and he turned to look at his horse. Its eyes rolled to show the whites. He
lunged for the bridle, anticipating the animal’s reaction, but it was too late.

Half rearing, the horse lashed out. Rolf jerked his arm, barely getting the lance out of the way, while still grabbing at the bridle. Panicked, the horse evaded capture.

“Curse you,” Rolf muttered in a panting growl. He wished he had ridden Wulfsige. The well-trained warhorse was too smart to be spooked by forest noises and obeyed instantly. Not this cursed nag, who looked as if it thought the fiends of hell were coming. He would have been glad to deliver the animal to them if they had been; now he found himself caught between tossing aside his lance or losing his mount, neither a very appealing prospect. He could well imagine the hoots and howls of the others should he be unhorsed.

Skillfully dodging Rolf’s attempts to capture it, the horse backed into a snarl of briars. Thorny branches dug into its hide, causing more panic. Rearing, the hooves lashed out and kept Rolf from grabbing the trailing ends of the bridle. If he did not manage to grab the leather straps, the cursed animal would end up hopelessly entangled in the brush.

Rolf reluctantly jabbed the end of his lance into the ground in a swift move, freeing both hands. Fortunately, he wore only a leather aketon over his breeches and tunic, so he had little restriction. Thus unimpeded, he was able to seize the dangling ends of the bridle before the horse could do itself more harm.

He stood a moment to calm the animal, one hand lightly stroking the sweat-dampened neck as he held it close. But it would not be soothed, eyes rolling to show the whites and nostrils flaring. Rolf frowned as the horse trembled and plunged, and turned to look behind him.

The hair on the nape of his neck prickled, and he froze. In the midst of a thicket only a scant distance away, a long-tusked boar had paused. Its sides heaved in and out as if it had been running hard, and the small, beady eyes were riveted on the man and horse. It was huge—p’raps twenty-five stone or more. Despite the gray light of mist and deep forest, the long, curved tusks gleamed white and deadly.

Rolf’s muscles tightened. His lance was just out of reach,
between him and the boar. Wild boars were unpredictable at best. Should he chance losing the horse and possibly enraging the boar to snatch his lance? It was doubtful that he would have time to throw it before the boar reached him. At best the horse would be gored. At worst the beast would catch one of those long, deadly tusks in human prey. More than one man of his acquaintance had met an untimely end in such a way, and a cold sweat beaded his forehead at the memory.

Holding tight to the horse’s reins, Rolf knew that at any moment the boar would be goaded into action by the frantic neighing of the horse. It was all he could do to keep hold of the animal while gauging his chances at reaching his weapon in time to fend off the boar.

A shrill squeal rent the air, and the boar pawed the ground with cloven hooves, its red eyes glaring at Rolf. Slowly, Rolf released his grip on the reins. Feeling the restraint gone, the horse jerked back with a terrified whinny. A breath of wind passed close by Rolf’s cheek as flailing hooves cut the air where he had just been.

Diving forward, Rolf grabbed at his lance even as he saw the huge boar spring toward him with astonishing speed.

Annice frowned at the closed doors of the hall, as if her impatience would open them. ’Twas long past the hour for the hunters’ return. The cooks were probably frantic with the effort to keep food warm and tasty in the kitchens. All in the hall had been made ready.

“Milady.”

Turning, she met the questioning gaze of Sir Rannulf, who had remained behind. He sat on a stool near the fire, his earnest face reflecting flame and concern. She schooled her features into a pleasant smile. “Yea, milord?”

“I can see thou art sore troubled. Shall I—”

Whatever he had been about to offer was drowned out by a sudden commotion at the doors. Half rising from her chair, Annice felt a thump of alarm tighten her throat as the doors swung open with a loud clatter. Men scurried forward, garments askew, excitement bubbling from their lips
as they entered the hall in a wash of confusion and loud voices.

Sir Rannulf had already risen also and stood before Annice as if he would protect her from the rush of men into the hall. Though he wore no armor, his sword was securely belted at his waist, a certain sign that he did not feel wholly comfortable within Dragonwyck’s stone walls.

“Delay, milady,” he said when Annice took several steps forward, “until we discern what has happened.”

But Annice had seen a litter brought into the hall and did not wait. If it was one of the huntsmen who had been wounded, he would have been taken to one of the chambers near the granary, mayhap, or even near the chapel. That a wounded man was being borne into the hall could mean only that it was someone of some consequence—such as Rolf.

She could not explain the cloud of conflicting emotions that enveloped her. Paramount was the driving necessity to reach the man lying on the litter. Frantic, she pushed past Sir Rannulf and fought her way through the press of men and women crowding close together.

A faint cry escaped her when she saw the muscular form draped on the litter, one hand dragging through the rushes as he was brought near the fire. But when she reached the litter’s side, she saw that it was not Rolf of Dragonwyck who lay limply.

Sir Guy stretched upon the litter and gave a moan when it was slowly lowered to the rush-strewn floor. His eyes opened slightly to focus on her as she bent over him, and a faint smile wobbled on his lips.

“Mary, but ’twas a foul demon … that bade me suggest … hunting the boar,” he got out in a raspy voice. His attempt at humor ended in a rending groan when one of the huntsmen accidentally trod upon Guy’s trailing arm.

Annice clutched his hand and placed it atop his chest. Long rips rent the leather of his tunic, and there was a deep gash in one thigh that needed immediate attention. She had seen wounds like these before and forced her attention to the mending of them.

“Hush now,” she said softly, “while I send for a bag of
herbs.” She looked up at the men crowded near and saw the frightened face of Rolf’s young squire peering down at the fallen knight. “Corbet,” she ordered, “fetch proper herbs. And clean cloths and hot water. Some of you men lift up the litter and carry it—
gently
—into the next chamber. I will need a fire built. Are there more injuries?”

No one answered for a moment, and dread welled inside her. It seemed to her they looked away, as if unable to tell her. Was he dead, then? The lord of the castle? On the day before their wedding.… Holy Mary have mercy, should she grieve or be glad?

Kneeling there beside Sir Guy, looking up at the sea of faces leaning near, Annice knew in that instant that if aught had happened to Rolf, she could not bear it. ’Twould not be for fear of what might happen to her, but fear for him.

The blinding revelation was at once both terrifying and illuminating.

Fumbling with his good hand, Guy reached out to her and took her by the long, trailing cuff of her sleeve. His grip left streaks of dirt upon the gold-colored cloth.

“Nay … nay, milady. ’Twas my own … feckless act that … brought this mishap … upon me. None else … are much hurt.”

His hand fell away, and she stared at him numbly for a moment. Rolf was not harmed. Relief flooded her. She managed a smile of comfort and put a tender hand upon Guy’s dirt-streaked brow.

“God’s mercy,” she said. “Now, here—suffer these men to bear you hence, where I may tend your hurts in a more private chamber.”

Rising, she looked up to meet Rolf’s steady green gaze. Her heart lurched. He stood only a few feet opposite, arms folded across his chest. Dead leaves clung to the long sleeves of his linen shirt, and there was a jagged rip in his leather tunic. Dirt matted his hair and beard, and there was a strip of cloth wound round his left hand.

But he was alive and well, seeming whole and hale. He held her eyes for a long moment, while around her all seemed to recede into the distance, the babble of voices and flurry of action fading as Guy was lifted and borne away. All
her attention was focused upon this one man, this one golden knight with blazing green eyes and the look of dragon-fire in his gaze.

“Milord,” she said finally, slightly breathless, the words feeling as if torn from her soul. “Do you … have hurts that need tending?” She indicated the cloth on his hand, but he shook his head.

“Nay. No hurts that my own squire cannot tend for me.”

“How does it come that Sir Guy was injured?”

Rolf’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I am still wondering that. The boar circled back, ’tis said. It came upon me when I was unhorsed and my weapon disabled.” He shrugged slightly. “I am still uncertain as to how Sir Guy came between us, for the last I was aware, my lance had broken when the boar first charged.”

Pausing, he drew in a deep breath. Annice sensed tension beneath the casual words and frowned. Did he think Sir Guy somehow responsible for the outcome of the hunt? Was he angry that his knight had been injured? She recalled that Rolf had been reluctant to hunt boars; p’raps that was behind his tension.

“Milord,” she began, but he was shaking his head and taking a step back.

“Nay. Do not think on it now. Sir Guy needs your attention. I am certain he would much prefer gentle hands on him rather than those of his squire or mine. I will see to the guests.”

Pivoting on his booted heel, Rolf made his way through those around them without glancing back at her. Annice stood still for an instant and stared after him. Then she realized that Sir Simon was staring at her, as well as others. She hastily composed herself.

“Corbet, show me to Sir Guy,” she said. “And, Vachel, do see that food is served now. I warrant that there are hungry men among the returned hunters.”

As they scurried to do her bidding, Annice allowed herself to be taken to Guy in a nearby chamber. The binding and sewing of wounds was a familiar task, and one she could competently manage with little thought. She had been used to doing such things in her own household. Hunts always
saw a few injuries, usually minor. A long gash such as the one Sir Guy suffered was common enough.

“There,” she said when she had cleaned and tended his wound, “ ’tis nasty enough to keep you laid low for a few days. I see that I shall not be dancing with you at my wedding.” She gave him a cheerful smile as she held out a cup holding a draft of herbs, but he caught at her sleeve.

“Nay, I do not wish to drink it.” Grimacing, he tried to sit up, but she put a hand upon his chest to hold him down. Guy flicked her a rueful smile. His eyelids were heavy. “I am weak as a day-old kitten. ’Tis my own fault. If I had not interfered … my actions almost cost my lord’s life as well as my own. But I pray you, believe me when I saw ’twas only my fear for him that bade me act unwisely.”

Annice stared down at the wounded knight. “You must drink this, then tell me what you mean, sir.”

Despite his gray pallor and loss of blood, Guy’s voice was rich with vigor when he said, “I heard them talking! ’Tis being said that I almost caused Lord Rolf to be killed by not coming a’twixt him and the wounded boar.” He sipped reluctantly at the cup she insistently held to his lips, making a face at the bitter brew. “Milady, I beseech thee,” he said in rough English, “not to believe such false tales. When my liege’s lance snapped in twain from the force of impact with the boar, he was in danger of being gored. In the struggle I could not be certain my aim would be true.…”

“Yea, I believe thee, Sir Guy,” Annice soothed him. She understood his distress then. Some of the others—no doubt dull-witted huntsmen seeking to gain their lord’s favor—had blamed Rolf’s close mishap upon his knight. ’Twould not have to be true to be harmful to him. She managed a smile. “Rest now, and all will be well. I am certain thy lord does not hold thee to blame.”

Guy turned his face toward the wall. “Nay, but he doth hold me full responsible,” he said in a bleak tone. “ ’Tis in his eyes when he looks upon me.”

She said nothing, recalling the fire of suspicion she’d seen in Rolf’s eyes. He might well think Sir Guy had meant him harm. And if he had—She drew in a deep breath.
There had been strain between the lord and his knight of late. P’raps events had come about that she did not know.