For a moment the sight of the silver-and-smoke knight left Clare as speechless as it had the villagers in the street below. A desperate sinking sensation seized her stomach as she realized that she was undoubtedly looking at one of her suitors.
Too big, she thought. Much too large. And too dangerous. Definitely the wrong man.
The gray knight rode at the head of a company of seven men. The group was made up of knights, men-at-arms, and one or two servants. Clare gazed curiously at the warriors who rode behind the great gray war machine. She had seen very few fighting men in her time, but she knew enough to be aware that most of them favored strong, brilliant hues in their attire.
These men all followed the fashion of their leader. They were dressed in somber shades of gray and brown and black, which somehow made them seem all the more lethal.
The new arrivals were very close now. They filled the narrow street. Banners snapped in the breeze. Clare could hear the squeak and glide of steel on leather. Harness and armor moved together in well-oiled rhythms.
The heavily shod horses came forward like the huge engines of battle that they were. They moved at a slow, relentless pace that underscored their power and made certain that all those present had ample opportunity to view the spectacle.
Clare stared at the strange sight with the same degree of amazement as everyone else. She was vaguely aware of low-voiced whispers rising and falling across the crowd in a wave that had its starting point at the small stone cell that housed the village recluse.
Fascinated by the mounted men in the street, Clare ignored the low murmurs at first. But as the whispers grew in volume, they finally drew her attention.
“What are they saying, William?”
“I don’t know. Something about a hound, I think.”
Clare glanced over her shoulder toward the cell, which was built into the convent wall. Beatrice the recluse lived there, having chosen to become an anchorite nearly ten years earlier. According to the dictates of the religious path she followed, she never emerged from her cell.
As a professional recluse, Beatrice was supposed to dedicate herself entirely to prayer and meditation, but the truth was, she devoted herself to village gossip. She was never short of that commodity because during the day nearly everyone passed by her window. Many stopped to talk or seek advice. Whenever someone paused to visit, Beatrice dealt with that individual the way a milkmaid dealt with a cow. She drained her visitor for every tidbit of information.
Beatrice also performed the offices of her calling, which included offering advice to all who came to her window, with great zeal Not infrequently she offered advice even though none had been requested. She favored predictions of dark foreboding and was quick to warn against impending doom and disaster.
Occasionally she was right.
“What are they saying?” Margaret called up to Clare.
“I’m not certain yet.” Clare strained to hear the rising tide of whispers. “William says it’s something about a hound. I think the recluse started the talk.”
“Then we had best disregard it,” Margaret said.
“Listen,” William interrupted. “You can make out the words now.”
The crest of the whispers raced forward, riding the sea of villagers.
“… hellhound:’
“They say he be a hellhound from someplace in the south. I did not catch the name …”
“The Hellhound of Wyckmere?”
“Aye, that’s it, Wyckmere. He is known as the Hellhound of Wyckmere. ‘Tis said he carries a great sword named the Window of Hell”
“Why do they call it that?”
“Because it is likely the last view a man has before he dies beneath the blade.”
William’s eyes widened. He shivered with the thrill of the whispered words and promptly reached into his belt pouch for another handful of gingered fruit. “Did you hear that, Lady Clare?” he asked around a mouthful of currants. “The Hellhound of Wyckmere.”
“Aye.” Clare noticed that several people in the crowd crossed themselves as the news reached them, but the glitter of awestruck excitement did not fade from their expressions. If anything, she realized with dismay, the villagers appeared more enthralled than ever by the oncoming knights.
When all was said and done, Clare thought, her people were an ambitious lot. They were no doubt envisioning the prestige that would devolve upon them if they were to gain a lord who wore the trappings of a fearsome reputation.
A reputation was well and good, Clare reflected, unless one was obliged to marry it.
“The Hellhound of Wyckmere,” William breathed with a reverence that by rights ought to have been reserved for a prayer or a holy vision. “He must be a very great knight, indeed.”
“What I would like to know,” Clare said, “is where are the others?”
“What others?”
Clare scowled at the approaching riders. “There are supposed to be at least three other knights from which I shall choose a husband. These men all appear to ride beneath one man’s banner.”
“Aye, well, this Hellhound of Wyckmere is nearly as large as three men put together,” William said with great satisfaction. “We don’t need any others.”
Clare narrowed her eyes. The Hellhound was not that big, she thought, but he was certainly formidable-looking. He was not at all of the moderate proportions she had requested.
The gray knight and his entourage were almost in front of her now. Whatever else could be said, the new arrivals were providing a wondrous entertainment for all present. It would be interesting to see if the other suitors could improve upon this display of steel and power.
She was so caught up in the unusual sights and sounds of the event that she barely noticed another ripple of whispers as it washed through the crowd. She thought she heard her own name spoken, but she paid no attention. As the lady of Desire, she was accustomed to having her people discuss her. It was the way of things.
Margaret peered up at her. “Clare, you had best return immediately to your hall. If you stay up here on the wall, you will not be able to get back in time to receive this grand knight in a proper manner.”
“‘Tis too late now, madam.” Clare raised her voice to be heard over the din of voices and thudding hooves. “I shall have to wait until they have gone past before I can make my way through the street. I am trapped here until the crowd has dispersed. Joanna and the servants will see to the business of greeting our visitors.”
“What are you saying?” Margaret chided. “Joanna and the servants can hardly provide the sort of welcome the future lord of Desire will be expecting.”
Clare turned her head and grinned down at Margaret. “Ah, but we do not know if this gray knight will be the future lord of Desire, do we? In fact, I think it highly unlikely. From what I can see, he is not at all the right size.”
“Size, my child, is the least of it,” Margaret muttered.
The thunder of hooves and the rattle of harness ceased abruptly. An astonished gasp from William and the sudden hush that had fallen over the throng brought Clare’s head back around very swiftly.
She was astonished to see that the troop of mounted men, which had been making slow, stately progress through the center of the village, had came to a complete halt right in the middle of the street.
Directly in front of where she sat on the wall.
Clare swallowed uneasily when she realized that the gray knight was looking straight at her. Her first instinct was to slide back over the edge of the wall and drop discreetly out of sight into the garden.
But it was too late to flee. She would have to brave it out.
Clare was suddenly acutely conscious of her dirt-stained gown and windblown hair. Her palms grew moist as she gripped the edge of the sun-warmed stone wall.
Surely he wasn’t looking at her.
He could not be looking at her.
There was no reason she should have caught the attention of the gray knight. She was just a woman sit
ting on a wall watching the spectacle along with the rest of the villagers.
But he was looking at her.
An odd stillness settled over the scene as the silver-and-smoke knight gazed thoughtfully at Clare for an endless moment. It seemed to her that even the very breeze had ceased. The leaves of the trees in the convent garden hung motionless. Not a sound could be heard, not even the snap of a banner.
Clare looked into shadowed, unreadable eyes framed by a steel helm, and prayed that the Hellhound of Wyckmere would take her for one of the villagers.
At some unseen command, the great dappled gray stallion started toward the convent wall. Those who stood in the beast’s way instantly melted aside to clear a path. Everyone’s eyes went straight to Clare.
“He’s coming over here, my lady,” William squeaked. “Mayhap he recognizes you.”
“But we have never met.” Clare’s fingers tightened on the stone. “He cannot know who I am.”
William opened his mouth to say something else but closed it abruptly again when the massive war-horse halted directly in front of Clare. The gray knight’s gaze was level with her own.
Clare looked deeply into brilliant, unsmiling eyes that were the color of smoky rock crystal. She saw the cool, calculating intelligence that blazed in the depths of the crystal and knew in that moment that the gray knight was aware of her identity.
Clare held her breath, trying frantically to think of a clever way to deal with the situation. She had never faced such an awkward moment in her life.
“I seek the lady of Desire,” the knight said.
A curious tremor flashed through Clare at the sound of his voice. She did not know why she reacted so strangely to it, because it certainly suited him. It was low and dark and vibrant with controlled power.
She clutched at the stone in order to keep her fingers from trembling. Then she raised her chin and straightened her shoulders. She was mistress of this manor and she intended to conduct herself in a manner that befitted that title, even if she was facing the most formidable-looking man she had ever met in her life.
“I am she whom you seek, sir. Who are you?”
“I am Gareth of Wyckmere.”
Clare remembered the whispers. The Hellhound of Wyckmere. “I have heard that you are called by another name;”
“I am called by many other names, but I do not answer to all of them.”
There was a clear warning in the words. Clare heard it and decided to fall back upon the safety of good manners. She inclined her head in a civil fashion.
“I bid you welcome to Desire, Sir Gareth. Allow me to thank you on behalf of the entire village for the fine entertainment you have provided for us this day. We are rarely fortunate enough to be allowed to view such grand spectacles here in our small village.”
“I am pleased that you are satisfied with what has transpired thus far, my lady. I trust you will be equally pleased with the remainder of the performance.” Gareth released the reins, raised his mailed hands, and removed his helm.
He did not glance over his shoulder nor give any signal that Clare could see. He merely held the gleaming helm out to the side. Another knight rode forward at once, took the steel helm from Gareth’s hand, and retreated back to join the other warriors.
Clare studied Gareth with a curiosity she could not completely conceal, even for the sake of good manners. This was one of the men who had been sent to vie for her hand, after all. She was surprised to discover that something deep within her was oddly satisfied by the look of him.
He was definitely too large, but somehow that glaring fault did not seem quite as alarming now as it had when she had composed her recipe for a husband. The reason was obvious. In spite of his size and obvious physical power, something told her that this was not a man who would rely on brute strength alone to obtain his ends.
Gareth of Wyckmere was obviously a trained knight, well versed in the bloody arts of war, but he was no thick-skulled fool. Clare could see that much in his face.
The sunlight gleamed on his heavy, shoulder-length mane of near-black hair. There was that about his fierce, stony features which reminded Clare of the great cliffs that protected her beloved isle. In spite of the intelligence that gleamed in his eyes, she sensed that he could be implacable and unyielding.
This was a man who had fought for everything he wanted in life.
He watched Clare as she examined him. He did not appear to object to her scrutiny. He simply sat waiting calmly and patiently for judgment in a manner which suggested that the verdict did not concern him. It struck her then that he had his own ends and he intended to achieve them regardless of her decisions and conclusions.
That realization worried Clare. The Hellhound of Wyckmere would not be easily denied once he had determined upon a goal.
But then, she could be just as determined in the pursuit of her own goals, Clare reminded herself. For all intents and purposes she had been in command of this isle and everything on it since the age of twelve.
“Well, my lady?” Gareth said. “Are you satisfied with your future lord?”
Her future lord? Clare blinked in amazement. She did not know whether to laugh or scold him for his breathtaking arrogance. She settled on a polite but distinctly cold smile.
“I cannot say,” Clare murmured. “I have not yet met the other candidates for the position.”
“You are mistaken, madam. There are only two, myself and Sir Nicholas of Seabern.”
Clare’s lips parted in shock. “But that’s not possible. I requested a selection of at least three or four knights.”
“We do not always get what we request in this life, do we?”
“But you do not meet any of my requirements, sir,” Clare sputtered. “I mean no offense, but you are not precisely the right size. And you appear to be very much a man of war, not a man of peace.” She glowered at him. “Furthermore, I do not gain the impression that you are of a cheerful temperament.”
“My size I can do nothing about. And ‘tis true that I have been well trained in the art of war, but I swear to you that I seek a quiet, peaceful life. As for my temperament, who is to say? A man can change, can he not?”
“I’m not at all certain of that,” Clare said warily.
“I can read.”
“Well, that is something, I suppose. Nevertheless—”
“My lady, it has been my experience that we all must learn to make do with what is granted to us.”
“No one knows that better than I,” Clare said icily. “Sir, I shall be blunt. You have come a long way and given us a fine show. I do not wish to disappoint you, but in all fairness, I fear I must tell you that you are very unlikely to qualify for the position of lord of Desire. Mayhap it would be best if you and your men left on the same boats that brought you here.”
“Nay, lady. I have waited too long and come too far. I am here to claim my future. I have no intention of leaving.”
“But I must insist—”
There was a soft, deadly sigh of sound. Gareth’s sword appeared in his hand as if by magic. The swift, terrifying movement brought a collective gasp from the crowd. Clare halted in the middle of her sentence. Her eyes widened.
Sunlight danced and flashed on steel as Gareth held the blade aloft.
Once again everything and everyone seemed to freeze into utter stillness.
It was young William who managed to shatter the spell.
“You must not hurt my lady,” he yelled at Gareth. “I will not let you hurt her.”
The crowd was as stunned by William’s boldness as it was at the sight of the drawn blade.
“Hush, William,” Clare whispered.
Gareth looked at William. “You are very brave, boy. There are those who flee in fear when they gaze at the Window of Hell.”
It was clear that William was frightened, but he wore an expression of stubborn determination. He glared at Gareth. “Do not hurt her.”
“I will not hurt her,” Gareth said. “Indeed,
as her future lord, I am well pleased to see that she has had such a bold protector to watch over her until my arrival. I am in your debt, lad.”
William’s expression became one of uncertainty.
Gareth reversed the sword with another lightning’ swift movement. He extended the blade, hilt first, toward Clare in an unmistakable gesture of homage and respect. He waited, along with everyone else, for her to take hold of the weapon.
A murmur of astonishment and approval swept through the crowd. Clare heard it. She sensed William’s barely contained excitement. The expectant tension in the atmosphere was overwhelming.
To refuse the sword would be a move fraught with risk. There was no telling how Gareth would react or what his mounted warriors might do to retaliate. They could destroy the entire village in a matter of minutes.
To accept the blade, however, was to give Gareth and everyone else cause to believe that his suit would be favorably received.
It was a trap. A rather neat one, Clare had to admit, but definitely a trap. It was a snare with only two exits, both of which were dangerous. And it had been very deliberately set. But then, she had known from the first that this was a man who used his wits as well as his strength to gain his ends.
Clare looked down at the hilt of the polished length of steel. She saw that the pommel was set with a large chunk of rock crystal. The cloudy gray stone appeared to be filled with silvery smoke from unseen fires. Suddenly Clare knew whence the blade had taken its name. It did not require much imagination to envision the crystal in the pommel as a window into hell.
Clare met Gareth’s steady gaze and saw that the smoky crystal was a fine match for his eyes.
Knowing that there was no way out of the trap, Clare chose one of the only two options available. Slowly she reached out and grasped the hilt of the sword. The weapon was so heavy that she had to use both hands to hold it.
A great cry of jubilation went up from the crowd. William grinned. Cheers filled the air. Armor clashed and rang as the mounted knights and men-at-arms brandished their lances and struck their shields.