Hellion

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Authors: Bertrice Small

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More praise for HELLION

“Erotic with a capital
E
.”

—Atlanta Journal & Constitution

“Magnificent … Lush, passionate …
Hellion
is Bertrice Small at her very best! Once again, [she] proves herself to be the reigning queen of romance.”

—The Literary Times

“
Hellion
is delightfully wicked. The escapades that occur in the d’ Bretagne castle will stay with you long after you’ve finished this thoroughly enjoyable story. Bertrice Small weaves her magic into a basketful of carnal surprises.”

—Affaire de Coeur

By Bertrice Small

THE KADIN
LOVE WILD AND FAIR
ADORA
UNCONQUERED
BELOVED
ENCHANTRESS MINE
BLAZE WYNDHAM
THE SPITFIRE
A MOMENT IN TIME
TO LOVE AGAIN

The O’Malley Saga
SKYE O’MALLEY
ALL THE SWEET TOMORROWS
A LOVE FOR ALL TIME
THIS HEART OF MINE
LOST LOVE FOUND
WILD JASMINE

Skye’s Legacy
DARLING JASMINE
BEDAZZLED
BESIEGED
INTRIGUED
JUST BEYOND TOMORROW
VIXENS

The Friar’s Gate Inheritance
ROSAMUND
UNTIL YOU
PHILIPPA
THE LAST HEIRESS

The World of Hetar
LARA
A DISTANT TOMORROW
THE TWILIGHT LORD
THE SORCERESS OF BELMAIR

The Border Chronicles
A DANGEROUS LOVE
THE BORDER LORD’S BRIDE
THE CAPTIVE HEART
LOVE, REMEMBER ME
THE LOVE SLAVE
HELLION
BETRAYED
DECEIVED
THE INNOCENT
A MEMORY OF LOVE
THE DUCHESS
THE DRAGON LORD’S DAUGHTERS
PRIVATE PLEASURES

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A Fawcett Book
Published by The Random House Publishing Group
Copyright © 1996 by Bertrice Small

Published in the United States by Fawcett Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

FAWCETT is a registered trademark and the Fawcett colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

eISBN: 978-0-307-79488-8

www.ballantinebooks.com

v3.1

For my best friend on the East End
,
Andrea Aurichio
What would I do without you, babe
?

Prologue

E
NGLAND

August 1100

K
ing William Rufus held his Easter court at Winchester. At Pentecost he was in Westminster. At that time, a village in Berkshire reported blood welling from the earth, and many who claimed to have seen it attested to it. When word of the phenomenon was brought to the king, he laughed.

“These English,” he said. “They are such a superstitious lot.”

The priests shook their heads glumly and muttered amongst themselves. The king was a most ungodly man who lacked respect for portents and all things holy. He would surely meet a bad end,
and
his wicked companions with him. But those who knew William Rufus best appreciated that while he might be a harsh man with little patience for those whose beliefs were rooted in ignorance or fear, he was fair with those who served him honestly.

The fat season for red stags began August first, and William Rufus was at his hunting lodge in the New Forest with several companions and his youngest brother, Henry. Many were surprised that Henry Beauclerc—so called because of all the Conqueror’s sons, he was best educated—was so friendly with the king, for William Rufus’s heir was not Henry, but rather their eldest brother, Robert, Duke of Normandy. Still, the prince seemed to hold no grudge, which was unusual in an age that lived by conquest.

On the second day of August the hunt was scheduled to begin at dawn, as was customary, but early that morning a
foreign monk spoke with the king’s friend, Robert fitzHaimo, telling him of a warning vision he had had in the night. The king agreed not to hunt that morning, although he did not fear the monk’s vision. He was dyspeptic, having eaten and drunk far too much the night before.

“I am so filled with an ill wind,” he mocked himself, “that the deer would hear me coming from a great distance and hide; but we’ll hunt this afternoon.”

So after the midday meal William Rufus and his companions went into the deep forest to stalk deer. Finding a spot near a stream with the well-muddied tracks of beasts all about, the king dismounted, waiting silently in the bushes for a stag to come to drink. He knew that his companion, Walter Tirel, was nearby. The other hunters had scattered, as was the accepted routine in such a hunt.

Suddenly, without warning, an arrow flew through the air and buried itself in William Rufus’s chest. Astounded, the king grasped at the arrow, stumbling noisily into the clearing by the stream. He had heard no one, but then his eyes met those of his assailant. A face stared from the foliage. The king smiled, recognizing the face. His look was one of admiration, almost approval. Then he fell facedown in the mud as death reached out to claim him.

The greenery didn’t even rustle as William Rufus’s assassin slipped away. Walter Tirel entered the clearing, looking about him. Seeing the king, he raised a mighty shout of alarm. Within moments the place was filled with the king’s other companions, including Henry Beauclerc, open-mouthed and astounded by the scene that greeted them.

“
Mon Dieu
, Walter! You have killed the king!” Robert de Montfort said for all to hear.

“
Non! Non!
” Tirel replied. “
Not I my lord!
The king was dead when I arrived. We were together, but he hurried on ahead of me. I found him so. I swear it!”

“It was an accident, I am certain,” Robert fitzHaimo said.
“You are known for an honorable man, Walter, and had no cause to kill the king.”

“Is this place cursed?” de Montfort wondered aloud. “The king’s brother, Richard, was killed all those years ago in a similar accident, and last spring his own nephew died the same way. A hunting accident.”

“It was not my arrow that killed the king,” Walter Tirel said doggedly.

“Yet it must be your arrow,” de Montfort said, bending down. “See, it is one of the two the king gave you himself this day. Do you not remember, Tirel? A blacksmith came with six arrows before we left this afternoon. The king praised the smithy’s craftsmanship. He kept four of the arrows for himself, and gave you two. You do not have two now, do you?”

“I shot one earlier,” Tirel insisted. “You yourself were there when I shot at that first stag from a-horse. I missed the beast and could not find the arrow. Do you not remember?”

“It is an accident,” fitzHaimo said soothingly. “A tragic accident. There is no blame to assign. Perhaps, though, it would be best if you returned to your lands in France, my lord. Poix, isn’t it? There will be some who are hotheaded enough to seek revenge for this unfortunate incident. To horse, my lord, and do not look back!”

Walter Tirel, Count of Poix, did not need to be encouraged twice. He was not so stupid that he did not realize something was amiss. However, he did not wish to take the blame for something he had not done. Mounting his horse, he galloped off, not bothering to stop at the royal lodge, but heading straight for the coast and the first boat he could find to take him to France.

“
The king is dead
,” Robert de Montfort said softly.

“
Long live the king
,” fitzHaimo replied solemnly.

William Rufus was buried the following day, a Friday. On Sunday, the fifth day of August, his brother Henry—who had not even waited to bury his sibling, but instead hurried to Winchester to secure the royal treasury—was crowned at
Westminster, despite his father’s wishes that Robert succeed Rufus. Henry, the youngest of the Conqueror’s sons, based his claim on the fact that he was the only one to have been born in England.

“I am,” he boldly told the barons, “the only legitimate heir of the king of England, for my father was England’s king when I was born, and my own birth took place at Selby in Yorkshire. My brother, Duke Robert, was born while my father was Normandy’s duke.”

King Henry promised to correct all the abuses of the previous monarch, but his eyes were on Normandy, the duchy belonging to his eldest brother, Robert, who was on crusade. To this end he sent out to all the landowners in England, demanding their fealty. Henry needed to know England was completely loyal when he went to reunite his father’s original holding with England. There could be no question of the two territories being separate,
and
there could be no question that Henry was the rightful king of England, and lord over both places.

Contents

Cover

Other Books by This Author

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue: England: August 1100

Part I: Langston: Winter 1101