Queen's Heart: An Arthurian Paranormal Romance (Arthurian Hearts Book 2) (3 page)

“I don’t understand.”

“He bids me lay a curse upon you.”

Dumbstruck, I lost the words to ask the question the Lady already anticipated.

“All that comes from your father comes from a father’s heart. It is not a curse laid in anger, but a life quest. A spiritual fulfillment. A way to develop the empathy he fears you lack. An empathy he feels you need if you are ever to take his place as Leader of The Hunt in this changing world where men now swarm these lands. He tasks you to find love and understanding—some commonality between fae and men. When your trial is done and the task complete, the curse shall be lifted and you shall again be free to find your way.”

“Will this
quest
be long?” I asked not out of fear but impatience to already be done—with her, with The Hunt, with the world. Hunt Leader might once have been an aspiration but no longer.

“It is another circumstance to shape your future. How long or how short you make of it will be up to you.”

I should have already been fled, not standing like a child waiting to be dealt a punishment. The Lady of Avalon in her splendid naked radiance before me held no weapon. Nothing stayed me here but acknowledgement of who she was and the vague unease that by fleeing I would somehow be disobeying Herne. But what could Herne do other than outcast me from The Hunt? By coming here I’d already outcast myself. I’d already disappointed him in so many ways what would be one more? That left only the threat of what Magic the Lady could wield to root me so.

I shifted.

Or rather I began the familiar transformation from fae to red-eared hound and… nothing.

The look of accusation I threw the Lady was met with a deepening of her maddening smile.

“It has already begun,” she said.

Only then did fear catch up to me. But it was too late. “What—? How—?”

“In all things—strength and courage and heart—you will be as a man. While a man, neither men’s iron nor their food can harm you. Save for the hour between sunset and night, you will remain bound to the needs and desires of men. And so it will be until you’ve won the heart of a queen. Captured not by deed nor coercion but by passion and your own heart’s song.”

“So
I
must love
her
first?”

“How could it lesson you otherwise? It is yours to learn to open your heart to love in all its forms.”

“I’ve already lost Brinn, she who was my only heart’s desire. There can be no other.”

“If you believe that, you’ve cursed yourself more thoroughly than I ever could.”

“Brinn—”

“Is gone. She followed another’s song. A mortal song. You mourn, not because she left
you
, but because she chose a world you do not understand. A world you despise without first knowing because such knowing demands change, and you fear change above all. Your curse is to face the thing you most fear. Otherness.”

She paused then, and I searched frantically to find that otherness in me. Hands, arms, legs, cod and bollocks—all looked no different now. Most importantly, other than not being able to shift, I felt no different.

Perhaps her Magic had failed.

“You will be a knight among men. And errant Saracen charged with winning great battles before you can be christened and accept the honors of your birthname. That will give you leave and time to learn the customs of men. A horse, clothes and weapons await, courtesy of your father. All that will be required of you is to breathe soul into your role.”

Unchanged, I spread my arms to my sides for her to see. “I am still me,” I protested. “There is no difference.”

“Not yet,” she agreed, and the emerald of her eyes glinted sharp in the soft moonlight. “But your first lesson has already been learned. You simply don’t know it yet.”

Under
Yseult’s splendid care I quickly thrived. Who would not? Where her fair and talented hands touched, wounds healed and fevers abated. As the hours turned to days, I gained strength as the poison fled. And as the hours turned to days, Yseult found excuses to be with me more, her fair hands lingering on my cheek, my forehead, my shoulder, my chest.

For three nights straight I dreamed of her, dreamed of those fair hands lingering on and around other parts of me, bringing me to ecstasy.

Did she dream of me in that way too? I wondered.

“Walk with me,” she bade on the fourth day. We strolled down to the stables and exclaimed over the fine horses her father bred.

“Ride with me,” she bade on the fifth day, and chose us both sturdy palfreys with easy gaits that wouldn’t tire me. I unslung my harp and serenaded her with ballads of great battles and heroic deeds.

Mid-afternoon we sat in the sun, shoulder-to-shoulder on the bank of a small stream that bubbled through a valley just beyond sight of Whitehaven Castle. When we spoke, we talked of small things, merely to pass the time. It was enough, though, to simply inhale the presence of her, to lose myself in the drunken joy of being beside her. My body craved her, of course—what man’s would not? But the art of courting, of delaying passion, brought its own delights. Save for the shadow of the dark secret between us, this day would have stood as near perfection as possible.

At the time, and even for long after, I thought the next few minutes only added to the sweet perfection. But in my headiness, I forgot that some poisons are sweet to the taste, their effects slow and drawn out, withering you in such a subtle and seductive way, that you can die without ever knowing exactly why.

One of the horses whinnied.

And was answered by a third.

It trotted into view, a magnificent white stallion carrying a leanly muscled man on its back, a sword and shield slung across its withers and a pack secured across its croup.

Horse and metal spoke of a moneyed man, a knight at the least.

“One of yours?” I whispered to Yseult.

“Not that I’ve seen. And a comely face like that I’m sure to have remembered.”

I beat back the jealousy that sparked in my heart. More men than this stranger had comely faces. My own among them, I hoped. What I wished for more than comeliness right now, though, was the sword slung from my palfrey’s saddle.

The gentle mares whickered coyly at the great brute of a horse, clearly as entranced by the stranger’s steed as Yseult was by his face.

If the knight meant ill, his horse could run me down long before I reached my sword. However quickly my strength was returning, I was still far from whole as the twinge in the shoulder of my sword arm suggested and the stiffness in the muscles of my back affirmed when I rose to meet the stranger.

In contrast, Yseult was fluid grace as she rose beside me. To my consternation, the stranger’s gaze fixed on her, dismissing me. In fairness, with the roles reversed, I’m not sure I could have torn my gaze from the blazing sun that was Yseult. All others—women and men alike—were shadow to her glory.

But my heart held little room for fairness. Before I knew what I was doing I had stepped in front of Yseult, shielding her, not from any perceived threat from the stranger, but simply from his eyes.

Yseult, however, didn’t share my instincts. Casting a silent reprimand my way, she side-stepped the blockade I’d set with my bulk to get a better view of the stranger as he dismounted.

While it was mere prudence to size an opponent before an engagement, I found myself as concerned about his other assets. How could I help but to compare? I had more weight and mass. He more natural control. While I was brunette and lightly tanned, he was red-haired with skin as pale as the cream of his horse, rivaling Yseult’s in its fairness.

As he neared, arms spread a bit to either side, palms facing forward to show he held no weapon, the finer details became apparent. His face was narrower than mine with a long bold nose and only a scrap of beard. Most remarkable, though, was the intensity of his eyes. A trick of the sun, perhaps, but they glinted like a faceted emerald. There were many a green-eyed man on these isles, but his dazzled with color that could be seen from afar.

Assured he proffered no weapon, Yseult, to my dismay, stepped forward. Only two light steps, but ones that made it clear she held rank here. “Well met.” Her voice lilted on the breeze.

He smiled then, and as God would have it, his comely face grew comelier still. “Lady.” He tilted his head and shoulders in a small bow. “Well met indeed.”

It was all I could do to keep the sneer from my face as I stepped up to Yseult. “Name yourself,” I commanded. “And your station, if you have one.” I felt Yseult’s gaze flick my way, startled I’m sure by my tone, which was not that of an errant harper.

“Palomides,” the stranger said, acknowledging me with only a glance before returning his stare to Yseult. “A knight by birth. A Saracen by choice until my vows are fulfilled.” He nodded toward the palfreys. “You’re traveling light. There is lodging nearby?”

A nod would have been answer enough, but Yseult was generous with her virtues. The stranger knight’s eyes gleamed when she added a smile.

“Whitehaven Castle is just over that hill. My father is sure to welcome you.”

“Your father—?”

“That would be King Anguish. I am Yseult, daughter of Isolde.”

“Yseult.” He rolled her name on his tongue as though it were a small pastry and his tone the honey to sweeten it.

She caught her lower lip with a silent gasp. “We were readying to leave anyway. Ride with us.”

“My pleasure, Lady Yseult.” Twice now he’d said her name, as casually as though he’d known her a lifetime. I bristled at the familiarity. Bristled more knowing I needed still to hide that I was this man’s equal—or better.

“The harper will play us home. Won’t you, Drustan?”

“Whatever pleasures my Lady.” I had fought and killed The Morholt, a warrior feared by half of Ireland. I was a knight known across Cornwall, Wales and more. It was mine to know the business of any errant knight I met. How galling to be playing tunes rather than questioning this stranger. More galling, though, it would be to reveal myself and have Yseult turn her back on me and her entire House turn their swords against me while I was still their guest.

Lies, however, seem always to have a way of discovering themselves.

Though my father commanded fifty knights and ten times those numbers in troops at need, never had I felt safer than I did riding with Drustan to my left and the new-come knight, Palomides, to my right.

There was more to Drustan than he cared to share. His rich baritone was pleasing enough and it amazed me to see how supple his large hands were at plucking the delicate strings of his instrument. He was indeed a master bard. But while music might have been his soul, it was not his heart.

I had felt it in the Great Hall where my father’s men passed from time to time. And I felt it now in the presence of Palomides. Drustan may have bowed to my whim to play, but the deference he showed was strained. He was never a man brought up to serve but to lead. From his very air in the way he held himself to the lift of his head and the way his warm eyes met others so fearlessly and directly.

I also knew intimately the firm swell of his muscles. Size and strength like that came from a lifetime of practice with sword and shield. That Drustan was still in his early twenties meant his training had to have started when he was an unbearded boy.

I won’t deny a bit of disappointment at how quickly he’d recovered to this point. A tunic found its way over those impressive shoulders and that broad, bare chest much too soon. Excuses to feel the ripple and heat of him beneath my fingertips fled all too quickly.

Body to body, I was drawn to him. And by the lingering gazes and soft smiles when I touched him, he was drawn to me.

But until I knew his secret—knew who he was and why he hid himself so—my body’s desires would have to be fettered.

Yet here now was Palomides. In face, he was beautiful to look upon. Mesmerizing even. Where Drustan’s face was strong and broad and male and utterly handsome, Palomides’ face had a delicacy to it that hinted at sensitivity and sorrow. A contradiction of complexity and simplicity that resolved itself in a stunning presence more exquisitely shaped than what I had ever seen or was likely to ever see again.