Charming the Prince (15 page)

 
Bannor swiped the coarse stuff from his eyes and mouth, knowing he ought to be thankful it wasn't pepper. Or honey. Someone in the crowd snickered.

 
"Silence," he shouted, snatching the lance from the lad's hand and banging it on the ground. The weapon slowly folded in on itself until its top half hung by a thin sliver of wood.

"Maybe that's why that bride o' his ain't breedin' yet," one of the men murmured. "His lance has gone limp."

 
A helpless wave of laughter rippled through their ranks.

 
Bannor tossed down the shattered lance, sweeping a murderous glare over them. They snapped to attention, swallowing their grins. His nape prickled and he swung around, scanning the tree-dotted meadow just beyond the list. He could not shake the sensation that he was being watched by unseen eyes. Was that a woman's laughter he heard or simply the mocking echo of the wind?

"Shall I f-f-fetch you a fresh helm and a new lance, my lord?" the squire stammered.

 
Realizing that the unfortunate lad was only a snivel away from wetting his braies, Bannor resisted his first impulse to roar a reply. "Just fetch my horse, son," he said through gritted teeth. " Tis all I need."

 
He no longer had any interest in jousting. He simply wanted to escape his men-at-arms' pitying looks and sly asides.

 
Bannor stood at rigid attention, his hands locked at the small of his back, while he awaited the squire's return. His men exchanged nervous looks, but only one of them dared to clear his throat. The awkward silence stretched until it was broken by the tinkling of bells, so delicate and ethereal that Bannor once again scanned the meadow, half expecting to see a band of fairy folk frolicking among the toadstools.

The tinkling swelled as the squire emerged from the stables, leading the white stallion who had carried Bannor into more battles than he could remember.

La Mort Galloping,
the French had christened him. Standing over seventeen hands high, the pale horse had cut a swath of terror through the ranks of his enemies, rippling like molten moonlight through the blackest night.

 
But that was before someone had woven pink ribbons through his silky tail and mane and draped a harness of silver bells over his neck. They jingled merrily with each plodding step he took until at last the stallion stood before Bannor. As he hung his mighty head inshame, a crown of chrysanthemums slid down over his brow, leaving him to eye Bannor with one soulful brown eye.

 
Bannor rubbed the beast's velvety nose, knowing exactly how he must feel.

 
"I only left him alone in his stall for a moment, my lord, I swear it," the squire said, beginning to babble in earnest. "I can't imagine who would have done such a dreadful thing."

"Nor can I." Undeterred by the violent jingling of the harness, Bannor jerked the reins out of the lad's quaking hands and swung himself astride the horse. "But I intend to find out."

 
He kicked the horse into a canter. He'd traveled only a few paces when the saddle slid sideways, dumping him on his ass hard enough to jar his teeth. A cloud of flour flew up from his hair.

 
He sat there for a long time. Long enough for the horse to trot around the list once, then return to nudge him in the shoulder. Bannor fingered the leather cinches dangling from the stallion's back. They hadn't been cut. They'd been deliberately frayed to the point where they would be sure to give way as soon as they were forced to bear the weight of a rider—especially a rider of his weight and stature.

 
As Bannor climbed to his feet, every man on that field took an involuntary step backward. A piteous whimper escaped the squire's throat.

 
Bannor paced before them, his hands once again locked at the small of his back. "Today," he called out, his masterful baritone silencing every whisper, "I will teach you the hardest lesson that any warrior, no matter how bold or courageous, must learn before he rides into battle.

 
The men exchanged expectant glances and craned their necks.

 
"How to make a graceful retreat." Bannor sketched them a brief bow, then started for the castle, dusting grass and sand off his backside as he went.

******

 
Bannor paced the north tower, feeling nearly as frantic as he had on the night Hollis had returned to Elsinore with his bride. Then he had longed only to be rid of her. Now he longed only to find her. He paused at the window, drawn there against his will by the hellish glow drifting up from the courtyard below.

 
A crackling bonfire spat stinging clouds of brimstone into the night sky. A band of imps cavorted around it, their sinister shadows an unsettling contrast to the merry giggles wafting to his ears. Although Samhain had come and gone over a fortnight ago, Bannor would have sworn his offspring had declared a pagan celebration of their own—a decadent feast where they might pay homage to the god of unruly children.

 
A savage pounding sounded on the door, mirroring his own desperation. "Make haste, my lord! 'Tis Hollis!"

 
Bannor was forced to heave aside three chairs, a table, and a bench before he could lift the crossbar and bid his steward to enter.

 
Sir Hollis staggered into the tower, weaving his way through the makeshift barricade. Soot blackened his handsome face, and the right side of his mustache was smoldering.

 
"Where the hell is she? Why isn't she with you?" Bannor demanded, handing him a goblet of water.

 
Hollis snatched the cup from his hand and drained it dry. "She is nowhere to be found," he rasped. "I have searched everywhere. Even among" —a violent shudder wracked him —
"them."

 
Bannor poured him a second goblet of water, taking care this time to point to his mustache before he handed it over.

"Oh!" Hollis exclaimed, dousing the side of his face.

 
"Could she have run away?" Bannor's heart surged with a panic that had naught to do with his offspring's tyranny. "Is that why the children are celebrating?"

 
Hollis shook his head. "She's been spotted throughout the castle all the day long. But every time I send a servant to fetch her, she vanishes again. 'Tis most vexing."

 
Bannor returned to the window. He gazed down at the carnage with growing despair. "You saw how she handled Desmond. I must seek her counsel. I'm convinced she's the only one who can help me put an end to this wretched mischief."

 
At that precise moment, an arrow came sailing through the window of the tower. It thudded to a halt in the wooden shutter, the feathers adorning its haft tickling Bannor's nose.

 
"We're under attack!" Hollis shouted, dropping to all fours and scrambling toward the door. "Shall I alert the guard?"

 
"Not. . . quite . . . yet," Bannor replied, wrenching away the scrap of parchment impaled by the quivering shaft.

 
While he studied the missive, Hollis climbed sheepishly to his feet. "Shouldn't you come away from the window, my lord?" When Bannor ignored his timid query, he stood on tiptoe and craned his neck, but still couldn't see over Bannor's shoulder. "What is it?"

"A list of demands."

 
"Demands? Oh, dear God, your enemies have seized Lady Willow, haven't they? They must be holding her hostage. Whatever do they want? Gold? Jewels? Weapons? The castle itself?"

 
Bannor handed the parchment to him, his face strangely devoid of expression. While Hollis held it up to the torchlight, Bannor turned back to the window, his narrowed gaze searching the night.

 
"These demands are so much gibberish." Hollis frowned as he scanned the crumpled paper. "Honeyed pomegranates and fig pudding for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Baths no more than once a month. Bedtime no earlier than midnight. Why, they're the ravings of a lunatic. Or . . ." He lifted his head, comprehension slowly dawning. "... a child."

 
Bannor paid him no heed. He seemed to have found what he was looking for. An enigmatic half-smile curved his lips.

 
"If this is just another of the children's pranks, albeit a dangerous one, then I don't understand this last demand," Hollis said. "The one that calls for your unconditional surrender."

 
"Ah, but you soon will," Bannor said, drawing him toward the window.

 
Hollis squinted down into the courtyard, struggling to see through the smoke and shadows. At first he believed, as Bannor must have, that the slender figure silhouetted against the writhing flames was Desmond. Only when the flames shot higher could he make out the gentle swells filling out her breeches and tunic and the inky cap of curls that clung to her head. Lady Willow gazed boldly up at the window, making no attempt to hide the bow in her hand or the challenging jut of her jaw.

 
Hollis shook his head, torn between shock and amusement. "You'd best devise a new battle plan, my lord. For it appears your lady has decided to join the game."

 
Bannor flexed his powerful hands on the window-sill. "This is no game, my friend." He swung around, his eyes gleaming with a raw excitement Hollis hadn't seen since King Edward signed the treaty with the French.
"This
I understand.
This
is war."

Twelve

On day two of the siege, Bannor paced the length of the bailey, surveying the orderly ranks of his garrison. The men-at-arms Sir Hollis had assembled for the briefing gazed straight ahead, the stern set of their jaws assuring him that they understood the serious nature of his commands. Bannor's pawns had betrayed him to the black queen, leaving him no choice but to send his knights into battle.

 
"Make no mistake, men," he said, sweeping a grave look across them. "This castle is under attack by an enemy far more cunning and ruthless than any we've faced before. You cannot afford to underestimate them. They are utterly without honor or mercy."

The men who had been sent to scale the south tower the day before only to have their ladders shoved away from the wall by a golden-haired imp wielding a forked stick nodded knowingly. They were still nursing their aching backsides and bruised pride.

 
"I would never ask you to commit yourself to such a dangerous campaign if I didn't feel that this reign of terror must be brought to a swift and conclusive end."

 
The gatehouse guards who had had the castle mangonel stolen from beneath their very noses only to have it used to catapult them with fresh cow dung shuddered their agreement. Since then, their comrades had spent most of their time either sidling away from them or breathing through their mouths.

 
"We must learn to think like them. To exploit their every weakness. We must be willing to seek out their soft underbellies and..." Bannor trailed off, imagining just how soft Willow's underbelly would be beneath his hand. When he continued, a hoarse note had deepened his voice. "We must be willing to use every weapon at our disposal to probe their deepest, darkest, most secret..." He lapsed into silence again, picturing just where his hand might wander after he'd stroked the velvety softness of Willow's underbelly.

 
Hollis cleared his throat, snapping him back to attention.

 
The man who had been constable of Bannor's garrison for over eleven years stepped forward. "Am I to understand, my lord, that the chief objective of our campaign is to subdue the pawns?"

"I
should say not, Sir Darrin," Bannor replied. "Your chief objective is to capture their queen."

The men exchanged uncertain glances.

Sir Damn's grizzled brow furrowed with puzzlement. "And should we succeed?"

 
Their eyes followed Bannor's as he tipped back his head and gazed up at the south tower. The red-and-gold standard that had rippled boldly over the walls of Elsinore since Bannor had wrested the castle from his half-brother over thirteen years ago now hung upside down. Instead of rearing into the air, the red stag pawed at the ground, his mighty heart skewered by the airy branch of a willow.

 
Bannor's lips curved in a smile so ruthlessly tender it had been known to make even his most worthy and courageous foe beg for the chance to surrender. "Bring her to me."

******

 
Willow withdrew into the shadows of the tower, shivering despite the sunbeams slanting through the window. She almost wished it had a wooden shutter to slam. The glazed glass seemed far too fragile to shield her from the primal heat of Bannor's gaze.

 
Although she could not hear the orders he was giving to the soldiers gathered in the bailey, she could easily deduce their nature. Bannor's determination had been written in his stance as surely as his motto was emblazoned on the cupboard beneath the rearing stag—
To conquer or die.
She lifted her chin. If he could not conquer her with his indifference, he certainly wasn't going to conquer her with his enmity.