Shana Abe (37 page)

T
he hawks were still too young to do anything but squeak blindly and open their beaks for food. Their down was soft and fluffy, giving them a rather
absurd appearance that suggested nothing of the glory that their adulthood would bring.

“The fire in here should keep them warm enough. I think they’ll make it,” said Damon. He was carefully feeding them scraps of raw meat. One of the birds nipped his finger when he didn’t move it fast enough.

“They are eager to live,” Solange replied ruefully, examining his finger.

“It’s nothing. I’m glad they’re hungry. It’s a good sign.”

He fed them the last scrap, then wiped his hands on the wet cloth they had brought along with them for that purpose. “Just think, we have the beginnings of Wolfhaven’s rookery,” said Solange.

“Aye. We’ll have to wait a while before they’re old enough to train.”

“I believe you had several offerings for the job, however.”

Damon laughed, which startled the birds into momentary silence. “Suddenly it seems I have men aplenty with hawking experience.”

They were quiet, watching the birds flounder about in the makeshift nest they had created out of bundles of old cloth in a wood box. After a while they settled down into a common ball of fluff, each tucking a wing here and a head there, until they were completely content and indistinguishable one from the other.

Solange glanced out the window of the small room. The night sky was patchy with silver clouds racing each other high above. It was very late, and everyone else had already retired, but she had wanted to check on the hawks one last time.

“Was it a good celebration, do you think?” she asked. “Did everyone enjoy themselves?”

“If you could measure it by the amount of wine they consumed, I’d say it was a very good celebration.”

“No, really.”

“Really.” He came and put an arm around her shoulder. “It was splendid. Everyone loved it. The only criticism I heard all night came from a five-year-old, I believe, who was complaining about the lack of a dancing bear.”

“That would be Bertram. He was very disappointed that I could not procure him one.”

“Thank God. I can’t imagine where we would house a bear.”

“Oh, I found a perfect room right off the main hall,” she began innocently.

“Don’t even think about it. I’d have to keep a guard on the bear at all times to keep you from sneaking in to feed it and getting eaten yourself.”

“Just a little bear,” she implored with sparkling eyes.

“Have pity on me, lady. My heart cannot bear such worry.”

He joined in her laughter at his sally, then finished it by pulling her into his arms and giving her a hungry kiss. He had been forced to watch her all night, resplendent in her black gown, consumed with pride that she wore his mark upon her shoulder, wanting her every moment, knowing they could not leave until everyone else had.

So he had made himself wait for her, allowing her to revel in the culmination of her hard work in preparation
for tonight. She deserved to enjoy the party. He thought that she had. He hoped that she had, because now that it was over, all he wanted to do was take her back upstairs and make love to her all night long.

Half the night long, he amended to himself. Dawn was not that far away.

“Come away with me, my lady,” he said, drawing her arm through his. She gave him no argument, just leaned her head on his shoulder and walked with him out of the room.

He thought, for perhaps the hundredth time, about how she was just the right height for him, which led him to think about how her hair was just the right color, her voice just the right pitch, her mouth just the right shape, her body just the right softness.…

In his chambers he began to kiss her slowly, thoroughly, lingering on her lips, tilting her head with his fingers and then drawing them down to her shoulders, to her breasts. Her arms started to slide around him.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, then pulled away from him. “I almost forgot! I’ll be right back.”

He pulled her back to him, letting her feel his arousal. “It can wait.”

“No, no,” she said, smiling. “I’ll be right back, I promise.”

He released her and she ran from the room into hers. Damon began to pace, then raked a hand through his hair, impatient with anticipation. Whatever it was, he ordered himself, be pleased. Act happy. It was still Christmas.

And it would be only a few minutes until he could resume the delightful activity of making love to his wife.

Solange appeared again through the doorway, holding both hands behind her back. She looked very excited, and very gorgeous.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

“Oh, yes.”

She brought her hands forward and walked over to him. “Merry Christmas,” she said softly.

Cupped in her hands was a miniature carving of two wolves sitting side by side, their heads tilted toward each other. They were cleverly carved from the same piece of polished wood; the narrow pattern of rings in it echoed the shapes of their bodies, giving the little wolves the illusion of movement.

He took it from her carefully. “Where did this come from?”

She gave a happy smile. “I wish I could tell you I carved it myself, but I think you know my skills better than that. I had it made for you though. There is a very talented woodcarver in the village. Godwin told me of him.”

The more he examined the carving, the more lifelike it seemed. Both wolves had tiny chips of ebony for eyes. He thought they might even be smiling.

“Thank you,” he said. “It’s a beautiful piece.”

“I was hoping you would like it. I know it’s not a sword, or a mace, or even something useful, but I, well, I wanted you to have it.”

“Solange, I will treasure it always,” he said sincerely.

“And there’s one more thing.” She was gone before he could protest, then back again with her hands hidden.

“I came across the opportunity to get this for you, and I knew you would like it, so …”

She brought forward a book, bound in leather, thick and heavy in her hands. He put the little wolves on a table and then picked it up carefully.

“Plantarum Medica,”
he read aloud from the cover page. “A book on herbs.” He turned a few of the pages, noting the detailed illuminations, the clarity of the text. He was astonished. “Solange, where did you find this?”

“At the monastery,” she said smugly. “I won it from Father Ignatius.”

He thought he hadn’t heard her correctly. “You
won
it?”

“Yes, well, I had to buy it as well. But I had to win the right to buy it first.”

“When did you go to the monastery?”

She came up and examined the book beside him, ignoring the ominous warning in his voice. “Don’t worry, my lord. I didn’t go alone. You may be certain I had a full accompaniment of men with me.”

“Which ones?” he asked smoothly.

“Don’t be annoyed, Damon! I was perfectly safe. It wasn’t their fault, I told them it was to be a surprise to you. And I went out only once, just to fetch the book. Aren’t you pleased with it?”

She leaned up and kissed him on the cheek, then turned another page in the book. It showed a delicately illuminated drawing labeled
Tussilago Farfara
in flourishing script. Coltsfoot, his mind automatically translated, good for coughs. Damon looked up at her. “It’s
wonderful. I must confess I am at a loss to imagine how you got Father Ignatius to part with it.”

“It wasn’t easy. First of all, I sent an inquiry to the monastery to see if they had any books on herbs, and if they did, if I could purchase one.”

“Which Father Ignatius declined, of course.”

“He was rather curt in his refusal. He did mention, however, that the monastery had several fine volumes on herbs, and none of them were for sale.”

“I cannot believe he read your note at all,” said Damon.

“I remembered what you told me, so I picked an herb from your collection, sorry, it was a very little amount, and wrapped the note around it. I prefaced it with a question to him, asking him if he could identify it.”

Damon went over to the bed with the book and sat down. “You appealed to his vanity. Very resourceful.”

“Thank you. Over the next few days I sent more notes, and still he denied me. Finally I hit upon something. I proposed that if I could answer any questions he put to me regarding angels correctly, he should sell me the book.”

“He couldn’t refuse the temptation to show you up.”

“Of course not! So I rode to the monastery and answered the questions, and then bought the book.”

“How many questions did he ask?”

She rolled her eyes. “A whole list’s worth. I had to study for a week.”

Damon began to chuckle. “My poor Solange. What you went through for me.”

“I am pleased you appreciate it,” she said primly, and then broke down into laughter. “He was quite furious at the end, I’m afraid, but he couldn’t go back on his word. It’s a good thing we are going to grow your own garden.”

Damon placed the book gently aside and then went over to a trunk. “I have something for you as well.”

Her laughter ceased, replaced with a fragile look he couldn’t define. It made him uneasy, as if she were afraid that what he had for her was something unpleasant or frightening. He banished that thought, telling himself he was reading something into nothing. Nevertheless, he approached her slowly, then placed the necklace in her hands. “I hope you like it,” he said awkwardly.

She bent her head and lifted her hands, cupping the delicate chain and pendant in her palms. The pendant was a string of flowers, she thought, but no, more abstract than that, golden petals with rounded, polished garnet hearts, and small pearls separating each. It was a perfect match for the ring he had given her so long ago.

“Merry Christmas,” Damon whispered. He drew her down to the bed with him, nestling her beside him in the warmth, noting the stillness of her features, the glimmerings of tears in her eyes. “What’s wrong, beloved? Does it not please you? I’ll find you something else, it’s not important, don’t cry, my love.…”

“No,” she said, clutching both him and the necklace. “It’s wonderful. It’s perfect. It’s just that”—her voice broke—“it’s just that I love you so much.”

His unease disappeared with her words, replaced
with a humble feeling that was still new to him: his unabashed love for her, reflected in each of her tears, in the warmth of her body curled trustingly next to his. He kissed the top of her head and she turned her lips up to meet his, and they began to celebrate that love in their own fashion.

D
o not,” Damon repeated for the fourth time, “attempt to feed the hounds while I am gone. They are too wild for you yet.”

“I won’t,” Solange sighed.

“You said that before.” He crossed over to where she was leaning against the window, half in sun and half in shadow against the bright sky.

“I won’t attempt to feed
or
water them, my lord,” she amended. “But I do think you are wrong in this, Damon. Those dogs are very willing to be friendly.”

“Nevertheless,” he continued. “Do not—”

“Yes, yes, yes. I won’t do this and I won’t do that. You would think I were a child of five, not a woman of five and twenty.”

This was an argument they had been having with growing frequency over the past week, ever since Damon had been informed that a journey to Ironstag could no longer be put off. A messenger had arrived, informing him that the steward there sent his greetings, and the most humble request that the new lord arrive
soon,
very
soon, he prayed, to sort out the growing problems of an estate with no master in residence.

It was a scant month into the new year, but Damon supposed he had had longer than he deserved in avoiding this duty. He assembled his men with reluctance and prepared to leave as soon as possible in order to return to Wolfhaven, and thus Solange, that much faster.

She wasn’t pleased that he was forbidding her to go. He had tried to explain to her that it was not a pleasure trip. It was going to be rough and rapid, cold and wearing. She had responded with the acrid comment that he must have mistaken her for some feeble thing, to think she could not handle a galloping pace and a brisk wind. Perhaps he had already forgotten, she had continued, that she was the one who had been ready to journey from France to England alone, weather be damned!

He had not forgotten. She had a wild spirit and a brave heart that led her places most rational men would fear to tread. God in heaven, how could he forget that? It was a constant worry of his, that her next escapade would be her last, and there would be no one but himself to blame. He was more than half tempted to bring her along just to keep an eye on her. He would miss her sore enough.

And there was no denying that he could not shake off the strange apprehension that gripped him whenever he thought of her alone, and therefore vulnerable. He told himself it was irrational, worrying over her when it was plain to see she would be well protected while he was gone. But the feeling did not abate.

He did not want to leave her. He was almost willing
to include her on the journey just to eliminate this unpleasant sensation that ate away at his stomach, this acidic anxiety for her.