The Last Knight (23 page)
Authors: Candice Proctor
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #General, #Historical, #Erotica
She braced one hand against the rough wooden door frame, her gaze still fixed on the endless hills. If the viscomte and viscomtesse de Salers have taken up arms against Henry, she said, my father may not allow this betrothal to stand. He is Henry's man and always will be.
She heard a whisper of movement as he came to stand behind her, his hands on her shoulders. His thumbs brushed the bare, sensitive flesh at the base of her neck. She trembled.
And if, he said, his breath warm against her ear,
if
, mind you, your betrothal comes to naught, think you that old Robert d'Alérion would then wed you to me?
He might, she said in a small voice.
His hands tightened on her shoulders, swinging her around until she looked up into his fierce, closed face. I am a younger son, Attica. A younger son, with my own way still to make in this world.
No. She shook her head, her hands splayed against his broad chest. She could feel the painful thump of his heart reverberating against her palms. You're more than that. So much more than that.
A ghost of a smile touched his beautiful lips. Oh, I'm not completely penniless. I've an insignificant manor left
me by Hugh de Jarnac, and a small amount of wealth accumulated from tournaments and ransoms and my share of the booty from more sacked towns than I care to remember. But mighty noblemen such as your father do not wed their daughters to men such as me.
The truth of his words cut at her, ripped at her heart, until she felt as if she were bleeding inside, dying inside.
Oh, God.
The words tore out of her throat. I never minded before. But I do now. I do now. Her hands clutched at his shoulders, clenched in the cloth of his tunic until they cramped.
Ah, Attica. He cupped the back of her head, pulling her up against his chest, holding her so fiercely, it almost hurt. She felt him press his cheek to the hair at the top of her head. Heard the ache in his voice as he said her name, over and over. Heard the ache turn raw.
And darken with desire.
Damion felt the gusting of the wind through the open doorway beside them. The wind, bringing with it the freshness of rain-washed night air and the darkly sparkling promise of star-spangled infinity. On a night such as this, he thought, a man could forget the harsh realities of his world, forget his own code, his own promises to himself. On a night such as this, a man could forget himself.
With a groan, he rubbed his open mouth against her soft hair, his eyes sliding closed as he breathed in the scent of her, the scent of the road and night rain and this woman's own sweetness. He let his hands slip slowly, dangerously, down her slim, strong back once before bringing them up again to grip her shoulders.
He meant to set her away from him. He would have set her away from him. Only then her head fell back, her lips parting as she stared up at him, and he was caught by the dark turbulence of her eyes.
His gaze locked fast with hers. He dipped his head and brushed her lips with his gently. And at the touch of her
sweet, soft lips, he was lost. Lost in the taste of her, the heat of her, the heat of their desire, their hunger.
He moved his mouth over hers, deepening the kiss as she opened her mouth to him, her tongue tangling with his, her arms curling up around his neck to clutch him to her tighter, tighter. He slipped his hands down her sides to find her hips and pull her up against the hard curve of his pelvis as he braced his legs wide. She pressed herself against him. Pressed, pressed. But it wasn't enough. Wasn't enough.
With a harsh murmur, he tore at the laces of her tunic and shirt, impatient to fill his hands with the naked swell of her breasts. When he touched her there, she made such a breathy, erotic noise deep in her throat as she clutched him to her that he felt his blood roaring hot through his veins, felt his unwanted, dangerous love for this woman flare up bright and fierce in his heart. Felt what was left of his self-control slipping, slipping.
He wanted to bear her down into the softly rustling leaves that littered the floor of the hut. He wanted to rip away this rough barrier of cloth between them and press the length of his naked body against her softly pale wom-an's flesh. He wanted to touch her in all the secret, burning places he knew she yearned to be touched. Touch her with his hands, with his lips, with his tongue. Feel her long, slim legs wrap around his waist, holding him to her as he buried himself inside her. He wanted to make her his,
his
, forever.
His.
Except that, for them, there could be no forever. And if he made her his now, the future would hold nothing for either of them except unbearable heartache. Or death.
He knew it, and yet for one quivering, savage moment,
he hovered on the edge, almost beyond stopping, his lips drifting down the white arch of her throat as she flung back her head. He heard the rush of her breath, hot and fast against his ear. Felt the rapid pounding of her heart beneath his splayed fingers as he cupped her bare, trembling breast. Cupped it, then let his hand slide away.
He kissed her hair, her earanything but her mouth. He didn't dare kiss her mouth. Attica.
Mon amante
, he murmured, his face buried in the soft curve of her neck.
Beloved
. His body shook with want and denial as he held her, his hands clenching in her hair. We can't do this. We can't.
She curled her hands around his wrists, her head turning until she was looking at him with wide, solemn eyes. I love you, she said, her lips trembling and tempting, oh so tempting. Duty and honor may dictate my future. But I would have this moment.
Sweet Jesus
, he thought, staring into the luminous depths of her beautiful brown eyes.
I'm only a man. Only a man
He felt his breath shudder in his chest, hurting him.
He cradled one of her hands in his, pressed a kiss to her palm. I love you, Attica. He curled his fingers around hers until her hand became a fist, hers inside of his. He felt her hand tremble within his grip, but he couldn't look at her, couldn't look at her beautiful, beloved face. I love your spirit, your strength, your fierce and noble sense of honor. I love you in every way known to man. He paused, working hard to get the words out. Which means I love you too much to destroy your life by making love to your body now.
My life is already destroyed, she whispered harshly.
No. He squeezed her hand, then let her go. No, he said again, backing away from her, away from the pain and
longing he could see now in her face. Not completely. But if we do this, it will be.
The night wind sighed around them, ruffled the boyishly short curls that framed her face. Then I would destroy it.
But don't you see? He took another step back, then another. He was outside now, outside with the wind and the stars and all the lonely pain of his forever. Don't you see? he said again. I love you too much to let you.
He couldn't quite bring himself to turn around and leave her. He could only back away from her, one step at a time, until she was lost in the shadows of the night.
He spent the hours left until dawn in the lean-to where he'd stabled the horses. He sat with his spine pressed against one of the roughly peeled logs that framed the doorway, his head tilted back, his eyes half closed as he watched the gradual lightening of the sky in the east.
His desire for her burned like a fever in his blood, tormented him like a hot coal in the depths of his belly that left him restless, unable to sleep. Once, in that hour when birdsong fills the air and dawn sweetens the world, the need to go to her and hold herjust hold herwas so strong, he had to grip the log behind his head, his fingers digging in the soft wood to keep himself from rising and crossing the short distance that separated them. Because he knew that if he touched her now, he would never be able to stop with a simple touch.
He knew, as well, that he could not trust himself to be alone with her like that at night again, and that he would need to stay as far away from her during the day as their circumstances allowed. The knowledge that she would give herself freely to him only increased the pressure on him to
keep it from happening. Not simply because, if his suspicions about her brother were correct, she might never forgive Damion for what he would have to do. But also because he knew, as she did not, the tragedy that could flow from an illicit love such as theirs.
They spent the next night in a forester's cottage, and the night after that in the guest house of an isolated monastery.
It didn't take Attica long to notice how careful Damion was not to touch her when they were alone during the day. Or the way that, when night began to fall, he always made certain there were other people around them.
With each day they moved into higher, wilder country, the fields of ripening hay and peas becoming more and more interspersed with tracts of dense virgin forest and more open bocage. Once, they sheltered beneath a ridge and watched two horsemen pick their way along the swift-flowing stream below. But they were too far away for Attica to be able to tell if they were her uncle's men or not.
The morning of the fourth day found them climbing a long, gentle slope covered with bracken and fern scattered with tall pink foxgloves and white marguerites. The sun shone golden and warm out of a soft blue sky, and they paused beside a gurgling brook to rest the horses and eat some of the honey cakes they'd brought from the last village.
A day like this, Attica said, smiling as she lifted her face to the gentle June sun, when the air is so sweet with the scent of grass, and the larks are singing in the tops of the trees She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, as if she could draw the magic of this moment into her very soul. A day like this makes you realize what a joy it is
simply to be alive. It's as if the whole worldas if God himselfwere smiling. Do you feel it?
She opened her eyes and turned her head to find him watching her. He lay sprawled on his side, facing her, one elbow bent beneath him, the other wrist resting slackly on his bent knee. And in his eyes flickered a raw, painful hunger he wasn't quite quick enough to hide.
She felt the smile slowly fade from her lips. The sun still poured over her and the larks still sang, but she was aware only of this fiercely beautiful man and of how desperately she wanted him. How much she wanted him in her life. Not just for this one memorable moment but for all the days and years that stretched out before her.
The warm mountain breeze eddied around them, ruffling the collar of his shirt where it shone white against the dark flesh of his neck. She ached with the desire to reach out, to touch him, to go to him now on this sun-kissed hillside and forget at least for a few, tender, stolen hours the unshakable call of duty and the bridegroom who awaited her at the end of her journey.
They stared at each other, and the wind gusted up stronger, carrying to them the distant scent of stale smoke mixed with the faint, unmistakable stench of death.
What is it? Attica asked as de Jarnac's head snapped around, his hand creeping almost unconsciously to his sword hilt.
Mount up, he said curtly, uncoiling from the grass in one lithe, controlled motion. Quickly.
They spurred their horses to the top of the hill, where a stand of mixed larch and ash grew thick enough to offer shelter. From there they could look down on what must once have been a prosperous village, nestled beside a rocky stream at one end of a broad valley patchworked
with cultivated fields, lush pasturage, and orchards. Only now the fields were trampled and burned, the trees bare of fruit, the houses reduced to blackened rubble. The smell of burned thatch and charred flesh hung heavy in the air.
Mother of God, whispered Attica, her horrified gaze sliding over the smoke-hazed ruin of the valley. Who has done this?
Routiers
?
No. This is the work of an army, Attica. An army on the march.
She swung her head to look at him. His eyes had narrowed to thin slits, the powerful bones of his face standing out stark against his flesh as he stared down at the destruction before them. The conference must have already collapsed, he said, the big bay stallion shifting restlessly beneath him. This is the result.
Philip did this? Philip and Richard?
He nodded, gathering his reins.
She lifted her gaze to the horizon, but all she could see was desolation. The acrid stench of burnt wood stung her nostrils, making them quiver. But where is Henry?
I don't know. He spurred his horse forward. Let's go down and see what we can find out.
They rode through an unearthly silence, filled only with the creak of their saddle leather, the thud of the horses hooves in the packed dirt of the road, and the buffeting of the warm wind. Even the birds seemed to have fallen silent.
They splashed across the ford at a canter. Beside the stream lay the smoking ruins of a mill, the fresh green banks of the gently lapping mill pond splattered with the white of spilt flour and the red of the miller's blood. Attica
turned her head away, her hand coming up to cover her mouth.
My God, she whispered, staring down at the wind-ruffled feathers of a headless duck. Why? Why do this?
To demoralize. To spread terror. To apply pressure where the enemy is weakest.
He urged his horse forward, carefully skirting a broken cart that lay on its side, its upthrust wheel creaking mournfully as it spun slowly in the wind.
They passed the remnants of the manor house, its wooden upper stories a mere pile of blackened timbers collapsed upon the stone undercroft. Bloated carcasses of pigs littered the yard and ruined outbuildings. The air hummed with the buzzing of flies.
Is there no one left alive? Attica asked, letting the roan pick its own way through the rubble-strewn track as she scanned the burned-out husks of what had once been houses and one small wooden church.
The lord of the manor and his family were probably led off as captives to be ransomed. If they were lucky. He checked his horse, his head falling back as he watched a wood pigeon suddenly take flight. Everyone else who isn't dead is likely hiding.
A gray striped cat with four white socks rubbed against the foundation stones of the village fountain, its mew plaintive. Attica reined the roan in beside it, but the cat took off, its paws scrambling over a broken crate.
Don't look in the well,
said de Jarnac sharply as she was about to do just that.
She twisted in the saddle to stare at him. He sat at ease in his saddle, one hand resting on his hip, a dark, hard-faced knight on a dark war horse. The wind gusted around her, enveloping her in a swirl of white ash. She heard the
jingle of the bit as the roan shook its head, impatient with the flies. And she realized her eyes were so dry that they hurt as if she had cried for hours, although she hadn't shed a tear.
Something of her thoughts must have shown on her face, because he said, You're right; I know what to expect because I've done this. What did you think war is, Attica? Knights in burnished armor charging each other beneath billowing pennants? It is, sometimes. But more often than not, this he swept his arm in a wide arc
this
is the face of war.
Please, she said hoarsely. Can't we
She broke off as a pitiful wail pierced the windblown silence. Her head whipped around, her gaze probing the piles of trampled and rotting cabbages, the smashed earthenware, the broken benches and bits of fencing that littered the nearest toft. What was that? It sounded like a baby.
A lamb, probably. He slowly turned the big destrier, his hand on the hilt of his sword, his careful gaze sweeping over the devastated village.
No. It was a child. I'm certain of it.
And then she saw him: a small boy of perhaps two, naked except for a shirt. He came crawling out from beneath the shattered remnants of a hovel and staggered toward them, his mouth open in an endless, undulating cry, his fisted hands rubbing his eyes, his tears leaving tracks down his filthy cheeks.
At the edge of the toft, he paused, his chest rising on a shuddered breath. Then, before Attica could move toward him, the boy surged forward in a sudden rush. Startled, the big bay warhorse reared up, its great hooves slashing the
air. The boy, running heedlessly forward, disappeared beneath the plunging stallion.
She heard a whisper of movement as he came to stand behind her, his hands on her shoulders. His thumbs brushed the bare, sensitive flesh at the base of her neck. She trembled.
And if, he said, his breath warm against her ear,
if
, mind you, your betrothal comes to naught, think you that old Robert d'Alérion would then wed you to me?
He might, she said in a small voice.
His hands tightened on her shoulders, swinging her around until she looked up into his fierce, closed face. I am a younger son, Attica. A younger son, with my own way still to make in this world.
No. She shook her head, her hands splayed against his broad chest. She could feel the painful thump of his heart reverberating against her palms. You're more than that. So much more than that.
A ghost of a smile touched his beautiful lips. Oh, I'm not completely penniless. I've an insignificant manor left
me by Hugh de Jarnac, and a small amount of wealth accumulated from tournaments and ransoms and my share of the booty from more sacked towns than I care to remember. But mighty noblemen such as your father do not wed their daughters to men such as me.
The truth of his words cut at her, ripped at her heart, until she felt as if she were bleeding inside, dying inside.
Oh, God.
The words tore out of her throat. I never minded before. But I do now. I do now. Her hands clutched at his shoulders, clenched in the cloth of his tunic until they cramped.
Ah, Attica. He cupped the back of her head, pulling her up against his chest, holding her so fiercely, it almost hurt. She felt him press his cheek to the hair at the top of her head. Heard the ache in his voice as he said her name, over and over. Heard the ache turn raw.
And darken with desire.
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
Damion felt the gusting of the wind through the open doorway beside them. The wind, bringing with it the freshness of rain-washed night air and the darkly sparkling promise of star-spangled infinity. On a night such as this, he thought, a man could forget the harsh realities of his world, forget his own code, his own promises to himself. On a night such as this, a man could forget himself.
With a groan, he rubbed his open mouth against her soft hair, his eyes sliding closed as he breathed in the scent of her, the scent of the road and night rain and this woman's own sweetness. He let his hands slip slowly, dangerously, down her slim, strong back once before bringing them up again to grip her shoulders.
He meant to set her away from him. He would have set her away from him. Only then her head fell back, her lips parting as she stared up at him, and he was caught by the dark turbulence of her eyes.
His gaze locked fast with hers. He dipped his head and brushed her lips with his gently. And at the touch of her
sweet, soft lips, he was lost. Lost in the taste of her, the heat of her, the heat of their desire, their hunger.
He moved his mouth over hers, deepening the kiss as she opened her mouth to him, her tongue tangling with his, her arms curling up around his neck to clutch him to her tighter, tighter. He slipped his hands down her sides to find her hips and pull her up against the hard curve of his pelvis as he braced his legs wide. She pressed herself against him. Pressed, pressed. But it wasn't enough. Wasn't enough.
With a harsh murmur, he tore at the laces of her tunic and shirt, impatient to fill his hands with the naked swell of her breasts. When he touched her there, she made such a breathy, erotic noise deep in her throat as she clutched him to her that he felt his blood roaring hot through his veins, felt his unwanted, dangerous love for this woman flare up bright and fierce in his heart. Felt what was left of his self-control slipping, slipping.
He wanted to bear her down into the softly rustling leaves that littered the floor of the hut. He wanted to rip away this rough barrier of cloth between them and press the length of his naked body against her softly pale wom-an's flesh. He wanted to touch her in all the secret, burning places he knew she yearned to be touched. Touch her with his hands, with his lips, with his tongue. Feel her long, slim legs wrap around his waist, holding him to her as he buried himself inside her. He wanted to make her his,
his
, forever.
His.
Except that, for them, there could be no forever. And if he made her his now, the future would hold nothing for either of them except unbearable heartache. Or death.
He knew it, and yet for one quivering, savage moment,
he hovered on the edge, almost beyond stopping, his lips drifting down the white arch of her throat as she flung back her head. He heard the rush of her breath, hot and fast against his ear. Felt the rapid pounding of her heart beneath his splayed fingers as he cupped her bare, trembling breast. Cupped it, then let his hand slide away.
He kissed her hair, her earanything but her mouth. He didn't dare kiss her mouth. Attica.
Mon amante
, he murmured, his face buried in the soft curve of her neck.
Beloved
. His body shook with want and denial as he held her, his hands clenching in her hair. We can't do this. We can't.
She curled her hands around his wrists, her head turning until she was looking at him with wide, solemn eyes. I love you, she said, her lips trembling and tempting, oh so tempting. Duty and honor may dictate my future. But I would have this moment.
Sweet Jesus
, he thought, staring into the luminous depths of her beautiful brown eyes.
I'm only a man. Only a man
He felt his breath shudder in his chest, hurting him.
He cradled one of her hands in his, pressed a kiss to her palm. I love you, Attica. He curled his fingers around hers until her hand became a fist, hers inside of his. He felt her hand tremble within his grip, but he couldn't look at her, couldn't look at her beautiful, beloved face. I love your spirit, your strength, your fierce and noble sense of honor. I love you in every way known to man. He paused, working hard to get the words out. Which means I love you too much to destroy your life by making love to your body now.
My life is already destroyed, she whispered harshly.
No. He squeezed her hand, then let her go. No, he said again, backing away from her, away from the pain and
longing he could see now in her face. Not completely. But if we do this, it will be.
The night wind sighed around them, ruffled the boyishly short curls that framed her face. Then I would destroy it.
But don't you see? He took another step back, then another. He was outside now, outside with the wind and the stars and all the lonely pain of his forever. Don't you see? he said again. I love you too much to let you.
He couldn't quite bring himself to turn around and leave her. He could only back away from her, one step at a time, until she was lost in the shadows of the night.
He spent the hours left until dawn in the lean-to where he'd stabled the horses. He sat with his spine pressed against one of the roughly peeled logs that framed the doorway, his head tilted back, his eyes half closed as he watched the gradual lightening of the sky in the east.
His desire for her burned like a fever in his blood, tormented him like a hot coal in the depths of his belly that left him restless, unable to sleep. Once, in that hour when birdsong fills the air and dawn sweetens the world, the need to go to her and hold herjust hold herwas so strong, he had to grip the log behind his head, his fingers digging in the soft wood to keep himself from rising and crossing the short distance that separated them. Because he knew that if he touched her now, he would never be able to stop with a simple touch.
He knew, as well, that he could not trust himself to be alone with her like that at night again, and that he would need to stay as far away from her during the day as their circumstances allowed. The knowledge that she would give herself freely to him only increased the pressure on him to
keep it from happening. Not simply because, if his suspicions about her brother were correct, she might never forgive Damion for what he would have to do. But also because he knew, as she did not, the tragedy that could flow from an illicit love such as theirs.
They spent the next night in a forester's cottage, and the night after that in the guest house of an isolated monastery.
It didn't take Attica long to notice how careful Damion was not to touch her when they were alone during the day. Or the way that, when night began to fall, he always made certain there were other people around them.
With each day they moved into higher, wilder country, the fields of ripening hay and peas becoming more and more interspersed with tracts of dense virgin forest and more open bocage. Once, they sheltered beneath a ridge and watched two horsemen pick their way along the swift-flowing stream below. But they were too far away for Attica to be able to tell if they were her uncle's men or not.
The morning of the fourth day found them climbing a long, gentle slope covered with bracken and fern scattered with tall pink foxgloves and white marguerites. The sun shone golden and warm out of a soft blue sky, and they paused beside a gurgling brook to rest the horses and eat some of the honey cakes they'd brought from the last village.
A day like this, Attica said, smiling as she lifted her face to the gentle June sun, when the air is so sweet with the scent of grass, and the larks are singing in the tops of the trees She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, as if she could draw the magic of this moment into her very soul. A day like this makes you realize what a joy it is
simply to be alive. It's as if the whole worldas if God himselfwere smiling. Do you feel it?
She opened her eyes and turned her head to find him watching her. He lay sprawled on his side, facing her, one elbow bent beneath him, the other wrist resting slackly on his bent knee. And in his eyes flickered a raw, painful hunger he wasn't quite quick enough to hide.
She felt the smile slowly fade from her lips. The sun still poured over her and the larks still sang, but she was aware only of this fiercely beautiful man and of how desperately she wanted him. How much she wanted him in her life. Not just for this one memorable moment but for all the days and years that stretched out before her.
The warm mountain breeze eddied around them, ruffling the collar of his shirt where it shone white against the dark flesh of his neck. She ached with the desire to reach out, to touch him, to go to him now on this sun-kissed hillside and forget at least for a few, tender, stolen hours the unshakable call of duty and the bridegroom who awaited her at the end of her journey.
They stared at each other, and the wind gusted up stronger, carrying to them the distant scent of stale smoke mixed with the faint, unmistakable stench of death.
What is it? Attica asked as de Jarnac's head snapped around, his hand creeping almost unconsciously to his sword hilt.
Mount up, he said curtly, uncoiling from the grass in one lithe, controlled motion. Quickly.
They spurred their horses to the top of the hill, where a stand of mixed larch and ash grew thick enough to offer shelter. From there they could look down on what must once have been a prosperous village, nestled beside a rocky stream at one end of a broad valley patchworked
with cultivated fields, lush pasturage, and orchards. Only now the fields were trampled and burned, the trees bare of fruit, the houses reduced to blackened rubble. The smell of burned thatch and charred flesh hung heavy in the air.
Mother of God, whispered Attica, her horrified gaze sliding over the smoke-hazed ruin of the valley. Who has done this?
Routiers
?
No. This is the work of an army, Attica. An army on the march.
She swung her head to look at him. His eyes had narrowed to thin slits, the powerful bones of his face standing out stark against his flesh as he stared down at the destruction before them. The conference must have already collapsed, he said, the big bay stallion shifting restlessly beneath him. This is the result.
Philip did this? Philip and Richard?
He nodded, gathering his reins.
She lifted her gaze to the horizon, but all she could see was desolation. The acrid stench of burnt wood stung her nostrils, making them quiver. But where is Henry?
I don't know. He spurred his horse forward. Let's go down and see what we can find out.
They rode through an unearthly silence, filled only with the creak of their saddle leather, the thud of the horses hooves in the packed dirt of the road, and the buffeting of the warm wind. Even the birds seemed to have fallen silent.
They splashed across the ford at a canter. Beside the stream lay the smoking ruins of a mill, the fresh green banks of the gently lapping mill pond splattered with the white of spilt flour and the red of the miller's blood. Attica
turned her head away, her hand coming up to cover her mouth.
My God, she whispered, staring down at the wind-ruffled feathers of a headless duck. Why? Why do this?
To demoralize. To spread terror. To apply pressure where the enemy is weakest.
He urged his horse forward, carefully skirting a broken cart that lay on its side, its upthrust wheel creaking mournfully as it spun slowly in the wind.
They passed the remnants of the manor house, its wooden upper stories a mere pile of blackened timbers collapsed upon the stone undercroft. Bloated carcasses of pigs littered the yard and ruined outbuildings. The air hummed with the buzzing of flies.
Is there no one left alive? Attica asked, letting the roan pick its own way through the rubble-strewn track as she scanned the burned-out husks of what had once been houses and one small wooden church.
The lord of the manor and his family were probably led off as captives to be ransomed. If they were lucky. He checked his horse, his head falling back as he watched a wood pigeon suddenly take flight. Everyone else who isn't dead is likely hiding.
A gray striped cat with four white socks rubbed against the foundation stones of the village fountain, its mew plaintive. Attica reined the roan in beside it, but the cat took off, its paws scrambling over a broken crate.
Don't look in the well,
said de Jarnac sharply as she was about to do just that.
She twisted in the saddle to stare at him. He sat at ease in his saddle, one hand resting on his hip, a dark, hard-faced knight on a dark war horse. The wind gusted around her, enveloping her in a swirl of white ash. She heard the
jingle of the bit as the roan shook its head, impatient with the flies. And she realized her eyes were so dry that they hurt as if she had cried for hours, although she hadn't shed a tear.
Something of her thoughts must have shown on her face, because he said, You're right; I know what to expect because I've done this. What did you think war is, Attica? Knights in burnished armor charging each other beneath billowing pennants? It is, sometimes. But more often than not, this he swept his arm in a wide arc
this
is the face of war.
Please, she said hoarsely. Can't we
She broke off as a pitiful wail pierced the windblown silence. Her head whipped around, her gaze probing the piles of trampled and rotting cabbages, the smashed earthenware, the broken benches and bits of fencing that littered the nearest toft. What was that? It sounded like a baby.
A lamb, probably. He slowly turned the big destrier, his hand on the hilt of his sword, his careful gaze sweeping over the devastated village.
No. It was a child. I'm certain of it.
And then she saw him: a small boy of perhaps two, naked except for a shirt. He came crawling out from beneath the shattered remnants of a hovel and staggered toward them, his mouth open in an endless, undulating cry, his fisted hands rubbing his eyes, his tears leaving tracks down his filthy cheeks.
At the edge of the toft, he paused, his chest rising on a shuddered breath. Then, before Attica could move toward him, the boy surged forward in a sudden rush. Startled, the big bay warhorse reared up, its great hooves slashing the
air. The boy, running heedlessly forward, disappeared beneath the plunging stallion.
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