Charming the Prince (2 page)

 
Her brother snorted. "In the stable dung, more likely. 'Tis why her skin is so coarse and brown."

 
Papa frowned at the boy in his arms. "I say, lad, I'll not have you—"

 
"Do not mock your stepsister, Stefan," Blanche interjected smoothly. "The poor child cannot help her looks."

"Willow don't sound like a Christian name," the girl said, still eyeing her suspiciously. "Is she a pagan?"

 
"Willow" had been Papa's pet name for her ever since she'd fallen asleep beneath a willow tree's sweeping boughs as a babe, sending her papa and his villeins on a frantic search that had lasted until the following morning.

Before she could reveal that her Christian name was Wilhelmina, she was silenced by Lady Blanche's low, throaty laugh. "Of course she's not a pagan, Reanna. Her mother was French."

 
The woman's smile did not waver, but the faint narrowing of her eyes gave it a malevolent cast. Something deep inside of Willow began to curdle.

 
"The French killed our papa in the war," Stefan said coldly, his chubby hand caressing the hilt of his miniature sword.

Willow crowded close to her papa's leg and tried to tuck her hand back into his.

 
"Not now, Willow," he snapped, grimacing in pain as he struggled to pry his earlobe from the mouth of a teething toddler and keep his weak arm from collapsing beneath Stefan's weight. "Can't you see I have but two hands?"

 
Willow snatched her hand back, flushing with shame. Her father had never before rebuked her in such a tone.

 
Her stepmother purred, "Don't pout, dear. 'Tis most unbecoming. Here's something to occupy your little hands."

 
The woman thrust her furry bundle into Willow's arms. Willow didn't even steal a peek at it, watching instead as Blanche linked her arm in Papa's and steered him firmly toward the castle. The stray children toddled after them while Reanna leaned over Papa's shoulder and poked her tongue out at Willow. Papa cast her one brief, helpless glance before they all disappeared into the shadows of the great hall.

 
Willow might have stood there all day, dazed and bereft, if she hadn't become aware of a most curious warmth spreading down the front of her kirtle. Her burden began to squirm. Her eyes widened in horror as a wisp of white-blond hair stuck atop a fuzzy pink scalp slowly emerged from a gap in the fur. The gremlin's puckered face flushed crimson as it threw back its head and let loose with an earsplitting wail.

 
Only then did Willow realize she was holding yet another of her stepmother's whelps. Only then did she hear the snide chuckles of Blanche's knights as they elbowed one another and pointed at her. Only then did she realize exactly what was soaking her precious kirtle and dripping into her shoes.

 
Resisting the urge to add her howls to the baby's, Willow lifted her chin and leveled a stern gaze at the smirking men. "What are the lot of you gawking at? Have you never seen a lady pissed upon before?"

 
As the knights snapped to attention, choking back their mirth, Willow swept the sodden hem of her skirt around and went marching toward the castle, trying not to stagger beneath the weight of her squalling burden.

Sons are a heritage from the Lord

children a reward from him.

Like arrows in the hands of a warrior

are sons born in one's youth.

Blessed is the man

whose quiver is full of them.

Psalm 127

The Holy Bible

One

 
England,
  
1360

Sir Bannor the Bold raced through the shadowy stone corridors of the castle, his brow pouring sweat and his heart hammering in his chest like a war drum. He dashed around a corner, then ducked into the alcove of a recessed window, fighting to still the hoarse rasp of his breathing long enough to listen for his pursuers.

For a blessed moment, there was silence. Then came the relentless patter of their feet, the savage cries portending his doom.

His trembling hand went instinctively to the hilt of his broadsword before he remembered the weapon would be useless against them. He was defenseless.

If any of the men who had fought by his side against the French for the past fourteen years had seen the shudder of dread that wracked his massive body in that moment, they would have surely doubted their own senses. They had seen him scale a castle wall with his bare hands, dodging the steaming gouts of boiling oil that rained down like hellfire from the heavens above. They had seen him leap off his warhorse and race through a deadly hail of arrows to heave a fallen man over his shoulder and carry him to safety. They'd seen him rip the blade of a French sword from his own thigh with nary a flinch of pain, then use it to dispose of the man who had stabbed him. Much to King Edward's delight, his enemies had been known to toss down their arms and surrender at the merest whisper of his name on the battlefield.

 
But never before had he faced an adversary so formidable, so utterly lacking in mercy and Christian compassion.

 
As they stampeded past his hiding place, he shrank against the wall, his lips moving soundlessly in a prayer for deliverance to the God who had always fought so valiantly by his side.

 
But in the month since the treaty with the French had been signed, even God seemed to have abandoned him. The triumphant howl that assaulted his ears might have come from Lucifer himself.

 
They had spotted him! Too panicked to consider the consequences, he bolted, darting back the way he had come. The devils were almost on him now, so close on his heels he could feel their hot breath scorching the back of his doublet.

 
He scrambled up the winding stairs, hoping to reach the sanctuary of the north tower before they brought him down and began to tear him apart like a pack of snarling mongrels. The wooden door loomed before him. He lunged for its iron latch and shoved, praying his sweaty grip would hold. Something groped at his ankle. For one bone-chilling instant, he feared he was lost. Then the door swung open.

He lurched across the threshold, shaking off the grip of the thing that had seized him, and slammed the door behind him. Only when the crossbar had thudded securely into its iron brackets did he dare to collapse against the door and suck in a great, shuddering breath. The enraged howls and demands for his surrender escalated, then subsided into ominous silence.

 
"Please, Lord," he muttered, not yet willing to give up on his old ally. "Not
that.
Anything but
that."

 
He had once endured four months in a Calais dungeon, chained to a dank stone wall with only lice and rats for company. When his captors had fed him rancid gruel, he'd choked down every bite and asked for second helpings. After they had stretched him on the rack, he'd confounded them by enjoying a most satisfying nap. When they had branded his flesh with a glowing iron, he'd bit back his howls of pain and laughed in their faces. But not even his most diabolical enemy had managed to devise a torture so cruel, so likely to break a man's will and make him beg for mercy as...

"Papa?"

Bannor groaned in mortal agony.

 
It came again—the dulcet lisp of an angel. "Papa? Won't you come out and pway wif us?"

Bannor swore beneath his breath. 'Twas just like that shrewd imp Desmond to send his six-year-old sister to bargain for a truce. None of his children were as fair or as sweet as wee Mary Margaret.

 
Or was it Margaret Mary? Bannor struggled to remember what his daughter looked like, but could summon nothing beyond a vague impression of misty blue eyes and golden ringlets. According to Father Humphries, the castle priest, she had the look of her mother about her. Bannor was shamed to realize that he'd been absent from the castle for so much of his marriage to his second wife that he couldn't remember precisely what
she
had looked like either.

 
"Go away, honeypot," he whispered to the door. "Papa doesn't want to play anymore." He despised the pleading note in his voice, but was helpless to banish it.

"We only want you to be our pony. I pwomise we won't tie you up again."

 
"Or pour pepper in your helm," piped up another hopeful voice.

"Or set your whiskers afire," trilled another.

 
As Bannor stroked the singed remnants of his beard, the chorus of entreaties reached a crescendo with Mary Margaret's "Pwease, Papa!"

 
Bannor steeled himself against the plaintive refrain. "Begone with you," he thundered. "Papa has matters of import he must attend to."

 
"Of more import than us, no doubt. Piss on the bugger, I say."

Bannor's lips tightened as he recognized the sullen snarl of his eldest son and heir. Thirteen-year-old Desmond had a mouth like a privy. Bannor itched to grab the lad by the scruff of his grimy neck and rebuke him for his insolence. But that would mean opening the door.

Desmond's voice brightened. "I know! Let's use the bellows to pump Cook's flaming pudding full of lamp oil!"

 
The crestfallen groans shifted to whoops of delight as he and his loyal minions went scampering down the stairs like a brood of Satan's imps.

 
As their footsteps faded, Bannor slumped against the door, undone by the indignity of it all. He, Lord Bannor the Bold, master of Elsinore, pride of the English and terror of the French, was a prisoner in his own castle, held captive by an army of bratlings.

His
bratlings.

He shook his head, but only succeeded in releasing a cloud of pepper from his hair. When his fit of sneezing had subsided, he drew himself up to his full height and rested his hand on the hilt of his sword, the set of his jaw grim enough to chill a foe's blood to ice. 'Twas not in his nature to surrender without a fight. Determined to find a way to prove to his rebellious offspring that they had chosen the wrong man with whom to do battle, he marched to the window, wrenched open the wooden shutter, and roared for his steward.

******

When a panting Sir Hollis arrived at the top of the stairs in response to his lord's thunderous summons, he was surprised to find the tower door closed and bolted.

Troubled by the silence within, he pressed his mouth to the door. "My lord?"

"Are you alone?" came a savage whisper.

He peered over one shoulder, then the other. "Quite."

 
The door creaked open. A muscular arm shot through the crack, jerked him inside, then slammed and bolted the door behind him.

 
Hollis barely had time to catch his breath before it was knocked out of him again by the fearful sight of his lord. Bannor stood with legs braced and chest heaving, his powerful hands clenched into fists. His dark hair hung around his face in a wild tangle, framing eyes that were red-rimmed and feral. But most startling of all was the condition of his fine black beard. Or what was left of it. Hollis leaned nearer to his jaw and sniffed. 'Twas not his imagination. His master positively reeked of smoke.

 
"Good God, man! Have you been attacked?" Hollis looked around wildly. "Is there an assassin lurking within the walls of the castle?"

 
"Aye," Bannor replied grimly. "Ten of them to be exact. All armed with naught but their wits and their whining."

"Ten?" Hollis frowned, then nodded slowly as comprehension dawned. "Oh, you mean the children."

"Children?" Bannor snorted. " 'Tis too gentle a name for those demon spawn. Had I not counted his toes myself when he was a babe, I would insist that you check Desmond for a forked tail and cloven hooves."

 
The steward wisely suppressed a smile. "I suppose they are a bit... rambunctious. Perhaps 'tis only the natural exuberance of youth."

 
"Exuberance? Malevolence, more likely." Bannor flung himself into a chair and swept his arm across the table, scattering several scrolls and sending up a cloud of dust. "Curse this wretched peace anyway! Would that the war with France had lasted a hundred years!"

Hollis sighed wistfully, wishing the same. If Edward hadn't signed the treaty at Bretigny, he and Bannor would be sitting in a tent on a distant battlefield, toasting their latest victory. After years of being comrades, the end of the war had thrust them into the awkward roles of lord and vassal. He feared he was as ill-suited to being steward of a vast holding such as Elsinore as his lord was to playing doting papa to a passel of brats.

 
Hollis blew the dust out of a goblet and poured Bannor some ale from the earthenware flagon resting on the table, hoping to soothe his temper. In case he failed, he poured some for himself as well. "You've been off on one campaign or another since you were little more than a lad yourself, my lord. Perhaps the children are simply in want of some discipline."