Wildwing (18 page)

On His Arm

A
re you sure it’s wise to go out, my lady?” asks Beatrix, fixing the brooch on my cloak. “With your fainting? And Sir Giles, and all?”

“Eustace assures me it’s only a minor dispute,” I say, leading the way downstairs. “Something about land, and soon to be settled.”

I don’t blame her for the look of disbelief she gives me. Robert’s anguished face, his hands cradling Oswald’s head—I shudder at the memory. No sensible person would believe this is a minor matter. Leaving the castle feels dangerous, but it’s a risk my heart insists that I take.

The gangly stable lad has Fidelius saddled, just as he does every day; neither he nor the stable master suggests I stay. And the guards lower the drawbridge for us without aword. Surely they’d refuse to open the gates or insist on coming along if they truly thought I was in peril. And wouldn’t Will himself stop us if the threat were great enough?

I look over at him, riding alongside me. No, in truth, he’d never keep us from going out together. He needs my arms as much as I need his.

Beatrix is determined to stay awake today. She walks with us around the field for a good twenty minutes while Pilgrim circles overhead. But Will strides faster than usual to tire her out, and in time Beatrix says she’s going to sit down for a moment to rest her feet. The next minute, her head has dropped against the tree trunk, and the sweet refrain of her snoring drifts through the air.

Will swings the lure wide to catch Pilgrim’s eye. She plummets, but before Will lets her tag the lure, he gets a playful look and whips it in a circle right in front of me. For a glorious moment she’s a tornado, passing so close, I feel the wind of her wings on my cheek.

And then she’s standing on Will’s glove. I run a finger down her back, the gray lapping waves of her feathers. “I wish it were me there, on your arm,” I say, all soft.

He smiles that wonderful smile, his eyes deep and bright at the same time. “I think that can be arranged.”

He settles Pilgrim on her perch. And then it’s me resting on his arm, lying on the springy golden grass; and Will’s other hand

is gentling me, playing with my hair, running down my side.

“Matilda…” he starts to say, but I put a finger to his lips. It sounds wrong, that name: too sharp, too long and grand. “Call me Addy,” I murmur. “For short. When it’s just the two of us.”

“Addy,” he says with a smile. “I like that.” And then he says it again, softer, “Addy,” as he leans in to kiss me.

Later, I whisper, “I feel like a falcon you’ve tamed to your hand.”

“Tame, you?” He laughs, stroking the hair back from my temple. “You’re a wild one, that’s what you are.” His finger caresses my lips, my cheek, and then he’s gazing down at me with love and sadness all mingled. “And the glove is not on my hand.”

“If it were … ?”

The sadness disappears; his voice deepens into a warm rumble. “If it were, why, I’d loose your creance, like this.” He pulls on the end of one of my laces, and his hand slips under the fabric. A shiver runs through me. “You’d rouse, like that,” he whispers. “And I’d feel it in my own blood.”

“Yes?” More a breath than a word.

“Why don’t you tell me what happens next?”

I imagine the powerful stroke of wings lifting me into the clouds. And then, coming back to his hand; always coming back, the sound of his breath replacing the wind.

Let’s Have a Look at You

A
few days later, it happens.

I’m at the high table, reaching for the goblet, when there’s a great hullabaloo from outside. Suddenly, a huge hulk of a man fills the door, blocking out the sunlight. His head nears the top of the frame; his shoulders fill it from side to side. Everyone leaps up, and the benches fall back from the trestle tables. There’s silence, except for one great intake of breath, as if the whole room shared a single set of lungs.

Sir Hugh!

The goblet shakes in my hand, wine splashing over the rim, as I set it down and stand. He strides up to the dais, everyone’s eyes on him, his eyes on me. In spite of the rushes, his feet pound as loud as a horse’s hooves, carrying the great muscular girth of him.

Eustace signals to Timothy; together they lug the lord’s great chair away from the wall, where it waited in his absence, and set it in pride of place at the high table. Next to me.

Eustace sinks into a bow. I, too, am on my feet, curtseying so deep, it’s like I’m a maid again, about to get rebuked for something I’ve done wrong. My eyes are glued to the rushes. I’m so low, so low—I don’t want to look up—and the great feet clomp over to me: dust-covered boots, muscled calves in tight leggings, the hem of an elegant tunic.

And then a broad hand swallows my shoulder blade, and he’s pulling me up toward him. My heart crashes around like a hawk bating in the cage of my ribs.

Sir Hugh puts a finger under my chin, lifting it, so he can see my face. I look up into piercing gray eyes. Eyes used to commanding and being obeyed. They stare out from the craggy face of a man more than twice my age.

“Not bad!” His voice rattles my bones. “Why in God’s name did they say you were ugly? Damn nice surprise!”

He hasn’t met her
, I think. I’m safe. I can stay… . So why do I feel like running for the door?

“Turn around,” he says.

And I do. What choice do I have? I turn around, like a horse being examined for purchase. Is he going to ask to see my teeth next?

But when I come around to face him again, he’s throwing his head back with a roaring laugh, and the butler himself is rushing forward with the best pitcher, the one shaped like a leaping silver stag, and he’s pouring a goblet full to the brim as Sir Hugh flings himself into his chair?that great chair suddenly small with him filling it arm to arm—and the goblet is empty in a single gulp. The butler pours again. Sir Hugh lifts his drink with one hand and signals to the harpist with the other.

“Sit!” he calls to the throng, and they sit. “Eat!” he calls, and they eat. He takes a chunk of meat from the platter that’s appeared before him, turns to me, and declares in what I believe is meant to be a softer tone, “And so we meet at last.”

“My lord,” I say, lowering my head.

“Young thing, aren’t you?” His voice is thunder. “Not much more than a foal. I understand you had a rough go of it, getting here. Sorry to hear it.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

It’s all the words I can find at the moment. No witty conversation for me. I’m too busy taking in that overmuscled, towering form, imagining that huge hand on my waist, my breast… . I shudder, and the wine goblet in my hand sloshes again.

Sir Hugh turns to Father Bartholomew. “Nervous filly, isn’t she?” he asks, loud enough for the entire room to hear. They all stare at me again.

I close my eyes, trying to calm my breath. I still have the dresses and jewels, I tell myself. I still have Will.

Different

I
’m lying in the dark when the door creaks open. Footsteps sneak across the room, stopping on the other side of the bed curtains. Only a scrim of fabric separates me from the body on the other side. I hear breathing, fast and heated; my own breath speeds up to match it. He’s not supposed to be here yet! He’s supposed to wait until we’re married! I clutch the furs to my neck, trying to cover every inch of my flesh. The fabric trembles as a hand grasps it from the other side, and suddenly the curtain is ripping open and I’m screaming at the top of my lungs—

Beatrix tumbles backward with a shriek. My breakfast flies out of her hands, and she lands sprawling on the floor. Gasping for breath, she stares at the wine stains on her dress, at the splatters across the room. At me.

“Oh, Beatrix! I’m so sorry! I thought—”

She gathers herself up, shaking her head, and tromps out the door, her footsteps heavy and hard done-by. She comes back with an armload of rags.

“And us with so much to get ready,” she grumbles, wiping up the mess. Once the floor and bench are clean again, once she’s scrubbed at her own kirtle—”That’s the beauty of brown,” she mutters, “hardly shows a thing”—she pulls my shift off the peg and carries it over to the bed. She slips it over my head, then pulls out my best kirtle, the Lincoln scarlet.

“Not that one, Beatrix. I’m going hawking this morning.”

“Hawking!” she says, disapprovingly. “With Sir Hugh just arrived?”

Then she gets a good look at my face, and melts; she reaches for the blue kirtle instead and slips it over my head. But she laces the sides tighter than usual, so it hugs every curve of my body. She sits me on the bench, brushes my hair until it gleams. Finally, she clumps to the trunk in the corner. I hear her rummaging around, and then she returns with the ring I found on the beach, the one carved like a snarling bear.

It’s too real. Everything is too real.

I stare at the ring like it’s going to bite me. “It won’t fit under Pilgrim’s glove,” I say.

“Then put it on your other hand. A nice gesture it will be, wearing the jewel he sent you.”

I shove it on. The band cuts into the soft skin between my fingers.

“Ouch!”

Beatrix doesn’t even seem to hear me. “I’ve a few things to get ready,” she says. “Didn’t think we’d be going out. I’ll meet you in the mews.”

Will looks up from Pilgrim’s perch and takes in my eyes, tired with lack of sleep; the tight-laced kirtle; the ring.

“It’s different now,” he says softly.

I never imagined it could be this different.
I can have both
, isn’t that what I said, so smug and sure? But that was when Sir Hugh was an idea. Now he’s a man, and he smells like a man, and has a man’s skin. I think of sharing a bed with that battle-hardened body, those demanding eyes, and the thought punches all the air out of me, like a fist in bread dough. I didn’t think he’d ever really be here.

I need to feel Will’s hands to put things right. “Hurry,” I say. “Let’s get out to the field, where we can talk freely.”

A smile tugs at one corner of his mouth, and then he’s walking to the pegs on the wall and his fine long fingers are gathering gear in his bag.

“I didn’t know if we’d be going today,” he says.

“Hurry! Shall I get Pilgrim? Beatrix will be here any moment.”

And, indeed, steps are approaching the mews. But they’re too broad, too heavy—

The door swings open, and Sir Hugh strides through.

“Lady Matilda. I heard you were here.” His voice is as oversized as he is.

One of the birds bates in a jangle of bells, and Will is there instantly, calming, soothing it back to the perch. Sir Hugh doesn’t even glance at Will. Of course not: Will is a servant. He’s invisible.

I speak in a soft voice, hoping Sir Hugh will echo my quiet tone. “I have been hawking most mornings, my lord.”

“Great stuff, hawking,” he says, in an almost normal pitch. “I’ll join you.”

My heart sinks. I hadn’t thought of him coming along. Not today. I glance over at the perches. Will is glaring at Sir Hugh with an expression that’s far from respectful. His fist clenches at his side. The bird feels his anger and flaps again.

“There,” Will whispers. “Quiet now.” But he doesn’t look like he’s feeling so quiet himself. He’s staring from Sir Hugh, to me, and back to Sir Hugh again.

The lord of the castle clasps his hands behind his back and starts walking around the mews, his bulk brushing into things as he goes. He passes the merlin with a nod, casts an approving eye over Pilgrim. When he gets to Lightning, he stops.

“Ah, so this is the gyrfalcon. Pure white. What a beauty.” His voice is thick, as if with lust. He runs a finger down Lightning’s sleek back. “I’ll take this one today.”

“Begging your pardon, my lord,” says Will—how I hate to hear those words come from his mouth!—”but Lightning is the king’s gyr.”

Sir Hugh focuses on Will, seeing him for the first time. His eyes narrow.

“His Majesty will collect her when he comes,” says Will. “She’s not to fly until then.”

“And you, boy, who are you to tell me what I can and cannot do?” It’s a tone you’d use for a stray dog, good for nothing but kicking.

“William, at your service, my lord.”

“Hardly my head falconer, are you, boy?”

“His son, my lord. Do you wish me to find him? He will tell you the same.”

“What I bloody well wish is—”

But then there’s another voice from the door. “Oh!

Begging your pardon, my lord,” says Beatrix, bobbing one curtsey after another. “But your steward searches for you everywhere. Says it’s of the greatest urgency, or I wouldn’t disturb you, indeed, I wouldn’t.”

“God’s bones,” curses Sir Hugh. Then he smiles at me, actually smiles, as if the way he talked to Will weren’t still lingering in the air. “It can’t be helped, I’m afraid.”

All I want is to be away, in the field, with Will. But I force myself to say, “Do you wish me to wait for you, my lord?”

“No, go ahead,” he says, striding to the door. “No telling how long this will take. At dinner you can tell me all about your hunt.”

I curtsey. I have to stop doing that! He brings it out in me.

As he leaves, he throws a parting word at Will. “And you, tell your father I’ll be seeing him about the gyr.”

The sky is the dark ocean gray of Pilgrim’s back. A few leaves still fluttering on the trees make them look even more naked, all bare arms and reaching fingers. The air is different. The dry grass underfoot is different. It was always so easy before. There’s nothing easy about it now.

“You can’t look at Sir Hugh like that,” I say, as Pilgrim soars overhead. “He’ll notice next time, and then you’ll be in for it. Just put on a different face. Just pretend.”

He lifts his eyes to Pilgrim, and then to the trees, watching the wind in their swaying branches. His voice is low and intense. “I don’t want to pretend.”

The wind turns, and suddenly his words loosen a longing I didn’t know I had. A longing that surges through me, filling my skin, my lungs, my veins, until it’s more than I can hold. Like floodwaters gouging through rock, it opens up a space in me that wasn’t there before.

Will stares at a flock of birds rising in the distance. “I thought I could do it the way you said. You with his lordship. You with me.” His voice hardens. “But I can’t. I think of his hands on you, his mouth. I can’t.”

But if I lose Will…

“Please!” I beg. “This is the only way!”

He takes a deep breath and turns, reaching for my hand. Where our skin touches, the heat spreads like fire. “There is another way,” he says. “But I don’t know if I can ask it of you. You, with so much to give up.”

My voice is a whisper. “Ask.”

“Run away with me, Addy! Tomorrow, before his lordship sees how we look at each other, before they can hold your wedding, before I have to see his hands on—”

But I don’t need another word. I reach up, bringing hisface down to mine, and we kiss. Not the gentle, playful kiss of yesterday—my need, my hunger, frighten me. Thrill me.

His arms wrap around me, pulling me close. I feel his heart pounding as fast as mine. “You keep Beatrix from coming,” he says. “I can do the rest. We’ll say we’re scouting good places for hawking with the royal party, and not to expect us for dinner. That will give us a day’s start.”

“And Pilgrim?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Pilgrim stays. It’s a different life we’re going to.” He lifts an errant lock of hair from my eyes. “You may even have to work with your hands.”

“I can work with my hands.”

“And no grand kirtles.”

“I can do without grand kirtles.”

“No guarantee of the next meal coming easy.”

“I don’t care.”

“Are you sure?” His eyes are so close, that deep hypnotic blue.

The prestige, the riches, the respect—everything I thought I wanted when I came—”I don’t have a doubt in the world,” I say. “Tomorrow.”