Authors: Judith Tarr
King's Blood (34 page)
He saw the quarry first: a stag with a wide spread of antlers, leaping through the underbrush. It was a marvel how it kept from tangling itself in the branches of the trees. Then behind the stag, William saw the hounds, and after them the huntsmen winding their horns and baying with the hounds.
The stag ran straight for the river. Either it was too blind with panic to see the small army on the other side, or it preferred dismounted men and idle horses to a pack of hounds in full cry.
It paused on the bank, gathering to leap. Its wild dark eye looked straight into William's. Just as it left the ground, soaring over the water, an arrow appeared as if enchanted, plunging deep into its heart.
The stag hung in the air. Death took it there; it dropped. Almost too late, William scrambled back from the water. The stag's body fell heavily where he had been. The broad tines of its antlers pierced the soft ground; one hind hoof, flailing, brushed William's cheek.
He felt the sting of a cut. His hand, lifting quickly, came away stained with blood.
“Good God, sire!” said the captain of his guard. “If you hadn't moved, it would have fallen right on top of you.”
So it would haveâand the antlers would have sunk into his body instead of the earth. William found that he was shakingânot with fear but with a kind of crazy elation. Did not God love him? Was he not born lucky?
He looked up, grinning crazily, into a row of shocked faces. The hunt had tangled on the far side of the river, hounds milling and baying, men reining in their horses hard before they fell over one another. Only one in front, with a bow still in his hand, seemed to have kept his wits about him.
Young, William thought, though by no means a boy. If he had Viking blood, he did not show it: he was wiry and dark, with curling black hair and wide black eyes, and a nose that could have come straight from old Rome.
“Messire!” he called across the river. His voice was clear and rather high, with a strong music in it. “Your pardon, I beg you. I didn't see you. Are you hurt?”
“It's nothing,” William said. The cut was shallow and had bled out quickly. All that was left was the sting.
“Take the deer at least, messire,” said the young lord, “as recompense.”
“Surely,” said William, “if you'll come across and share it with us. We're on our way to Amiens.”
“Poix is closer, messire,” the young lord said, “and it's mine. May I offer you my hospitality?”
William might not have been inclined to delay, but if this was the lord of Poix, then God had delivered him into William's hand. It was worth a drop or two of blood and a night in his castle, with fresh venison to sweeten it.
Maybe there was more sweetening than that, too. The dark eyes reminded William of the stag's, but where those had been purely wild, these softened on him.
Ah, so, William thought. Indeed. He stood back as the hunters crossed the river, picking their way with care. None of them attempted the stag's leap.
When they were all on the nearer side, their lord sprang from his horse and dropped to one knee in front of William. “Messire,” he said. “Walter Tirel at your serviceâand humbly, after what he nearly did.”
William pulled him to his feet. “It's nothing,” he said again. “I accept your serviceâand your hospitality. My name is William; I come from England.”
Walter Tirel tried to kneel again, but William held him too strongly. “Majesty! I should have knownâI should have recognizedâ”
“No more apologies,” William said. His tone was mild, and he smiled, but the young lord shut his mouth with a snap.
He was well trained, and well mannered, too. He not only did as he was told; he did it with lightness and grace. William had been wary, thinking him too obsequious by half, but that proved baseless. He was polite, that was all; it was a shock to be out hunting in all innocence, and find oneself face-to-face with a king.
They gutted and dressed the stag and loaded it on one of the horses, rounded up the hounds and set off down the road to Poix. Walter Tirel's men were as lively as he was, but William found they did not wear on him as the boy in Le Mans had. They made him laugh; better yet, they made him feel young again.
It was a fine feast. Walter Tirel had a lady, it seemed, but she was safely stowed on her own manor, with two sons fostered out and a third coming.
“She does her duty,” Walter Tirel said over wine, when the last of the venison had gone to feed the dogs, and the rest of the feast had been taken out for the poor.
Night had fallen some while since. Most of their combined escort had gone to bed in the hall, or fallen asleep where they sat. King and count had gone up to the solar, where a sleepy page kept their cups filled, and half a dozen hounds sprawled across the floor.
William was half inclined to join them, but the chair he was in was comfortable, and the wine was good: strong and sweet. Walter Tirel sipped at his own cup, eyes on the flames in the small hearth. Autumn was coming, though the day had been summer-warm: there was enough of a chill in the air that the fire was welcome.
“She's a good wife,” he said. “Quiet. Easy to talk to. Mind you I fought it when the marriage was arranged, but her dowry was too good to miss. I'm not sorry I gave in.”
He was easy to talk to, too, William thought. Amazingly so, considering they had only met a few hours ago. It could have been disturbing, but William found it remarkably comfortable. This was meant. There was a blessing on it.
He caught himself rubbing his cheek where the stag's hoof had scored it. He lowered his hand and rubbed it on his thigh. “You had no difficulty, then. Considering two sons, and the third on the way.”
Walter Tirel shrugged without embarrassmentâand without cockiness, either. “She's a good wife: better than I have any right to. But there it is. God has blessed me.”
“You almost tempt me to try it myself,” William said.
Walter Tirel smiled. “Heirs are useful. They silence the preachers rather conclusively.”
“My people are pushing a marriage at me,” said William.
“She's a childâwell, not so young now; she must be eighteen, give or take a year. Raised in a convent. God knows what good she'd be.”
“She might surprise you,” Walter Tirel said.
William peered into his cup. Somehow it had emptied itself. The page had fallen over among the dogs. They were all snoring in unison.
Walter Tirel rose lightly and plucked the winejar from the page's oblivious grasp, bending to fill William's cup. William felt the heat of him, and caught the scent of clean young male, that was better than flowers. Flowers were a woman's vanity.
It was perfectly natural and inevitable that they should kiss. William always had his guard upâhe never let it down. But here, with this man, he felt no fear at all, and no mistrust.
The kiss lingered. Just as it began to fade, William lifted them both to their feet. They picked their way through hounds and sleeping page, through the door that led to the top of the tower.
No lamp was lit in the lord's chamber, but the high window was open, and the moon shining through. Things were dancing in the light: gauzy beings, all but transparent. William told himself they were harmless.
He let himself fall to the bed, taking the young lord with him. Walter Tirel was as limber as a boy, but strong as a grown man should be. He fit wonderfully into William's spaces.
Â
William woke in the dark. There was warmth beside him, breathing gently. His hand brushed thick curling hair and smooth plane of shoulder. Walter Tirel murmured and burrowed into his side.
William woke in the dark. There was warmth beside him, breathing gently. His hand brushed thick curling hair and smooth plane of shoulder. Walter Tirel murmured and burrowed into his side.
William sighed. His body was still singing. His cheek stung. He would have to find a salve for that, come morning.
The moon had set, but the stars were bright. The spirits that had crowded the moonlight were gone. But something was there, watching.
Whatever it was, William could not see it clearly at all, but he felt it keenly: a deep chill. Almost he thought he saw a skeletal body and a stag's skull with a corpse-light in the sockets of its eyes, hovering in the air above the tower.
It was waiting. Watching. Against his will, he remembered Robin's warning.
Any friend you make on this journey, he'll bring you ill luck.
Any friend you make on this journey, he'll bring you ill luck.
William shook off both the memory and the bony apparition. It was an attack of night terrors, no more. This beautiful and perfect creature, whom God Himself had cast into William's lap, had no stink of ill omen about him. He was born as lucky as William. They were meant for this; for what William knew, thoroughly beyond doubt, was love.
CHAPTER 38
It's begun.”
Edith looked up from kneading bread. The puca was perched on a stool in his least-favored, most nearly human form.
“The last dance,” he said. “It's begun.”
“Whatâ” Edith said.
The puca shrank into his much more familiar and beloved cat-shape and sprang down from the stool, trotting off toward Brigid the cook, who always had a bit of fish for a cat who seduced her properly.
Edith stared after him. It was like a puca to utter something incomprehensible, then leave her to baffle herself with it.
Of course when he spoke of a dance, she would think of Beltaneâand flush hot down to her center, though that dance and its aftermath were close on half a year past. She had spoken to no one of that night, and no one had asked. It was her secret, cherished close, to remember and dream about through the whole of that spring and summer and into the autumn.
Henry did not even know her name. She wanted it that way. What had been between them was a great magic, Beltane magic. It did not even matter if he remembered herâand chances were he did not. Henry was a lord in the old way; very old. He sowed his seed far and wide.
Mostly she accepted that. In ancient days she would have taken many lovers, too, and a king every year, to be sacrificed when the old year died. Now the world was different. Christians had a dream of fidelity, of one man and one woman, through life until death.
It was a dream more often honored in the breach than in the observance. Kings were worse sinners than any, and priests of the Church were not known for chastity, either, regardless of what their law might say.
Still there were times when Edith was ferociously jealous of any and all women who might have shared Henry's bed since Beltane night. She wanted him to remember her; to think only of her. Toâ
What? Come riding to the Isle and sweep her away? That would be all well and good, but he was a mere count. She was meant for a king.
He was the year-kingâher year-king. Maybe she should sacrifice him on the Day of the Dead, or wait until Beltane came round again. Then he would be hers utterly, and no one else would ever have him.
She was a little crazed. No doubt of that. And now the puca had spoken his words that made very little sense at all.
She was supposed to remember them. She finished what she was doing, slid the finished loaves into the oven to bake, and went on to the next of her duties. Whatever was coming, people still needed to eat.
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“There now,” said the blue-eyed girl. She was not laughing, which was merciful of her. “Don't look so shocked. It happens to everyone.”
“There now,” said the blue-eyed girl. She was not laughing, which was merciful of her. “Don't look so shocked. It happens to everyone.”
“Not to me,” Henry snarled. “It never happens to me.”
“I'm sure,” the girl said. She might not be laughing, but neither was she trying very hard to pretend she believed him.
It happened to be true. Henry rolled out of bed and snatched up his clothes, pulling them on so sharply the seams bade fair to give way.
They were well sewn. They held. The girl lay where he had left her, pale gold hair tumbled over her shoulders, taut breasts mocking him with their impudence. Her face was hardly more than a child's, but her eyes were old. “You'll get it back,” she said. “You'll forget herâor she'll come back to you. Maybe both.”
Henry stopped short. “I don't even know her name,” he said.
“That matters?”
He stared at her. His eye had fallen on her becauseâGod help himâshe looked like
her
. He had not had a woman since that night in the hedgerowâthe longest he had gone without since he was a beardless boy. He should have been a rampant bull, not this useless, cursed thing.
her
. He had not had a woman since that night in the hedgerowâthe longest he had gone without since he was a beardless boy. He should have been a rampant bull, not this useless, cursed thing.
“I know a charm,” the girl said. “Give me a penny and I'll get one for you.”
“What, you're a witch now?” Henry said. “You have a charm to make me a man again?”
“That's not what you want,” she said. “You want
her
. I'll get you something to bring you back to her.”
her
. I'll get you something to bring you back to her.”
“If that could be done,” Henry said bitterly, “I would have done it.”
She looked hard at him. Her eyes widened slightly. “Ah,” she said. “So. Stillâmen don't have the art, not this kind. Either it's beneath them, or it's too high for them to see.”
She held out her hand. Henry was a fool, but he thrust a silver penny into it. She tested the penny with her sharp white teeth, and made it disappearâthough where, since she was naked, he could not imagine. “You wait here,” she said.
She pulled on her shift and gown, plaited her hair quickly, and slipped out of the room.
Henry had no intention of waiting for her, but he had to admit he was curious. If she came back with an army of bravos intent on robbing him of the rest of his silver, well, he had defenses against that.
He sat on the bed. It was clean, which was not always the case in such places. It smelled of herbs and a faint, sharp tang of magic. Outside he heard people passing on the street, going to and from the market of Gloucester. The tavern downstairs was almost quiet. It was an odd time of day for drinkers: too early to carouse, too late to sleep.
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