White Lion's Lady

W
hen she did not face him again, when she stood there in tense silence, her back to him, her slender spine rigid, Griffin slowly, tenderly, placed his hands on her shoulders. He heard her soft intake of breath, felt her fine bones quiver as his palms settled lightly atop her arms. Her head tipped back as he caressed her, tentatively at first, scarcely touching her, almost afraid that if he moved too boldly, that if he clutched her too tightly, the sweet illusion would dissolve like mist in the morning sunshine. He feared that if she knew how badly he wanted her, how tormented he was becoming by the very thought of her, she would pull away and run.

But she did not pull away.

God help him, she did not run.…

England, 1179

Mocking laughter rang in Isabel de Lamere’s head as she fled the enormous outdoor gathering, trying to escape the scene of her humiliation. To think she had actually been excited to attend the summer feast at Droghallow, a demesne held by a friend of her father’s. Eight-year-old Izzy had looked forward to the event for weeks, eager for the chance to don her finest kirtle and make new friends of the children from surrounding shires.

It might have been a fine day indeed, if not for Droghallow’s odious young heir. Sent reluctantly by his father to see that Izzy enjoyed herself, the lad had made mean sport of her instead, ridiculing her awkwardness in front of the other children. Before long, they were all making fun, finding fault in everything about her: her pudgy limbs, her plain face and freckled cheeks, her unruly red hair. Izzy had fled the group before her tears could further condemn her.

Sucking in great gulps of air, she ran down the motte and across the wide plain in no particular direction, stopping only when she found herself utterly breathless, waist-high in the tall grass of the outlying gully. She collapsed to her knees in the cool, shifting reeds, fighting to choke back the sobs that stung her throat and trying to focus on anything else but the knot of hurt the children’s gibes had left in her heart.

Her search for diversion led her teary gaze to a patch of blossoming weeds but a few paces before her. There a butterfly had paused, its pretty yellow wings beating as it drank from a wild daisy. Perhaps she could capture it for a pet, she thought, watching as the pretty insect lit softly on another of the sunny flowers. She got up and crept toward it, but as if it sensed her stalking dangerously near, the butterfly took flight, fluttering off on a zigzagging path toward the edge of the woods.

It took little coaxing for Izzy to follow. She chased after without so much as a backward glance or a thought for her previous troubles, single-minded now in her determination to catch her prize.

The shade of the forest cooled her skin as she stepped into the dense glade, the great oaks and towering conifers sealing her off from the bright light of midday at her back. The rich scents of moss and moist sweet earth surrounded her. Birds rustled in the treetops high above, their trilling chatter drowning out the din of celebration taking place on the castle hill. A woodland creature scurried unseen in the bramble near Izzy’s feet, fleeing from the intruder’s path.

As if being led to another world, Izzy followed her butterfly guide deeper into the thicket, her eyes trained on the tiny beacon of color dancing amid the shadowy gloom of the forest. It hesitated some distance in, alighting on a tall orange flower, drinking in the nectar while Izzy stole up from behind. She sunk her teeth into her lip in utter concentration, so close she could smell the pungent perfume of the bell-shaped bloom. Very slowly, she brought her hands up from her sides, cupping her palms as she homed in on the feasting insect, eager to hold the iridescent beauty if only for a moment. Alas, it flitted off once more.

Izzy gave chase in earnest now, following after on a mad trail that led her first in one direction, then another, but ever deeper into the cool dark woods. Determination made her reckless, made her oblivious of the scrapes her bare
ankles took as she lifted her skirts and crashed through the thickening underbrush. She ducked under spindly outstretched branches and waded into large patches of dew-kissed ferns, pursuing relentlessly until, at last, she lost sight of her quarry.

But it was far worse than that, Izzy realized suddenly. She had completely lost track of where she was.

She stood there for a moment, pivoting her head in search of a path out or some means of getting her bearings. Nothing looked familiar in these woods. The dense foliage swallowed up both sound and light from outside, making it impossible to discern the direction of Droghallow’s castle. Izzy’s heart, which was still pounding hard from the chase, now picked up a more urgent beat.

Heaven help her, she was lost.

I am not afraid
, she told herself. She would simply follow her tracks out of the woods and head back safely to the gathering. Turning, full of new resolve, Izzy took the first step.

It was then that she heard a rustle in the bramble a few paces ahead of her. Twigs snapped under a heavy gait, followed by an animal grunt and a deep snort. Izzy knew she was in danger even before she saw the boar’s wild-eyed gaze and sharp ivory tusks. The bullish, hairy beast blocked her path, sniffing at the air. Evidently deciding she was foe more than friend, the boar curled its lips back and let out a throaty squeal of warning.

Izzy swallowed hard. She had nowhere to go. The trees were thick and many here, knitting her in from both sides; behind her was a sea of tangled underbrush that would surely slow her flight.

The boar advanced, head low, eyes trained on her.

Izzy stood unmoving, staring wide-eyed as the boar inched closer. It sniffed at the ground, growling and snorting. Some subtle movement nearby caught the beast’s attention and for an instant it looked away. Her body tensed,
every fiber urging her to flee regardless of her dubious chances of escape.

It might well be her only hope …

“Don’t move.”

The firm command seemed to whisper from out of the very trees themselves, instantly rooting Izzy’s feet to the ground. “Stand very still,” the voice instructed her. “The slightest motion could make him charge.”

Izzy stood frozen, scarcely able to breathe. She watched the boar’s snout twitch, its beady eyes searching for signs of this newest intruder. She tried not to let her gaze linger on the sight of those awful tusks: curved, lethal slashes of gleaming white against the beast’s swarthiness.

“That’s it. You’re doing very well.” The gentling voice sounded again, closer this time. “Tell me your name.”

“Iz-Izzy,” she stammered in little more than a tremulous whisper.

“I am coming up behind you now, Izzy. Be still. Don’t be frightened.”

But Izzy was terrified. The boar bared its teeth, tossing its head and shrieking in a deep murderous pitch. The horrible noise chased a shiver up Izzy’s spine, leaving her entire body trembling. “Oh, please,” she sobbed quietly. “Please, help me.”

There was a crunch of movement behind her. Did her rescuer near, or was he instead deciding to make his retreat and save his own hide? Izzy could not be sure. In front of her, the boar pawed the mossy ground with a cloven hoof, snout down, the hairs on its back standing up like a bristly, coal-black fin. It gave a quick snort.

Then it charged.

Izzy screamed. She squeezed her eyes shut, waiting to feel the certain, savage impact of the boar’s tusks at any moment. She waited, but death did not come. Instead, she heard the sharp grate of a blade being unsheathed from its scabbard. She felt a rush of cool air as someone leaped in
front of her, sweeping her out of harm’s way with a strong, sure arm.

Twigs snapped under the boar’s enraged attack. A cry rang out, then cut short suddenly. The ground beneath her feet reverberated with a heavy thump, the sound of solid weight hitting soft, moist earth.

Then all went utterly still in the forest.

It took several moments before Izzy dared open her eyes. When she did, she saw the beast that might have killed her lying lifeless on the ground. Standing over it in silent contemplation, bloodied sword in hand, was a golden-haired, lanky boy. He glanced over his shoulder as Izzy approached. Striking green-gold eyes met her astonished gaze.

“You saved my life.” Izzy came up beside him, finding it difficult to keep from staring at the felled beast, which was frightful even in death. “That was the bravest deed I’ve ever seen,” she whispered. “You might have been killed in my place.”

“A man must be willing to face danger,” he told her as he cleaned and resheathed his sword. He turned a solemn gaze on her. “ ’Tis a knight’s duty to protect a lady in need, whatever the risk.”

Izzy blinked up into his youthful, sun-burnished face and felt herself warm from within. She had never been called a lady before. Nor had she ever seen such chivalry demonstrated outside the realm of her imagination. Awestruck and utterly speechless, Izzy took in her champion’s features, from his mane of shoulder-length, wheat-colored hair and leonine green eyes, to his blunt nose and proud, finely cut chin. He was still a youth, perhaps a half-dozen years her senior, but to Izzy’s way of thinking, he possessed all the courage and honor of ten grown men.

He was wholly magnificent, this golden stranger who had just saved her life, and Izzy fell just a tiny bit in love with him.

“Come,” he said, holding out his hand to her. “The woods are a dangerous place for a young maiden alone. I will see you safely out of here and back to the gathering.”