"And if you continue this lecture," Jaufre said, "the coot will be gone. Release that damn bird now.”
Nelda jumped at the sound of Jaufre’s harsh voice, then awkwardly jerked up her wrist, flinging the bird free into the air. With a flutter of wings, the little hawk flapped off in pursuit of its prey, playfully following every dodge and turn of the coot now flying for its life. The chase went far afield, obliging Jaufre and the others to turn their horses and gallop after the birds.
The earl, however, paid scant attention to the age-old drama of hunter and hunted unfolding in the sky above him. As he rode, his eyes were upon Melyssan in spite of himself, grudgingly admiring her seat, the capable way she handled the reins. It was as if to make up for her awkwardness on foot, nature had gifted her with the ability to be a superb horsewoman, straddling her mount with an easy grace that made even the simple pony appear a spirited creature, she and the horse moving as if they were one.
Her pleasure in the ride was apparent, a rose-colored glow in each cheek, light dancing in her eyes, although she avoided looking up to check the progress of the hawk. Who had taught her that trick, Jaufre mused, of bundling up her cascade of golden-brown hair from his sight, hiding the undulating curves of her supple young body within the folds of that shapeless brown sack she called a gown? She was more tempting thus concealed than if she had displayed herself half-naked before him. In fact, if he permitted his mind to speculate much further on all her hidden charms, riding was soon going to become a very uncomfortable exercise.
Disappointed shouts from the men and the way Melyssan's face lightened with relief told him the hawk had missed its catch. One of the austringers prepared his lure, a piece of meat attached to some duck feathers. Walking forward, he whirled it around his head, imitating with startling precision the cry of the bird.
"Oh, look. He's coming back," Nelda cried. She clapped her hands in delight as the goshawk homed lazily in on the lure and came to rest on the falconer's gloved hand, where it was fed a small bit of meat and placed back on the wooden frame.
Melyssan heaved a sigh, glad that the chase was over. The slight sound drew the earl's attention to her at once. Guiding his mount closer, he asked, "What, not enjoying the sport, my lady? Can it be you already wish for us to make an end?"
"I would not dream of depriving you of your pleasure," she said. "I am sure you will not be content to leave until you find something for it to destroy." She eyed Jaufre's fierce-looking hawk with repugnance.
"Him." Jaufre smiled, with a slight lift of his dark brows. "It's a him. Alas, only the king may own the larger female hawks, for which I envy His Majesty. The males are not nearly as predatory as their sisters." A hard glint came into the lord's eyes as he stroked the bird. "No," he murmured. "If you want real killing power, give me a female every time."
Before Melyssan had time to speculate on the double meaning implied in Jaufre's words, the falconer cried out, " 'Ware, my lord. There goes a beauty of a mallard."
Jaufre looked up and caught his breath. Slowly he removed the falcon's hood and began to undo the leather leash.
"Hurry, my lord," urged the falconer. "The duck is getting too far, and that peregrine has as yet not made—"
"Quiet, you fool," Jaufre said tersely. "Do you think I don't know when to set my bird on?"
The hawk craned its neck upward but otherwise moved not a feather, and yet Melyssan imagined that it knew it was about to be released for the attack. She could sense the tension emanating from both the man and the falcon.
"Now," Jaufre whispered, and flung his arm upward. The hawk's powerful wings beat the air in two wide circles before soaring after the duck, sure and straight like an arrow released from a bow. A shaft of sunlight broke through the gray clouds, touching the peregrine's black feathers and casting a dark, winged shadow upon the dried brown grass below.
As they followed the pursuit on horseback, Melyssan saw the pulse begin to throb in the hollow of Jaufre's bared throat as he leaned forward in the stirrups, his face tipped up toward the sky. The wind swept back the waves of his ebony hair as his piercing dark eyes narrowed to slits. His lips parted, half-hidden by the black satin of his beard as the broad expanse of his chest rose and fell with short, rapid breaths. She felt a shiver trickle up her spine as she recognized in the man the same savage beauty as in the falcon gliding above, some part of Jaufre that, like the hawk, would remain forever wild and untamed.
The falcon flew directly above its prey and then plummeted like a rock, binding to the mallard in one swift motion so that there was not even a cry, only the flutter of wings before both birds disappeared in the brush at the edge of the forest.
Melyssan's stomach churned, and she tried not to think of sharp claws digging into a softly feathered breast. Jaufre drew in the reins, relaxing back into his saddle to compliment the falconer on his training of the bird. The austringer moved ahead, cautiously approaching the spot where the hawk had gone down. But the next instant, the falcon looped back up from the underbrush and took to the sky.
The master falconer himself ran forward and seized the lure. Whirling it around his head, he called to the hawk in its own tongue. But each stroke of the bird's wings carried it farther away.
"What the devil!" Jaufre said, urging his horse forward. The entire party began riding after the peregrine. By this time, the falconer was running, each swing of the lure becoming a little more frantic than the last. The great black bird was now but a silhouette on the horizon until the gray clouds shifted, swallowing both the pale sun and the hawk from sight.
The falconer stopped, his shoulders slumping as the lure arced around his body in one last, slow circle, clunking to a standstill against his leg. He wiped the sweat from his brow and turned to face the earl, who reined to a halt beside him.
Melyssan felt a surge of pity for the man as she saw the livid red stinging Jaufre's face.
"You told me that bird was trained," Jaufre bellowed.
"I was certain he was, m-my lord."
“Then how came I to lose one of the most promising hunters I ever set eyes on?"
The man shuffled his feet, staring down at the ground. "I don't know. It is not uncommon to lose a bird. I flew him myself several times, but—"
"But you are trying to tell me I don't know how to hunt with my own birds? Is that it?"
Although the falconer flinched, he rolled his eyes in such a way as to suggest that was exactly what he would have liked to tell the earl if he dared. Melyssan's hands tightened on the reins as she wished she could take Jaufre aside and give him a gentle shake, scold him into controlling his temper and being more reasonable.
But the falconer's hide was saved by a diversion from another source.
"Oh, look," Nelda said, pointing toward the forest. The earl started to command her silence when he raised his head and saw it, too. Two men garbed in the blue-and-gold livery of Lord Jaufre's guard emerged from the woods. One was leading a large skittish horse over which a dead buck was slung. The other soldier was mounted. Behind him he dragged a peasant, hands bound in front of him, secured to the horse's pommel by a rope and halter tied around his neck.
Melyssan's hand flew to her own throat. If the man chanced to stumble, his thin neck would surely snap. But somehow the prisoner managed to keep his footing.
Jaufre's dark brows knit together. He brought his horse around to meet the arriving guard, his anger at the falconer for the moment forgotten. The mounted soldier, a burly red-faced individual with a bulbous nose, called out, "Greetings, my lord. We finally caught the Welsh bastard who's been poaching your deer."
With a toothy grin, the guard hauled forward the prisoner as if he had been a recalcitrant hound. Melyssan choked back her cry as she got a better look at the unfortunate captive. Despite his height, the face set beneath the fringe of unruly black hair was that of a lad not more than fifteen years old. The oversized green tunic he wore hung on a frame all lanky arms and legs.
"You saw this man k
ill that stag?" Jaufre asked after a cursory glance at the prisoner.
"Found him bending over it, we did, my lord, preparing to strip the carcass bold as you please."
The earl stared at the deer. It was a large creature with at least twelve points to its antlers. "Well, sirrah," he snapped without looking at the boy. "Are you so ignorant you do not know the penalty for killing my deer is death?"
The boy stubbornly regarded the nose of Jaufre's horse. The guard jerked the lad's head up until he gurgled, standing on his toes to avoid being strangled. "Answer his lordship, you Welsh scum, whilst you're still able to speak."
"Oh, pray, stop,” Melyssan cried. "If the boy is Welsh, perhaps he simply doesn't understand."
"Naw, milady. This young buzzard understands right enough."
But Tristan came to her support. "Lady Melyssan could well be right, Jaufre. I know a smattering of Welsh. Let me try to pose your questions.''
"There is no need to address me in any of your barbarous dialects," the boy interrupted. His aquiline nose and cleft chin were set into an expression of such hauteur, Melyssan would have found it amusing under other circumstances. "I speak far better than any of you do."
Tristan's jaw dropped. "Then why the devil didn't you answer, boy?"
Ignoring Tristan, the boy addressed himself to Jaufre. "I have already told these varlets that I will not speak of this matter until I am formally charged by you, my lord."
"If you have anything to say of your innocence, you'd best spit it out now," said the earl.
The lad's thin lips twisted into a sneer. "Nay, my lord, it may suit the all-mighty and powerful Jaufre de Macy to forget his dignity by holding crude court before a rabble in the field, but I will answer charges nowhere but in the formal court of your hallmoot."
One of the knights behind Melyssan muttered, "Of all the impudent sauce."
Jaufre flushed. "I have already wasted as much time on this matter as my crude disposition will tolerate. Take this dignified peasant away and see how well he upholds his pride at the end of a rope."
“Aye, my lord," the guard replied, and began to haul the boy off.
"No! Stop." At Melyssan's ringing cry, both the guard and Jaufre stared at her as if she had run mad. The earl was the first to recover, shooting Melyssan a scorching glance before saying to the guard, "You heard my command. Get on with it."
Melyssan brought her pony up beside Jaufre and tried to catch his arm. "Nay, my lord. You have not taken time to reflect. Look at him. It is only a boy, trying to hide his fear behind brave words.”
Jaufre jerked his sleeve away from her, his horse bumping the pony's shoulder as he did so.
"You know in your heart he is right," she continued vehemently. "He's had no proper trial, no court of justice."
"I am the justice on my lands," the earl said. "Sergeant, if you delay any longer, you may prepare a rope for yourself as well."
"Aye, my lord."
The guard tried to ride off, but Melyssan wheeled her pony in front of him, blocking his path. As the man groaned, looking helplessly at Lord Jaufre, Melyssan slipped off of her mount. Limply awkwardly because she did not have her staff, she nonetheless managed to reach the boy before the guard could gather his wits. Seizing hold of the rope, she clung to it so the tall soldier could not move his horse forward without dragging her off balance as well. The boy regarded her warily, terror and suspicion lurking in the depths of the most unusual silver eyes Melyssan had ever seen.
Although his high treble voice came out in a croak, he still managed to say, "Pray do not put yourself to any trouble on my account, my lady."
"Melyssan, I'm warning you," Jaufre said, "let go of that rope and get back on your horse."
She winced as the rough hemp abraded her tender palms, but still she held on. "Jaufre, please, just look at him, really look at him one time. He's only a poor frightened boy."
"Nay, I am not afraid to die." The boy glared. "Not even at the hands of your terrible Dark Knight Without Mercy. Get back on your horse, madam."
Desperation welled inside of Melyssan. She could see the red marks the cruel rope had already made on the lad's stiff neck, could imagine how the guard would pull on it in a few moments, how the boy would be dragged upward, his long white fingers clawing as his tortured lungs fought for air.
"Melyssan ." Tristan stepped behind her, his low voice close to her ear. "Please. You are doing no good with this. You must not interfere with the earl's justice, especially not in front of his tenants."
Justice! How could Tristan so term this ruthless whim of Jaufre's? As the knight pried her fingers from the rope, she longed to box the ears of this foolish, haughty youth, but even more so Jaufre. The earl, at least, was old enough to know better than to let his temper interfere with his judgment. She whirled around and caught hold of his horse's bridle.
"My lord, surely there is some lesser punishment you can inflict for this crime."
Jaufre stared past her. "The law decrees death."
"You must have pity," she said, her voice breaking. "I will go down on my knees to you if that is what you require.”
"What I require is that you hold your tongue. Get on that pony and gallop back to Winterbourne as fast as it will take you."
She stepped back, gazing up at him through a haze of angry tears. "How cruel you can be and all because of a fit of pique over that hawk getting away from you. You cannot wring its neck, but the boy will serve just as well."
She heard several indrawn breaths from the other knights, and most of them averted their gaze looking very much as if they wished themselves elsewhere. Jaufre compressed his lips and yanked on his reins as he prepared to ride away.
"Go ahead and hang him, then!" she shouted. "God forbid you should fail to live up to your name. The Dark Knight Without Mercy. God forbid you should trouble yourself to listen to this boy's explanation any more than I'm sure you ever listened to Yseult before you hanged her."
The instant the words were out, she wished them unsaid. The wild accusation was borne of her despair for the young boy's life, and for Jaufre that he should so lessen his nobility with such heedless cruelty.
Jaufre's neck went rigid, and when he turned back to her his face was drained, his eyes glazed over until they glittered like dark stones beneath the rushing surface of a turbulent stream. An ominous silence settled over the group except for the occasional snort and restless pawing of the horses.
Before she realized what he meant to do, Jaufre trotted his mount forward and bent over. One sinewy arm seized her roughly about the waist and hauled her off her feet to a sitting position in front of him. Too stunned to protest, she clutched her arms around his neck to prevent herself from falling off. Jaufre reached his hands around her to steady the gelding, who had been as startled by the sudden action as she was.
"Hold that prisoner until I return," he said. "'If you will excuse me a moment, gentlemen. I want a word in private with my wife."
With that, he turned the horse and galloped off in the direction of the forest. Melyssan lurched against his powerful chest and clung to him, fearful of being thrown from her precarious perch. Overhead for the first time, she became aware of the distant rumble of thunder. They had ridden well out of hearing of the others before Jaufre pulled the reins in on the gelding under a copse of trees.
Fear gripped her as cold and icy as the stray drop of rain that splashed against her face and trickled down her neck. She tried to draw back, but there was no place to go. Every way she moved, she was crushed close against the hardness of his thighs, his chest and his arms. The autumn wind caught up a handful of brittle red-gold leaves and swirled them past her head like the maelstrom of fury and pain she saw seething in Jaufre's eyes.
"Jaufre, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to speak of Yseult," she said.
"Didn't you? Oh, I'll wager you've been dying to hear about my first wife for some time now. A woman like you, who so cherishes her explanations."
He began pulling fr
ee one of the arms she still entwined around his neck for balance. "Give me your hand."
"What are you going to do?"
"You needn't worry. I'm not going to cut it off. If I was seeking retribution, I'd be more likely to rip out your tongue. I simply want you to feel what listening to explanations has done for me."
Pulling loose the ruby brooch that drew in the neckline of his tunic, he forced her hand inside his woolen shirt and pressed her fingers against the warm bare flesh. She trembled as she touched hair-roughened skin and then gasped as her hand came into contact with the thick, raised tissue of a scar that seemed to continue endlessly down the length of Jaufre's chest.
"Feel that?" he snarled. "That was Yseult's final word to me after I spent hours listening to her, listening to her explain after I caught her in bed with Godric."
Melyssan felt the angry thudding of his heart beneath her fingertips as he gave a self-mocking laugh. "There are not many men who would pause to ask questions if they found their wife sprawled under the body of another man. Oh, but l let her sob her heart out to me. Tell me all about how Godric had raped her, how he was plotting to poison me for my money, and how she was almost too terrified to speak. And I believed every last damned lying word."
Melyssan tried to beg him to stop, but her throat was too constricted to speak. The intensity of his painful memories was carved in every strained line of his face, in the muscle that twitched along his jawline. But having once started, it was as if he could not stop.
"And then after Godric was dead, after I killed him, I drew her into my arms for comfort, and somehow I was able to sleep when I never thought I'd be able to do so again. I thought I'd spend the rest of my life seeing Godric lying there in that pool of blood. Little did I realize my loving bride was determined to spare me such torment.