Wintertide (24 page)

Hadrian did not know how to respond and contented himself with swallowing his chicken. He had ridden to the sound of roaring crowds every time he competed, but Hadrian was not there for applause. His task was dark, secret, and not worthy of praise. He had unsaddled five knights and, by the rules of the contest, owned their mounts. Hadrian declined that privilege. He had no need for the horses, but it was more than just that—he did not deserve them. All he wanted was the lives of Arista and Gaunt. In his mind, the whole affair was tainted. Taking anything else from his victories—even the pleasure of success—would be wrong. Nevertheless, the crowds cheered each time he refused his right to a mount, believing him humble and chivalrous instead of what he was—a murderer in waiting.

“It’s just you and Breckton now, isn’t it?” Ibis asked.

Hadrian nodded gloomily. “We tilt tomorrow. There’s some sort of hunt today.”

“Oh yes, the hawking. I’ll be roasting plenty of game birds for tonight’s feast. Say, aren’t you going?”

“Just here for the joust,” Hadrian managed to say even though his mouth was full again.

Ibis bent his head to get a better look. “For a new knight on the verge of winning the Wintertide Highcourt Tournament, you don’t seem very happy. It’s not the food, I hope.”

Hadrian shook his head. “Food’s great. Kinda hoping you’ll let me eat my midday meal here, too.”

“You’re welcome any time. Ha! Listen to me sounding like an innkeeper or castle lord. I’m just a cook.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Sure, these mongrels quiver at my voice, but you’re a knight. You can go wherever you please. Still…if my food has placed you in a charitable mood, I would ask one favor.”

“What’s that?”

“Lady Amilia holds a special place in my heart. She’s like a daughter to me. A sweet, sweet lass, and it seems she’s recently taken a liking to Sir Breckton. He’s good, mind you, a fine lancer, but from what I’ve heard you’re likely to beat him. Now, I’m not saying anything against you, someone of my station would be a fool to even insinuate such a thing, but…”

“But?”

“Well, some knights try to inflict as much damage as they can, taking aim at a visor and such. If something were to happen to Breckton…Well, I just don’t want Amilia to get hurt. She’s never had much, you see. Comes from a poor family and has worked hard all her life. Even now that bas—I mean Regent Saldur—keeps her slaving night and day. But even so, she’s been happy lately, and I’d like to see that continue.”

Hadrian kept his eyes on his plate, concentrating on mopping up yolk with a crust of bread.

“So anyway, if at all possible, it’d be real nice if you went a bit easy on Breckton. So he doesn’t get hurt, I mean. I know a’course that you can’t always help it. Dear Maribor, I know that. But I can tell by talking with you that you’re a decent fellow. Ha! I don’t even know why I brought it up. You’ll do the right thing. I can tell. Here, let me get you some more beer.”

Ibis Thinly walked away, taking Hadrian’s mug and appetite with him.

***

In many ways Amilia felt like a child that Saldur had brought into the world that day in the kitchen when he elevated her to the rank of Lady. Now she was little more than a toddler, still trying to master simple tasks and often making mistakes. No one said anything. No one pointed and laughed, but there were knowing looks and partially hidden smiles. She felt out of her element when trying to navigate the numerous traps and hazards of courtly life without a map.

When addressed as “My Lady” by a finely dressed noble, Amilia felt uncomfortable. Seeing a guard snap to attention at her passing was strange. Especially since those same soldiers had grinned lewdly at her little more than a year ago. Amilia was certain the guards still leered and the nobles still laughed, but now they did so behind polite eyes. She believed the only means of banishing the silent snickers was to fit in. If Amilia did not stumble as she walked, spill a glass of wine, speak too loudly, wear the wrong color, laugh when she should remain quiet, or remain quiet when she should laugh, then they might forget she used to scrub their dishes. Any time Amilia interacted with the nobility was an ordeal, but when she did so in an unfamiliar setting, she became ill. For this reason, Amilia avoided eating anything the morning of the hawking.

The whole court embarked on the daylong event. Knights, nobles, ladies, and servants all rode out together to the forest and field for the great hunt. Dogs trotted in their wake. Amilia had never sat on a horse before. She had never ridden a pony, mule, or even an ox, but that day she found herself precariously balanced atop a massive white charger. She wore the beautiful white gown and matching cape Lady Genevieve had provided her, which by no accident, perfectly matched her horse’s coat. Her right leg was hooked between two horns of the saddle and her left foot rested on a planchette. Sitting this way made staying on the animal’s back a demanding enterprise. Each jerk and turn set her heart pounding and her hands grasping for the charger’s braided mane. On several occasions, she nearly toppled backward. If she were to fall, Amilia imagined she would wind up hanging by her trapped leg, skirt over her head, while the horse pranced proudly about. The thought terrified her so much that she barely breathed and sat rigid with her eyes fixed on the ground below. For the two-hour ride into the wilderness, Amilia did not speak a word. She only dared to look up when the huntsman called for the party’s attention.

They emerged from the shade of a forest into the light of a field. Tall, brown rushes jutted from beneath the snow’s cover. The flicker of morning sunlight reflected off moving water where a river cut the landscape. Lacking any wind, the world was oddly quiet. The huntsman directed them to line up by spreading out along the edge of the forest and facing the marsh.

Amilia was pleased to arrive at what she hoped was their destination and proud of how she managed to direct her horse without delay or mishap. Finally at a standstill, she allowed herself a breath of relief only to see the falconer approaching.

“What bird will you be using today, milady?” he asked, looking up at her from within his red coif. His hands were encased in thick gloves.

She swallowed. “Ah…what would you suggest?”

The falconer appeared surprised, and Amilia felt as if she had done something wrong.

“Well, My Lady, there are many birds but no set regulation. Tradition usually reserves the gyrfalcon for a king, a falcon for a prince or duke, the peregrine for an earl, a bastard hawk for a baron, a saker for a knight, a goshawk for a noble, tercel for a poor man, sparrow hawk for a priest, kestrel for a servant, and a merlin for a lady, but in practice it is more a matter of—”

“She will be using Murderess,” the Duchess of Rochelle announced, trotting up beside them.

“Of course, Your Ladyship.” The falconer bowed his head and made a quick motion with his hand. A servant raced up with a huge, hooded bird held on his fist. “Your gauntlet, milady,” the falconer said, holding out a rough elk-hide glove.

“You’ll want to put that on your left hand, darling,” the duchess said with a reassuring smile and mischievous glint in her eyes.

Amilia felt her heart flutter as she took the glove and pulled it on.

“Hold your hand up, dear. Out away from your face,” Lady Genevieve instructed.

The falconer took the raptor from the servant and carried it over. The hawk was magnificent and blinded by a leather hood with a short decorative plume. While being transferred to Amilia, Murderess spread her massive wings and flapped twice as her powerful talons took hold of the glove. The hawk was lighter than expected and Amilia had no trouble holding her up. Still, Amilia’s fear of falling was replaced by her fear of the bird. She watched in terror as the falconer wrapped the jess around her wrist, tethering her to the hawk.

“Beautiful bird,” Amilia heard a voice say.

“Yes, it is,” she replied. Looking over to see Sir Breckton taking station on her left, Amilia thought she might faint.

“It’s the Duchess of Rochelle’s. She—” Amilia turned. The duchess had moved off, abandoning her. Panic made her stomach lurch. As friendly as Lady Genevieve was, Amilia was starting to suspect the woman enjoyed tormenting her.

Amilia tried to calm herself as she sat face-to-face with the one man in the entire world she wanted to impress. With one hand holding the bird and the other locked on to the horse’s reins, she realized the cold was causing her nose to run. She could not imagine the day getting any worse. Then, as if the gods had heard her thoughts, they answered using the huntsman’s voice.

“Everyone! Ride forward!”

Oh dear Maribor!

Her horse tripped on the rough, frost-heaved ground, throwing her off balance. The sudden jolt also startled Murderess, who threw out her great wings to save herself by flying. Tethered to Amilia’s wrist, the hawk pulled on her arm. She might have stayed in the saddle—if not for the bird’s insistence on dragging her backward.

Amilia cried out as she fell over the rump of the horse, her nightmare becoming reality. Yet, before she cleared the saddle, she stopped. Sir Breckton had caught her around the waist. Though he wore no armor, his arm felt like a band of steel—solid and unmovable. Gently, he drew her upright. The bird flapped twice more then settled down and gripped Amilia’s glove again.

Breckton did not say a word. He held Amilia steady until she reseated herself on the saddle and placed her foot on the planchette. Horrified and flushed with humiliation, she refused to look at him.

Why did that have to happen in front of him!

She did not want to see his face and find the same condescending smirk she had seen on so many others. On the verge of tears, she wanted desperately to be back at the palace, back in the kitchen, back cleaning pots. At that moment she preferred the thought of facing Edith Mon—or even her vengeful ghost—to enduring the humiliation of facing Sir Breckton. Feeling tears gathering, she clenched her jaw and breathed deeply in an effort to hold them back.

“Does it have a name?”

Sir Breckton’s words were so unexpected that Amilia replayed them twice before understanding the question.

“Murderess,” she replied, thanking Maribor that her voice did not crack.

“That seems…appropriate.” There was a pause before he continued. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” She tasked her brain to think of something to add, but it came back with nothing.

Why is he talking like that? Why is he asking about the weather?

The knight sighed heavily.

Looking up at him, she found he was not smirking but appeared pained. His eyes accidentally met hers while she studied his face and he instantly looked away. His fingers drummed a marching cadence on his saddle horn.

“Cold though,” he said and quickly added, “could be warmer, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” she said again, realizing she must sound like an idiot with all her one-word answers. She wanted to say more. She wanted to be witty and clever, but her brain was as frozen as the ground.

Amilia caught him glancing at her again. This time he shook his head and sighed once more.

“What?” she asked fearfully.

“I don’t know how you do it,” he said.

The genuine admiration in his eyes only baffled her further.

“You ride a warhorse sidesaddle over rough ground with a huge hawk perched on your arm and are still managing to make me feel like a squire in a fencing match. My Lady, you are a marvel beyond reckoning. I am in awe.”

Amilia stared at him until she realized she was staring at him. In her mind, she ordered her eyes to look away, but they refused. She had no words to reply, which hardly mattered as Amilia had no air in her body with which to speak. Breathing seemed unimportant at that moment. Forcing herself to take a breath, Amilia discovered she was smiling. A second later, she knew Sir Breckton noticed as well as he abruptly stopped drumming and sat straighter.

“Milady,” said the falconer’s servant, “it’s time to release your bird.”

Amilia looked at the raptor, wondering just how she was going to do that.

“May I help?” Sir Breckton asked. Reaching over, he removed Murderess’s hood and unwound her tether.

With a motion of his own arm, the servant indicated that she should thrust her hand up. Amilia did so, and Murderess spread her great wings, pushed down, and took to the sky. The raptor climbed higher and higher yet remained circling directly overhead. As she watched the goshawk, Amilia noticed Breckton looking at her.

“Don’t you have a bird?” she asked.

“No. I did not expect to be hawking. Truth be told, I haven’t hunted in years. I’d forgotten the joy of it—until now.”

“So you know how?”

“Oh yes. Of course. I used to hunt the fields of Chadwick as a lad. My father, my brother Wesley, and I would spend whole weeks chasing fowl from their nests and rodents from their burrows.”

“Would you think ill of me if I told you this was my first time?”

Breckton’s face turned serious, which frightened her until he said, “My Lady, be assured that should I live so long as to see the day that the sun does not rise, the rivers do not flow, and the winds do not blow, I would
never
think ill of you.”

She tried to hide another smile. Once more she failed, and once more, Sir Breckton noticed.

“Perhaps you can help me as I am befuddled by all of this,” Amilia said, gesturing at their surroundings.

“It is a simple thing. The birds are
waiting-on
, that is to say, hovering overhead until the attack. Much the way soldiers stand in line preparing for battle. The enemies are a crafty bunch. They lay hiding before us in the field between the river and ourselves. With the line made by the horses, the huntsman has ensured that the prey will not come this way, which, of course, they would try to do—to reach the safety of the trees—were we not here.”

“But how will we find these hidden enemies?”

“They need to be drawn out, or in this case
flushed
out. See there? The huntsman has gathered the dogs.”