Claudia Dain (46 page)

"He took le Gel?" William said, his gray eyes wide with surprise and then with mirth. He burst out laughing, knocking Olivier from his wobbly perch. The child then crawled on both hands, one knee, and one foot toward the beckoning fire. "That is good taking. If any man could, it would be Ulrich. They are truly wed?" he asked, chuckling hard.

"Aye, well and truly," Walter answered.

"Then I have no quarrel here," William said as his son scooped Olivier up and away from the fire, to the boy's vast and noisy disapproval. "Conor is dead and Ulrich well rewarded for his valor. Am I a welcome guest within Stanora, Lord Walter? Or would you toss me from your hall?" William asked, as if any man could toss him anywhere.

"You are very welcome in my hall," Walter said with some dignity now that the matter of vengeance had passed.

With both dignity and good humor, William walked at Walter's side to the high table, which had been hurriedly prepared while they wrangled and now was being spread with cloths of sparkling white and jugs of wine, platters of cheese, and trenchers of bread. For William le Brouillard's welcome, there would be no stinting.

"But I thought you were in league with Conor," Marguerite whispered to Roger.

"Nay, and Ulrich would put no faith upon such thought," Roger answered. "We are bound by chosen brotherhood, bastards finding family in each other. My honor and my heart lie always with him and for him, as with Edward. We are bound by love, though we do not often speak of it. Still, 'tis the foundation of our lives, and nothing may break it."

"How did you fare with the good priest of Stanora?" Edward said, coming into their circle of conversation.

"Well," Roger answered him. "All is well there, as it should be."

He would say nothing more now, but they would speak of it in the privacy of their ride from Stanora, when they could talk freely of the duty set upon them by the king. Of traitors to King Henry they'd been sent to flush from cover. Of Stanora's priest, who in heart sided with Becket but who in practice would not step outside the law. All was well in Stanora, and Matthew could keep his quiet place there. Hearts would not be judged when acts did not follow.

"But what happened between Juliane and Ulrich while I was off?" Roger said. "I think I must have missed good wagering there. They are wed, truly and in all?"

"Aye, most truly," Edward said.

"I wish I had seen that," Roger said with a gleam in his eye.

"Nay, 'twas not meant for seeing," Edward said, whereupon Roger lifted his head like a hound who has caught the scent.

"You
saw!
You saw it done!"

Edward turned and looked at Avice, who turned and looked at the fire. Maud had drifted off, a serene smile on her face. Young William and Lunete chased after Olivier in his scrambling dance toward the ever beguiling fire. Marguerite looked down at her hem, a look of reserved dignity painted most determinedly upon her milk-white face, while Christine smiled and coughed and looked all about the hall, upon everything but Roger's face.

"What happened?" Roger begged. "Were any wagers won?"

"'Twas not a thing for wagering," Edward said.

"Not a thing for wagering?" Roger said.
"
Anything
may be wagered. 'Tis the meat of life."

"Yet not this," Edward said, leaving the branding heat of the fire, his hair caught in sparks of gold, his eyes gleaming golden in the dim light before he disappeared in purple shadow within the wide hall.

Avice turned again to watch him leave, and then, turning, left the fire to circle wide the place where Edward was, leaving him to his shadows as she found her own to hide herself within.

Roger watched her, watched Edward, watched their careful distance and felt the ripples of heat that authored it. And then he said, his eyes alight, "Then who will take up another wager with me, since the matter of Juliane and Ulrich is done?"

"What wager?" Christine asked, looking at him directly again.

"A wager concerning Avice and her betrothed."

"Arthur?" Marguerite said. "What wager in that? They are to speak their vows within the month."

"Shall we wager on it?" Roger said, grinning.

The Legend

And so it was that he came to her, bearing a legend of his own, burnished bright and hard through years of telling.

Tremble she did not, for was she not the Lady of the Frost? No man could warm her, and so she stood well within her tale, secure in the foretelling of her victory. He would fall, as did they all, and so she would remain, standing firm and hard and cold as men fell against her, frozen by her name.

They came together, the two of them, each certain of the winning. Each striving in confident ease to protect the gloss of legend.

Yet one must fall.

Yet one must ever fall.

And so it was that they strove together upon a summer's heat, her hawk upon her arm, his hand upon his shield. Many battles they endured, hawk finding blood, warrior melting ice, until upon the Eve of Lammas all battling did cease.

Of what occurred they never told and banned all telling. Of legends they had swallowed full and would suffer them no more.

Yet of such a pair, could legends ever die?

And so it was that this new tale was born upon the death of legends.

And so it is that he is known as being leashed by love as she is warmed by wolf.

He wears a braided chain of her golden hair clasped tight about his throat, a heavy length of hair she once did cut to free herself from his grasp in one of their battles rare.

Yet she is marked and branded much the same as he, for she wears a dark blue cloak banded wide with a black wolf pelt, a killing she did see. Warmed by wolf, she says, and smiles as she does speak.

She calls him Lord Wolf and he has named her Lady Hawk For so he is her Wolf, for ever does he run at her side in wild defense of her. They are a pair to match their tale, though they would hear no telling.

And so I close my teeth against my tongue, stilling all fair tales. I would not wound this pair, the joining of hawk to wolf, a pair most rightly made.

Yet might I tell a tale of the sister of The Frost, she who is called The Flame? She has a long tale of her own and does not ban its telling.

She was set upon her marriage path, her name not yet even smoke, when a man of golden sparks did capture her, setting them both to fire.

She never walked the path to her betrothed, finding joy in flame instead.

Yet not that tale? Then let me find another. For what is an autumn night without a tale to mark it?

The End

Page forward for a note from Claudia Dain

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from the other Medieval Knights

The Holding

The Marriage Bed

The Willing Wife

The Temptation

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Author's Note

Ulrich and Juliane's descendent is Sophia, the main heroine of The Courtesan Chronicles. Sophia, whose English aristocrat mother was taken captive and made the wife of an Iroquois warrior in upstate New York, is the fruit of that union. Sophia, caught in the turmoil of the American Revolution as a child, a girl of three nations (Iroquois, American, English) yet belonging to none, is forced to become a courtesan upon reaching England when her English extended family refuses to acknowledge her.

The Courtesan Chronicles is the series of books that chronicles Sophia's attempts at aiding the women of aristocratic England marry the men they choose, all the while quietly taking revenge, seeking justice, and achieving restitution for the trials she endured as a prostitute in Georgian England. The Courtesan Chronicles are set in Regency England.

Sophia is very much like both Ulrich and Juliane; she has their strength, their sexual allure, their generosity, and their ruthlessness. She is also a woman of legend.

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The Holding

Medieval Knights Series

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