Queen's Heart: An Arthurian Paranormal Romance (Arthurian Hearts Book 2) (9 page)

Startled, I wondered which of us she meant for this task when I felt her hand touch my shoulder and saw her other hand on Des. For his part, Des look more frightened than startled in that first moment before visibly collecting himself. Why should a dog, even a fae one, frighten him so? Or was it Yseult’s hand that had maddened him?

I pressed the advantage, turning to capture the fair fingers away from my shoulder and press them between my own. “Whatever my Lady desires is hers,” I swore. I let the hint of mockery in my voice reveal I knew her quest was not a serious one but a simple game to pass the next few days.

Recovered from whatever demon had attacked him, Des likewise grasped Yseult’s hand in his, though his grip appeared that more of a drowning sailor than a liegeman. “I would bring my Lady a flight of dragons if she preferred.”

Yseult laughed, a sound I’d thought not to hear again. “Let’s start small, shall we? The demon dog today. Save the dragons for my wedding.” Her voice caught a bit at that last and her little joke fell flat as a pall settled quickly over us. In the silence, Yseult withdrew her hands from ours. Feeling her warmth slip away punctuated the chill that pierced my heart at reminder of her impending nuptials.

I bowed my head, only to hear Des rally. “A contest then. To see which of us can bring the hound to bay for our Lady.”

“Just so,” Yseult agreed, relieved to turn the conversation back to lighter fare.

“A contest needs a prize,” I reminded her.

“Agreed. What seems fair return for a legend?” She pretended to think on that while she studied us—Des and I who waited upon her whim like the ardent suitors we would have been in other circumstances. But she knew what she would offer before I even spoke. A thing more precious than rings and jewels.

“I know. To the winner goes a kiss.”

How I could have suffered through those dark days without Drustan and Palomides to distract is beyond me. Mother and Brangien were there at my every beck, of course, offering love and compassion when I sorrowed and a firm hand when I faltered. But so deep was my despair I feared I would drag them down and drown them too.

Drustan and Des, though—as Drustan had taken to calling Palomides who urged me to follow suit in friendship—offered solace Mother and Brangien could not.

Something had changed between them. Where before they were like two stags in rut circling one another and waiting to charge, now they were easy and free with each other. One minute rivals, still to be sure; the next, like two old friends at a tavern table.

“Don’t encourage them to love you,” Mother warned. For their good, I thought she meant. But no, too late I understood her concern had always been for me.

Brangien had gone numb, swooning over Des who ignored her nearly to the point of rudeness. Even when he did acknowledge her, he spoke to her as to a sister.

She and Mother had taken to whispering about me and the men. Perhaps they plotted ways to separate us. “Give me these few days,” I entreated them. “Everything I love will be gone soon enough.”

Why now? I wondered. What had I done that God should turn so on me? I could accept His wisdom in providing a way to peace between Cornwall and Ireland. I could accept being chosen to fulfill that duty. Why was that not sacrifice enough? Why give me not one but two men who moved my heart to song? Who adored me in ways I believed only happened in cradle tales and the great songs of history? Why double my temptation, my grief, my regret? Was this somehow punishment for my future crimes? Or was God truly this sadistic?

Whether or not I would have followed through on temptation was moot. Brangien or Mother was always present with the men and me in the courtyard. And they always came together, Drustan and Des, as though each was too afraid to come alone himself or too jealous for the other to be here with me alone.

Each day they came I reveled more in their adoration, their strength, their beauty. And each day they came brought more delights to love. Songs and stories and small kindnesses such as the flower garland Des wove for my hair and the chain bracelet Drustan fashioned for my wrist.

“Who would you choose?” Brangien pressed me, again and again, desperate for it not to be Des. Desperate for my answer to change.

“There is no choosing. Not now. Not ever. I love them both.”

It was two days before the tourney and I was repeating this to Brangien for perhaps the twentieth time when a reason came at last to me for what God had done. I clasped it close and eagerly, preferring to believe in the generosity of my Lord than in a spiteful God.

I took Brangien’s cold hands in mine. “God doesn’t care that I love them both. In His wisdom He has provided the way that I never
have
to choose and will never disappoint. In this way, too, my wedding to King Mark is a blessing.”

The look of pity in Brangien’s eyes was something I would only remember later. She seemed to know then what it would take even more heartache for me to realize. That sometimes God and Fate play chess. And God doesn’t always win.

Demon dog. I had no doubt we’d been called worse by the men who settled our lands and would eventually drive us out through sheer numbers and their means of civilization they propagated upon the world. But to hear the slur from Yseult’s lips…

Not that she knew any better, of course. She called my kind legend and laughed at the quest she set for Tris and me. A diversion, nothing more. If she truly expected us to bring her anything, it would be some hunter’s stray, escaped from its shackles. Perhaps one of the large pack hounds used to hunt down deer in the northern lands.

I chose not to be offended by ignorance. I would, however, need to be more careful during my Howling Hour as I’d affectionately come to call it. Already I’d changed my patterns, riding Calannog to the stream only a furlong’s distance from Tris’ clearing. There it was I shifted now rather than at the edge of the woods just beyond the castle’s low walls. Fewer eyes to spot me, fewer ears to hear.

I had to change my routine regardless. As the first day of tourney approached, the grounds around Whitehaven Castle filled with tents and pavilions, colorful House pennants fluttering gaily to announce each new camp of guests. As the press of men and activity increased, I would have moved completely from the castle were it not for Yseult. For her I endured battling the throngs to meet with her in the private courtyard. Now, though, I not only shifted by the stream but slept by it as well.

It wasn’t a need for solitude that drove me away. I had grown up part of a pack, wrapped in the many arms of The Wild Hunt. We ate, slept and ran as one. But they were fae and family. I trusted my heart and lives to them.

Men, on the whole, I still could not trust so deep. Only the four in the courtyard—Yseult, Brangien, Queen Isolde and Tris—had earned that honor. Even if two of them schemed my capture.

“And where is my hound?” Yseult demanded with mock indignation the day before the start of the tourney. “Are you not men and smarter than a mere beast?”

“Mere beast?” Tris’ face fell. “My Lady, you wound me. I glimpsed it last evening and it is everything rumored. White coat, red ears and much taller than a wolf. Cannier than one too. It has to be when its prey is not rabbits nor deer nor even sly foxes but men.”

“You really saw it?” Brangien’s eyes went wide and she leaned eagerly toward Tris.

Yseult, too, looked rather astonished.

“I assure you, I’m not given to lies.”

I hid my smirk behind a cough. Was that Drustan the Harper or Tristan the Nephew of Mark making that claim? Though he did speak truth about having seen the hound. Of that I’d made certain.

“It appeared from out of a hollow, rising from its rest like a wight from its barrow.”

Ah, then it was Tris the Storyteller.

“Were you horsed?” Yseult asked.

“On foot, looking for tracks. It paused, as though wishing to be seen, and gave me a long look. The sun had already long set and in the gloaming, with no other light about, I saw its eyes sparkle like”—he gave me a sharp look—“like emeralds in starlight.”

That gave me pause. Eyes of hound and fae had that quality, of course, but did my human eyes? What else of myself was I giving away to him in the night?

“Aren’t demon eyes red?” Brangien whispered. “Like blood?”

“Perhaps Gabriel Hounds aren’t demon-spawned after all.” Tris’ gaze remained steady on me. “Perhaps they are the stuff of angels. Just as Gabriel was. And Michael. Avenging guardians, not hounds of Hell.”

“Did you follow it?” Brangien asked.

“There was nothing to follow. It melted into twilight and disappeared. The ledge on which it stood was rock. No tracks, no trace. Just gone.”

“Gone,” Brangien repeated, rapt in his words, by his voice.

“But not gone.”

It was my turn to look sharply at Tris.

“I heard then,” he continued, “its howl trailing as it ran. Deep into the woods it fled where I dared not follow. Not at night by horseback. Not with the risk to a horse such as—” He caught himself. “Such as one lent me only. And so I come today empty-handed. But there’s still tonight.”

“Bring me another such tale,” Yseult said, “and I’ll be satisfied.”

“Will I still win the kiss?”

She laughed. “I will hear the tale first before I decide. Or perhaps Des has a tale too?”

I shook my head. “None that I may share.”

Her brow furrowed in disappointment and my heart winced. “Not even for a kiss?”

“Will my Lady trust me?” I asked.

She didn’t hesitate. “With my life.”

And yet it was her heart that I desired. “Beyond the north hill there’s a small glen filled with bluebells and shamrocks. Stand in the glen at dusk, just after sunset, and look to the east. If what you see pleases you as much as any tale, then perhaps I can still claim a kiss from your most perfect lips.”

She blushed at the flattery, but pretty words didn’t ease her concern. “Am I to go alone with a camp full of strangers between here and there?”

“Bring who you will, armed as you will. Save for arrows. No bows. It is not a hunt.”

“You know this hound?”

“I do.”

“Then it is a dog. Some hunter’s stray.”

“It would be insulted by that claim. No. It is, however, neither demon nor angel. It is simply fae.”

“But how—? Do you command it?”

I chose my words carefully. “Fae are not commanded by men.”

Tris snorted. “I suggest we leave the questions till after we’ve seen this miracle for ourselves.”

I bowed my head to Tris’ skepticism. Inwardly, though, I smiled. Tris was clearly both annoyed and worried by my claim. And well he should be. Whatever the tourney held and who might win there, this victory would be mine.

“I know where it lairs. It will take me about an hour to call it and then return on foot. We can meet here again after. “

I would need time, too, to move Calannog to the stables so he’d be there when Tris and I both rode out for our final practice bouts. Otherwise, I had little fear of discovery. Few men would ever guess the hound took their form. And fewer still would ever see it.

“You’re competing tomorrow, aren’t you?”

I had almost forgotten Brangien was there. I wasn’t ignorant of the adoration in her eyes, and it made me uncomfortable enough I chose to avoid looking at her as much as possible. She was a pretty enough woman and easy company. Save for that intensity that seemed to grip her every time we came together, I would have enjoyed being with her. As it was…

“Lances tomorrow, swords Friday and melees on Saturday,” I said. None here yet knew Tris would be competing too. For now, that gave me yet another edge in Yseult’s eyes.

Only that edge wasn’t what occupied her thoughts right now. “Mass on Sunday,” she added. “And I leave on Monday. Monday! Drustan, please, sing something long and with a happy ending. Do the impossible. Give me hope where there’s none to be had.”

Her plea battered at my own breaking heart. Hope where there was none to be had was what I needed too. I couldn’t give her hope, but I could give her a few minutes of wonderment and a glimpse at the impossible.