The Mark of the Vampire Queen (18 page)

Lyssa's gaze shifted to young John, sitting on the far side of Elijah. The shape of the child's small skull, his ridiculously delicate neck. Leaning forward, she placed a hand on Elijah's shoulder. He turned as she moved, telling her he was staying well aware of her whereabouts, but he accepted the touch, met her gaze. She nodded, easing some tension in his shoulders as he received and understood her unspoken gesture. No, she didn't blame him at all for being over-protective.

“But she was bought by a knight,” the man in the arena continued. “A knight with a true heart so pure, he was able to heal this noble steed with patience and love.” The narrator paced the horse forward, deliberate, slow steps, stopping just a nose from the arena wall. He pitched his voice lower, but it still carried to all present. “For you see, this man didn't mark time the way we do. ‘Do I have time to do this today? Can I get this done before I'm old and gray? Wouldn't I rather be doing something else?'”

She glanced surreptitiously at Jacob. He was leaning forward, his body language saying he obviously recognized the horse in the story, but she knew he didn't know all that was planned yet. Her intuitive knight, so clever at reading other people, so oblivious to things about himself.

“He measured deeds, not time. And so he healed her heart, a priceless gift to us all. Unfortunately, when one deed is done, it's time to move on to the next. So in time he left her in loving hands to undertake his next quest.”

The knight backed the horse now, crabwalking her to a left-facing profile. The lights around the bleachers disappeared and the spotlights turned, focusing on the entrance to the large pavilion tent. The baritone voice reverberated out of the darkness.

“She has become the star of our show. Though she bears the scars of her trials, we feel she is more beautiful now than before. She brings light into our souls just by existing.”

Two knights came out of the tent entrance, each one bearing a length of ribbon in their hands that threaded back through the closed curtain.

“My lady…”

Lyssa found Jacob's hand, squeezed it.

“Tonight, Boudiceaa's knight has come home. She will bear no man's hands on her while he is present, so her usual rider has stepped aside. You are all witness to a spectacular, once-in-a-lifetime experience. We call this knight from the stands to take his place among our ranks again.”

One of the two men holding the ribbons pushed back his visor, showing a broad grinning face. “Aye, enough of this maudlin nonsense,” he shouted out. “I, Sir George of Canterbury, want to see if he's grown soft. I intend to kick his arse.”

The children burst out laughing, but quickly quieted as the narrator boomed out, “Boudiceaa, come find your master.”

Tears pricked Lyssa's eyes at Jacob's expression, something she could detect even in the darkness. She'd never been able to surprise Rex with a gift like this. Jacob's speechless amazement made her feel a way she wasn't sure she'd ever felt before. She wasn't sure if she wanted to embrace him, or run off where he couldn't find her to compose herself.

In the end, she simply watched with the others as another damsel he'd saved erupted onto the field to the astonished cries of the audience. She was sure most of them had never seen such an overwhelming sight in their lives. An Andalusian galloping full tilt, mane flying, tail flowing. The ribbons George and the other knight held were attached to her light halter, so as she galloped past, they snapped free, fluttering back toward them.

Centuries of breeding had created the almost unreal beauty of the premedieval warhorse. Though the Andalusians eventually had been replaced with breeds more capable of carrying a knight in full armor, she was a treasure for the lighter garb of modern Faire knights.

To Jacob she was wholly beautiful, despite the scar she bore across her nose and that had taken her eye. There was also a long scar running down her back haunch, results of the cruelty that had brought her to auction. In teaching her to trust him, she'd broken his arm, left teeth marks in his shoulder, clipped his temple with a hoof. He'd made so many trips to the emergency room during her training that Terry had threatened to put a gun to her head and end her misery and hatred. But Jacob had prevailed.

Aching for his brother, confused by the emptiness in his heart he hadn't known how to fill until he'd met Lyssa, the mare had been priceless to Jacob. By giving him the chance to save her, she'd rescued him in return.

She unerringly headed in his direction as the lights were restored to the bleacher area. A performer and also female, she deliberately slowed down to maximize the effect of the fluid gait, crested arch and flowing tail. Murmurs of awe swept over the children and parents like a wave. But when she reached the wall she lifted her head, snorted, put up a hoof and banged the lower boards, causing squeals from those seated on the other side.

“You have to go to her,” Lyssa murmured. “I would never stand between such a love.”

Jacob turned, placed his forehead against hers.

You knew I needed this.

I love you. I wanted you to know what that means to me, no matter what happens between now and the end of it.

His eyes darkened with emotion. Cradling her face in both hands, he kissed her fair brow. When he rose, holding on to her hand as long as he could, the knights shouted their approval. It got the crowd started as well. Jacob noted many of the Faire players from the pavilions had come down and were now lining the arena wall to the left of the bleachers.

It was the easiest thing in the world to simply put a hand on the wall and vault stylishly over it. He was glad the boots he was no longer familiar with didn't trip him up and shame him. In a blink, Bou was on him. He embraced her, pressing his face into her muscular neck. When he lifted his head he found that Terry, the other knight holding a ribbon, had dismounted and was grinning at him from a foot away. He handed his reins to a squire who trotted his horse off the field.

“So I hear you've become a kept man these days.” Terry raised his voice for the benefit of the audience. “I'll just go keep your fair lady company while you're impressing us—or not.”

Jacob gave him a narrow look. “Behave yourself with her.”

Terry laughed and stepped close enough to grip his shoulder. A fierce look crossed his countenance. “It's good to see you again, Jacob. Happy birthday.”

Jacob glanced at Lyssa, sitting in her blue and silver colors among a sea of mostly brown faces. One or two children had moved close enough to finger her skirt. After assuring their chaperone or parent it was quite all right, she was touching the head of one little girl with an assortment of pigtails. His gracious lady. When it suited her.

Bou butted him in the chest, nearly knocking him down while the children giggled. His heart swelled at the bright, healthy look in her eye. Terry and his troupe had cared well for her, continued to nurture her spirit to even greater heights, as he knew they would.

 

When Terry came to sit by her, Lyssa made room for him with a welcoming nod.

“Look at some of my newbies.” He nodded toward the squires and a couple of the knights leaning on the wall who weren't part of this tournament. “They're wondering who the hell this interloper is, taking Martin's regular ride. They've heard stories about him of course, but they'll expect him to be rusty, or not as familiar with the moves.”

Terry wore his sandy brown hair in a Roman style, short at the nape, his face clean shaven. His hands were callused and gnarled from hundreds of camp breakdowns. In his twinkling hazel eyes, Lyssa saw a man who loved where he was and what he did. Who made no apologies for preferring the romanticized past to the jaded present. He grinned as the horse bent one knee to Jacob, inviting him to mount. Lyssa caught her breath as Jacob took hold of a handful of mane and swung up on her bare back in one lithe move, canting her into a pretty circle, his movements flowing easily into hers. Not too long ago, she thought she'd like to see him on a horse. Her reaction to it, body, heart and soul, was as absurdly overwhelmed as she'd expected it to be.

“Martin rides her well, but you can see it's the difference between day and night. You should have seen her when she came here. The most foul-tempered and frightened bitch I'd ever met, of any species. No one could handle her. Only Jacob knew her soul was still underneath all that. Looking back, I think she knew she could trust him the minute he touched her. She just had to knock him around a bit to prove it was her idea.”

Yes,
Lyssa thought.
It's just that way.

Jacob leaned forward, spoke in the mare's ear in a loud mock whisper, mindful of his audience, falling into the mannerisms of a natural performer as though he'd never left.

“See her? That's my lady.” The horse's ear swept back. “Want to show off for her a bit, make me look impressive?”

Leaning back, he tossed Lyssa a grin before he uttered a command in Spanish. The horse began to perform a high prancing walk. When he changed the command she moved sideways at that gait, and then back again, forming a cross. The spotlight returned, zeroing in on Jacob and Bou.

The mare paused, all muscles quivering. Jacob let the anticipation build. Lyssa saw the children as well as their chaperones come to the edge of their seats.

He barked a one-syllable command. Boudiceaa leaped straight up in the air, kicking out her back and front hooves at once as the children cried out in reaction. When she landed gracefully, she turned in another circle, bowing her arched head, tossing her mane as if well pleased with herself and the applause.

“Do it again,” several children called out, making Jacob laugh and comply twice more, earning a dramatic whinny from Boudiceaa on the last jump.

“That's a battle move,” he explained to the amazed group. “Knights used it to help them fight in close quarters. The horse was a soldier, too.”

Looking toward Terry, he called out, “Are you still doing open jousting, or have you become complete pussies, lugging around that tilt barrier everywhere?”

“I can't wait to see George knock you on your arse,” Terry responded dryly as the children and parents responded with laughter and oohs. Glancing at Lyssa, he spoke loudly. “George hits like a battering ram, my lady. I'm afraid there will be nothing but pieces left. You should pick yourself out another knight.”

The kids offered appropriate jeers to that remark as the floodlights came back on, displaying the full sandy arena again. George trotted his horse forward, impressing them with a half-rearing motion where his horse appeared to wave his front hooves mockingly in Bou's direction. “What say you, skinny Irishman? I think your gentle bones might break if I knock you off that pretty horse.”

Jacob snorted, but couldn't help but grin at George's broad wink. When he turned Bou to accept a lance from one of the squires, he glanced over to see Lyssa smiling, leaning against Terry's arm as he whispered to her.

“My lord, I suggest you get your lips away from my lady's ear, or perhaps George will not be the only thing impaled today,” he declared. Terry grinned, lifting a brow.

“My thoughts were running along those very lines. She's quite fair. I can't imagine you're anything but an annoyance to her. You think I'm afraid of your tiny lance?”

“No. I think you're afraid of your wife.”

Laughter at that from the adults. Terry's wife, the charming and not-at-all-worried Beatrice, still managed to give him a threatening look from where she stood with the other members of the troupe, hands on her hips, a fetching pose in the tavern maid garb she wore. She shifted her attention to Jacob and gave him a smile, a welcoming and warm embrace itself. With lines along her attractive face and her auburn hair pulled back, she looked as maternal and lovely as he remembered her.

“Your lady has been telling me she is willing to give the jeweled net in her hair to the man who wins the joust today,” Terry announced.

“My lady, you best tie the favor to my arm now, for I can tell you I'm the best of this sordid lot.” This from George.

“George has been hit numerous times running the quintain,” Jacob pointed out. “It explains why he has delusions of grandeur.” Which of course led to the children, now actively part of the game, calling out for an explanation of the quintain.

While George was handling that, Lyssa saw a fifth man come onto the field. He was dressed more like a wild Pict than an English knight, for he wore only a pair of breeks and no shirt on his upper body, unless one counted the Celtic tattoos on his well-developed biceps. He brought his mount up to the rail, so close that the gelding's large head reached over and his velvety lips were in range of the children. They squealed and shrank back, but at a calming word from Beatrice, they reached out tentative hands to touch the soft nose.

“Warrick,” Terry murmured to her. “God's gift to women. Too many of them don't disabuse him of the notion because of his fair looks.”

Lyssa hid a smile. The narrator with the baritone, who Terry whispered was called Elliott, had picked up after the quintain explanation and was now on to another history lesson to entertain the audience while the field was being set. “Does anyone know how the giving of the favor came about?”

“I shall explain it,” Warrick boldly asserted. Quite deliberately, he shifted his attention to Lyssa. She cocked a brow, amused as he began to speak as if he was talking to her alone. Jacob was a few paces away, and he and Bou had nearly matching expressions of disgust, entertaining the audience. She wondered how he'd trained the horse to do that.

“A knight could fight in honor of a nobleman's wife, perhaps even his liege lord's woman. If he won, he could treat her as his own wife…for one night.”

“A sanctioned form of adultery,” Lyssa noted in a low voice to Terry. Elijah shot her a glance over his shoulder, humor flitting through his dark gaze.