Charming the Prince (26 page)

 
She sat up and rubbed her eyes, both puzzled and disoriented. The cheese and bread sat untouched on the table; the fire burned low on the hearth, casting little more than shadows.

 
"Bannor?" she whispered. Her timid query was greeted by silence.

 
Without bothering to don her shoes, Willow slipped from the tower and padded down the stairs.

She poked her head in the first door she came to. Although the children had several beds between them, they nearly always ended up in the massive four-poster shared by Desmond, Ennis, Kell, and Edward. But tonight Desmond slumbered there alone, looking impossibly lost in the middle of that enormous bed. With his mouth hanging open and his lashes resting against his freckled cheeks, he looked closer to five than thirteen. Willow gently drew the blanket over him, wondering if he remembered ever having a mother to do so.

 
Growing more perplexed by the moment, she crept down the broad stone stairs that cascaded into the heart of the castle. Since it was not uncommon for drunken stragglers and weary travelers seeking shelter from the cold to linger after an evening of merriment, she was not surprised to find a heap of bodies huddled around the hearth.She was surprised to discover that the heap of bodies belonged to the lord of the castle and his offspring.

Willow bit back a smile. It appeared the children had lost their valiant battle to stay awake until midnight. And so had their father.

 
Bannor lay in their midst like a fallen giant cast into an enchanted slumber by a sparkling pinch of fairy dust. Meg, Margery, and Colm had their little heads pillowed on his muscular thighs. Ennis and Mary sprawled on the two benches flanking him while Hammish, Edward, and Kell curled up at his sides. Edward was mumbling in his sleep and Hammish's mouth was pressed to Kell's ear. Willow could only pray the lad didn't dream he was partaking of some tender delicacy.

 
Bannor held Mary Margaret snuggled in the crook of one arm. Although she had claimed not to care if he went off to heaven or France, her little hand clenched the front of his doublet as if she had no intention of ever letting him go. When she whimpered in her sleep, Bannor's arm tightened around her, forming a brawny shield that no night terror, no matter how bold, would dare to challenge.

 
When the chapel bells had tolled midnight only three short hours ago, Willow would have sworn she had everything she had ever desired. But as she gazed at the dark and gold heads of father and daughter through a blur of tears, she discovered that she was really no better than a greedy child herself, always craving more than she had.

 
'Twas no longer enough that Bannor should want her. She wanted him to love her, too.

Just as she loved him.

 
The realization made her heart ache with a bittersweet yearning more keen than any she had ever felt for her prince. Until that moment, she had never understood how Bannor could consider love an affliction. But as she slipped silently from the hall, she was already beginning to shiver with a fever from which there was no cure.

Twenty One

 
When Willow awoke the next morning, she had good reason to shiver. The temperature had plunged during the night, leaving sparkling diamonds of frost on the glazed window of her chamber. A sullen sky brooded over the castle, mirroring her mood.

 
Although she knew that Beatrix had rarely risen before noon at Bedlington, she still felt compelled to try to shake the girl out of her stupor. Beatrix simply mumbled a protest, snuggled deeper into the feather mattress, and drew the pelts over her head. Willow sighed, wishing she could do the same.

Instead, she donned a fur-lined gown cut from crimson wool and hastened downstairs to seek the warmth and cheer of the great hall. A fat yew log burned on the massive stone hearth. Bannor, Sir Hollis, and the children were gathered around the high table while various knights, squires, and men-at-arms broke their fasts at the long trestle tables scattered throughout the hall.

 
Bannor interrupted his conversation with Sir Hollis as she approached. "Good morning, my lady," he murmured, his eyes narrowing as he studied her face. "I trust you had a satisfying night's sleep?"

 
" 'Twas most fulfilling, my lord," she replied, wondering if he'd been disappointed to find his bed cold and empty when he'd finally retired to his tower.

 
The chair beside him was empty, but she deliberately joined Hammish on one of the benches. Let Bannor think she was sulking because he'd failed to keep their midnight tryst. 'Twas better than having him suspect the truth.

 
Garbed in brown hose and a crisp doublet of emerald green camlet, Bannor looked none the worse for having spent most of the night sleeping on the stones before the hearth. His jaw was freshly shaven, and his eyes possessed their usual sparkle. His children, however, didn't seem to have fared as well. Mary poked at a sticky pomegranate with one finger, while Ennis sluggishly stirred his fig pudding. Kell and Edward slumped over the table, their eyes drooping and their chins propped on opposite hands. A dozing Mary Margaret was in imminent danger of falling face first into her bowl. Even Hammish seemed to be making only a perfunctory effort to lick his plate clean.

 
Desmond was the only one eating with grim ferocity, as if he intended to choke down every honeyed pomegranate and spoonful of fig pudding in the castle, even if it killed him.

The children's attention sharpened when a squire emerged from the kitchens, staggering beneath the weight of a pewter platter laden with a succulent array of meats. Mary Margaret snapped out of her doze, her pert nose twitching like a rabbit's.

 
As the squire lowered the platter to the table, Bannor rubbed his hands in gleeful anticipation. Willow shot him a suspicious glance. She'd never seem him partake of anything before noon more hearty than brown bread washed down with ale.

 
As he stabbed a thick slab of bacon with his knife, popped it into his mouth, and began chewing with deliberate relish, the children followed his every move, their mouths hanging open. "Would you care for some bacon," —their faces brightened, then fell again as Bannor gallantly added—"my lady?"

 
"No, thank you, my lord," Willow replied, hiding a reluctant smile. "I'll just have what the children are having."

 
"You can have mine," Ennis said, shoving his bowl and spoon at her. "If I never see another bowl of fig pudding, 'twill be too soon for me."

 
Willow twirled the spoon in the bowl with even less enthusiasm than he had. It seemed her unfortunate affliction had also robbed her of her appetite.

 
"I'd like some of that pheasant," Sir Hollis said cheerfully, knife already in hand.

 
Bannor stretched halfway down the table to hand the platter to him. The children licked their lips as it passed only inches beneath their noses, then watched through glazed eyes as the knight helped himself to a slice of roast pheasant dripping with a piquant plum sauce. Desmond shoveled another heaping mouthful of fig pudding into his mouth, swallowing with an audible gulp.

 
While Bannor and Hollis savored their feast, pausing only long enough in their vigorous chewing and swallowing to swap effusive praise for the cook and all of his minions, Edward began to claw at his chest. "Might I have a bath today? I'm starting to itch."

Scowling, Kell inched away from him. "You're starting to smell, too."

 
Bannor tucked a hearty bite of pork savory in his mouth. "I'm sorry, son, but according to the terms of our treaty, you're not due for a bath for at least another fortnight."

 
Kell pinched his nose shut and made a gagging noise.

 
Edward elbowed him in the ribs. "Don't know what you're going on about. You don't exactly smell like the queen yourself." He sniggered. "Or maybe you do."

Plainly hoping to avoid a round of fisticuffs, Bannor dabbed at his mouth with a linen napkin and rose to his feet. Before his offspring's hopes could rise with him, he gestured for the squire hovering behind the buttery screen to remove the platter from the table.

When it was gone, his cheerful gaze traveled the circle of glum little faces that ringed him. "So what are we to play today? Is it to be hoops and tops? Or perhaps a few rousing games of hot cockles and hoodman blind?"

 
Desmond glared into his bowl, while the rest of them simply blinked at him, their eyes drooping at half-mast. Mary Margaret hid a yawn behind her hand.

 
Bannor shrugged and sighed, managing to look nearly as crestfallen as Hammish. "Well, if no one wishes to play with me this morning, I suppose I'll just wander out to the list and see if perhaps I'm needed there." Shooting Willow a wink that made her heart do a somersault in her chest, he turned away from the table.

"Perhaps you should go to Windsor. The king might need his arse wiped."

Although Desmond's head was inclined, his voice still carried throughout the hall. All talking and chewing seemed to cease at the same moment. Some of Bannor's men gaped openly at the high table while others took a sudden and profound interest in the red-and-gold banners strung from the rafters.

Bannor slowly pivoted on his heel, his hands curling into fists. "What was that, son?"

Willow held her breath, waiting for Desmond to mutter some falsehood or denial, but he shocked them all by surging to his feet. She realized then that the crimson creeping into his rigid jaw was not a stain of embarrassment, but anger.

He faced his father squarely, his own hands clenched into fists. "Please don't let me detain you, Father. You'd best hasten to the lists and whip out your mighty sword because you never know when the French might declare war on us again. And you know what? I pray they do! Then you'll have to rush to the king's side, won't you? Only this time, I hope you never return. Unless it's draped belly-down over your horse's back!"

Bannor loomed over his son, his face so still and fraught with menace it might have already been a granite effigy carved on a tomb. Willow clutched Hammish's trembling hand beneath the table, waiting for Bannor to backhand his eldest son. In truth, she could not say the boy didn't deserve it.

When Bannor finally spoke, his voice was so dangerously silky they all had to strain to hear it. "If the king requires me to fight at his side, lad, I will most certainly heed his command. But I've no intention of dying beneath a French blade. Not even to please you."

 
Leaving the echo of his words hanging behind him, Bannor turned and strode from the hall, shouldering his way through a cluster of gawking squires.

******

 
"Bannor!" The quavering cry pursued him across the meadow, more relentless than the icy flecks of snow stinging his face.

 
Bannor doubled the pace of his long strides, crunching the frozen grasses beneath his boots. He had spent most of his life making war, but now all he desired was a moment of peace. The sluggish ripple of the river drifted to his ears, promising just that.

"My lord!" This time the cry was more urgent. And more breathless.

 
"Leave me be, Willow," he called over his shoulder without slowing. "I've no wound for you to tend today."

"Not even the one inflicted by your son?"

Bannor halted at the rim of the riverbank, swearing beneath his breath.

 
He refused to turn around, even when he heard a desperate panting behind him. Willow came stumbling into his line of vision, her hair dusted with snow and her skirt stained with mud, as if she'd fallen more than once in her stubborn pursuit of him. She would have probably gone rolling right into the river if he hadn't reached out a hand and snagged her.

As soon as he had her steadied, he took his hands off of her and started down the bank. "You may accompany me if you insist, but I'll thank you to speak no more of my son."

 
She scrambled after him. "How can I speak of anything else? Didn't you see his face? He was deliberately trying to provoke you."

"Just as you are?"

 
She continued as if he hadn't spoken. "The poor lad was all but begging you to snatch him up by the scruff of his neck and give him the shaking he deserved. When you turned your back and walked away, I thought he was going to burst into tears right there in front of God and everybody. And if he had, I don't think he would have ever forgiven you."

Bannor kept walking.

 
"I don't understand why you let the boy run wild when he ought to be training in the list with you and your men." Willow's voice rose. "And I don't understand how Lord Bannor the Bold, Pride of the English and Terror of the French, can be afraid of one scrawny thirteen-year-old lad!"

 
Bannor whirled around on the edge of the river, his eyes blazing, and roared, "I'm not afraid of him! I'm afraid of me!"

Willow stumbled to a halt.

Bannor raked a hand through his hair. "When other men lose their tempers, they shout and bluster and stomp their feet. When I lose my temper, heads roll and blood spills. Men die." He strode back toward her, holding up his hands. "Look at these hands, Willow. Look at the size of them." He flexed both of them into mighty fists. "Feel the strength in them. Suppose I should lift one of them in anger against Desmond? Or even Mary Margaret? Why, I could snap one of his bones or crush her wee skull to powder with no more than a clumsy squeeze of my fingers!"