Faerie (4 page)

What would he be like as a lover? At the thought, her body took on a sudden, hot, longing ache. Leonie slunk back behind a tree. He was too much to look at without wanting. Still, she might never have such a man for a lover. No reason to squelch her dreams.

She peeked around the tree.

A tall wash of water splashed at the Peregrine, soaking his legs. He turned toward the hearty laughter and dived into the flowing river at the offender, catching him at the waist, and the two men threw each other about, slipping and wrestling, until at last the Peregrine got the upper hand, tossing his opponent beneath the water. The struggle ended. Evidently the winner was the man who went underwater last.

He stood in the beck and slung his long golden hair about, spraying a sparkling arc around him, then braced his fists on his hips as the vanquished knight came up sputtering. The other knights whooped, and the water erupted in tangles of body parts, each man seeking supremacy over those about him.

Her breath was tight in her chest. Her gaze was fixed on the Peregrine, and she couldn’t break it. She shouldn’t be watching, she knew, yet she couldn’t make herself stop. She smirked. She had watched men at their play before. They were like that, every man she had ever met. Laughing and romping like small boys in their own company. All solemn and bowing and polite manners the moment a woman appeared in their midst.

She glanced back to the trail behind her, shuddering at the very thought of going back that way. She had hoped to walk upstream and take the long way home, but there was no way she could get past the knights without them seeing her.

The sun was dropping toward the horizon. One by one, the men began to leave the beck. They still laughed, but with less rough exuberance, almost as if they sighed with satisfaction.

The Peregrine ran a cloth over his hair, then combed back the water-darkened locks with his fingers. He ran the rough cloth over his body and reached for his tunic.

His body suddenly stiffened. A frown crossed his face, and he turned toward the forest, looking straight to where she stood in the dark shadows.

She ducked behind the tree. He couldn’t have seen her! She hadn’t made a sound. She was certain. Yet did he know somehow? Cautiously she peeked again.

He shrugged and went back to dressing.

If she stayed where she was, the knights would come straight for her as soon as they finished donning their garments. Which was worse?

She knew. She had only to imagine the look on Philippe le Peregrine’s face when he caught her snooping. But the thing in the forest—

Nay, it was impossible. It was not there. It was just her imagination. She was very good at imagining things. Aunt Beatrice told her that almost every day.

From somewhere deep inside her, she gathered little bits of courage and pasted them together. Drawing her lower lip between her teeth, Leonie stepped back onto the path that led from the beck to the castle, making sure she stayed in the darkest shade so the knights would not see her. Her eyes scanning in all directions, she edged along, step by careful step. She could hear the knights along the beck as they gathered. She scurried faster, scolding herself for knowing her only courage came from an even greater fear, but soon the path broadened and she began to run. The sooner she could make it through the forest, the better.

She slowed as she approached the place beneath the huge old beech tree where Sigge had cut his foot on the sword, which was not a sword but nothing more than her imagination. She bit her lip and sidled slowly, her eyes darting both ways up and down the path, then back to the place where she had dug.

Not there. Not there. Nothing was there.

She drew closer, holding her breath, preparing herself for a mighty dash past the hole. Closer. Closer, until she could see beyond the surrounding brush to the base of the tree.

The ground was undisturbed. Dry leaves littered it just as they had before she had begun digging.

The sword was gone. And so was the skeleton. As if she had never dug.

Leonie gulped down a scream and ran through the forest, her skirts lifted high, her hair flying like a pennant in a stiff breeze, her long legs fleeing over the ground faster than she had ever run before. Her thoughts raced equally as fast.

It was God punishing her. It had to be. Punishing her with her own overwrought imagination for being so wayward and immodest. From now on she was going to be the most demure, obedient maiden Castle Brodin had ever seen.

T
HE TRESTLE TABLES
were being set up in the hall, and Philippe could smell the taunting scents of freshly baked bread coming from the kitchen, mingling with those of juicy roasting oxen. His mouth watered so much he felt like he’d been starving for days.

The hall rang with the boisterous clamor of hungry knights. Philippe sat beside his host at the center table. Lady Beatrice took her seat in a chair across from them, with Philippe’s two best men benched to either side of her. Other benches were pulled up to the two long lines of tables, filled with knights and the household retainers.

Philippe frowned, feeling oddly anxious. The two young ladies still had not come.

Then he saw them, coming through the kitchen door, the servants following in a processional, carrying trays and bowls, all with food in mountainous heaps.

The younger, Lady Claire, the daughter and heir of the household, was as petite as her cousin was tall and slim. Claire was the ideal woman, the perfect wife for most men, so properly demure in her blue kirtle and yellow veil. Behind her Lady Leonie towered over her, slim as a willow, her bushy golden curls flowing out beneath a nearly transparent veil. At least for once, she did not boldly look a man in the eye.

Claire reached her place, and all the knights stood to make room for her, giving him a full view of Leonie. No longer a tangled, bloody, and muddy mess. And still too much of everything to be beautiful like her cousin. Yet in spite of all, his hand fought him for the chance to slip within the mass of long, dangling curls, now caught up in narrow braids laced through with bright ribbons. Her eyes sparkled like huge, dark emeralds that drew him into their depths. Aye, too, too much of everything.

Leonie followed Claire, her gaze fixed firmly on the hem of her cousin’s kirtle in her determination to behave like a proper maiden. Tonight she would, for once, not embarrass her uncle before his guests. Her awful hair was as controlled as it could be. In her favorite shade of green, trimmed in twining golden and crimson embroidered lions and cranes, she looked as decent as she could be made to look. She hadn’t liked the way Ealga had set the veil on her head, but when she pulled it down farther to hide more of her hair and face, Ealga had whacked her with her comb.

She repeated the litany she had designed for herself for this night.
Smile sweetly. Speak only when spoken to. Look no man in the eye.
And every moment when not eating, fold her hands in her lap. Her eyes firmly focusing on the white linen tablecloth, she took her place. Heat blazed in her cheeks as she realized she was seated directly across from the man she least wanted to see. Gritting her teeth, she reaffirmed her vow. She would keep her eyes downcast if she had to count every bread crumb fallen from the trencher.

The Peregrine cleared his throat, and she jerked at the sound. “Lady Leonie,” he said, “allow me to present to you my knight beside you, Hugh of Hatterie.”

Jarred, Leonie blinked, absorbing the words, and nodded sideways to the knight. “So pleased, sir,” she said.

“My pleasure,” said the knight in a sweetly smooth voice. “Lady, will you permit me to cut your meat?”

Leonie smiled weakly. “How kind of you.” She groaned. Of course it was kind of him. It was his duty as a gentleman. She didn’t have to sound like he was the first man ever to deign to cut her meat for her.

“Hugh is heir to his uncle, Roland of Hatterie,” Philippe said.

The knight chuckled. “He neglects to mention my uncle is young and newly wed. I vow I’ll not be heir much longer.” He laid a carefully trimmed slab of beef on Leonie’s trencher and cut it into dainty pieces. “Alas, lady, I am but an impoverished knight, but I vow always to cut your meat finer than any man, for I shall be enslaved to your lovely green eyes all my life.”

Lightning swift, her gaze flew up to meet his, and she was shocked by the man’s male beauty. With dark brown curls dangling over his brow, lips that curved in elegant arches like a bow, and deep brown eyes, Hugh of Hatterie was a man any maid might dream of wedding. He gazed at her in utter adoration. God in Heaven, help her. She did not have the power of the gaze, but he talked as if she had entranced him. She had not even noticed him before now. What had she done? It must have been something.

The Peregrine cleared his throat again, loudly, startling her. She looked up at him before she could remember her vow, and caught a fire sparking in his dark eyes. With a twitch, she lowered her eyes, pretending fascination with her food. Hugh straightened and returned his attention to his own trencher.

Oh. He was just flattering her after all, like a good guest. Any polite knight knew to gaze adoringly at even the less-than-fair maidens of the household.

She renewed her litany of modest behavior. If it cost her every nerve and sinew in her body frozen into permanent rigidity, she would not look into the Peregrine’s eyes again.

Uncle Geoffrey, moderate in his drinks but not in his meat, ate heartily, engaging Philippe in conversation as they ate, while Leonie managed a few agreeable words with Hugh. But the man’s voice had become pleasant but distant. That was just as well. But it would be rather nice to really be adored by a fine-looking man such as he.

Oh no! Don’t even think of it!

Leonie pleaded with God to never give her the power of the gaze and to help her keep her eyes off both men. But again and again she strayed, just a peek, and every time the Peregrine was watching her.

She was hopeless. She begged God instead to end the meal quickly so she could flee up the stairs to her chamber.

“Tell me, Philippe,” said her uncle, swiping a linen cloth across his lips to signal he had finished with his meal. “What news from the king’s court?”

“’Tis no secret, the Scots king is in England,” the Peregrine replied.

“Aye, so we heard. We hear the Scots raid less when their king is not safely within their borders.”

“He is safe enough here. Rufus will scrupulously honor his safe conduct. Unless Malcolm means mischief.”

“When does he not?”

The Peregrine drew in a long breath that sounded thoughtful. “Now that he has come, he refuses to submit to the king’s court. He denies he is Rufus’s vassal, yet we all saw him bend the knee not a year ago. So Rufus ignores him. You know, of course, the Scots king’s daughter, Edith, is at Wilton Abbey where her Aunt Christina is abbess. ’Twas only the week before Malcolm
arrived that the Count of Richmond petitioned Rufus for Edith’s hand.”

He had? Leonie exchanged glances with her uncle, embarrassingly aware that the Peregrine observed them. Did he know that same Count of Richmond had been here at Brodin not three days ago seeking her uncle’s blessing to ask the king for her hand in marriage? Thankfully, her uncle had refused. She could only hope the king would as well.

“That randy old goat?” said Uncle Geoffrey. Leonie held her breath, but her uncle said nothing more.

The Peregrine took such a deep sip from his cup that he must have drained it. “Rufus said if the girl was ready to wed, perhaps he’d marry her himself.”

Someone near the far end of the table dropped a cup that clattered all the way to the floor. No one else moved. Even Leonie stared.

“Rufus? Marry?” A chorus of voices spoke together.

The Peregrine chuckled harshly. “Then the king took seven knights and rode to Wilton Abbey. Within two days, Rufus rode back and announced to all that with his own eyes he had seen the Scots princess take the veil, so she could not marry any man.”

“Close call for Rufus,” said a deep male voice.

A dark chuckle rumbled along the table. Even the ladies knew the scandalous stories about the king and his court, so strangely empty of women. None believed Rufus would ever take a bride.