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  “Faugh, you will not take advice today, will you? I am merely—”

  “Advice today will fall on deaf ears,” Milisant cut in. “For I expend all my effort on not bursting into tears after seeing how horrid that man can be.”

  Jhone’s eyes widened. “Are you truly that miserable?”

  “In the space of a few hours, he threatens me with mayhem if I do not dress to his liking, then threatens me with an immediate wedding if I do not join him on this hunt. He means to put me on strings, able to move only at his command. I am supposed to be happy with him?”

  Her sister wisely noted there was more anger in that response than misery. “You are used to doing as you will because Papa has allowed it. A husband will be different—any husband.”

  “Roland would not.”

  “Friends do not think to command friends, but once a friend becomes a husband—Mili, do not deceive yourself that Roland would never try to direct your doings. He would be more lenient, surely, but there would still be times when he would deem it necessary to command you—and expect to be obeyed. Marriage does not make us equal with them. We merely go from one authority to another.”

  “And you can accept that?” Milisant asked with stinging bitterness.

  “How can we not when that is the way it is, the way it has always been, and the way it will always be?”

  And that was the reason Milisant despised the body she had been born into. It should not be that way. She was a grown woman, capable of rational, logical thoughts. She should have a say in directing her own life, the same as men did. Just because they were bigger and stronger did not mean they had any more intelligence or common sense than she did. They only thought they did.

  “Did William treat you thusly during the short time of your marriage to him, ordering you to do this and that just because he could?” Milisant asked curiously.

  Jhone smiled. “Will loved me, and so he did all he could to please me. And there is your key to happiness, to have your husband love you.”

  Milisant snorted. “As if I’d want his love.”

  “That is just it, you do want him to love you, for then he will want to please you, and you will have more freedom that way. Do you not see how easy that would be? And I did not say you have to return that love, merely that you would find it useful if you could have his.”

  “Mayhap if I was forced to wed him, but I still mean to stop that. Papa has allowed me a month ere I must wed. He seems to think my opinion will change about Wulfric during that time, but it will not happen.”

  Jhone sighed. “Nay, it will not, not when you will not even try.”

  Milisant stiffened perceptibly. “You want me to marry him?”

  “Nay, ’tis just that—unlike you, I do not think aught will prevent it from happening, and since it will happen, I want you to find happiness with it. Did Papa actually say he would set the contract aside if you are not satisfied with Wulfric after the month?”

  “Not exactly, but he did say we could then discuss it further.”

  “Do you ask me, Papa is certain you will change your mind, and that is the only reason he said what he did. Keep that in mind, Mili, during this month. It would behoove you to make an effort to see Wulfric in a better light.”

  “The brightest summer day would not supply a light bright enough for that.”

  Jhone tsked. “Surely there is something you could like about him? He is very easy on the eyes, with such a handsome face. His teeth are not rotted, his breath not foul. He is young, his physique not gone to slouch or fat. Verily, there is naught wrong with him in any way—”

  “Until he speaks or raises his fist,” Milisant cut in. “Then I find him as foul as any gutter rat.”

  Jhone shook her head, giving up, though she had one last comment. “You tame the most savage beast to eat out of your hand. What makes you think you could not do the same with yonder knight?”

  Milisant blinked, having never considered such a thing. “Tame him?”

  “Aye, to your liking.”

  “But—he is not an animal.”

  Jhone rolled her eyes. “To hear you describe him, one would think he was.”

  “I would not even know how to go about it—if I cared to, which I do not.”

  “You give the animals what they most need, yes?” Jhone pointed out. “Trust, your compassion, a gentle hand, so they do not fear you.”

  “That man does not need compassion, nor does he need to trust me. What harm could I do him, after all? And ’tis doubtful he would feel a gentle hand if I clouted him on the head with one.”

  Jhone chuckled. “You call that gentle?”

  “Nay, just that he would not feel it. So what does he need that I could tame him with?”

  Jhone shrugged, but then grinned. “William was fond of saying that all a man needs is a good lusty romp in bed to keep him happy.”

  “Jhone!”

  “Well, he did.”

  “And that was all it took to make him happy?” Milisant asked incredulously.

  “Nay, he was happy just being with me, but then he was very much in love. If you do not want Wulfric’s love, then just catering to what will keep him content might suffice to make living with him agreeable.”

  Milisant smiled at her sister. “I appreciate what you are doing, Jhone, truly, and your advice might be beneficial if I was forced to live with him. But I would prefer that not happen.

  To live with a man I could not trust to never raise a fist to me? He has been reared to react with violence. He did it as a boy, he still does it.”

  “But that, too, can be curbed, if you would but gentle him with taming,” Jhone pointed out.

  “Mayhap, yet that is not his only fault. He means to do exactly what you are suggesting I do, tame me to his liking. Think you I can bear such constraints and not soon wither away?”

  “There has to be a middle ground here, Mili.”

  Milisant snorted. “That would entail a measure of equality, yet were you not the one who just pointed out that very lack in any marriage? He does not have to give any ground here. He is the man, his opinions all that matter, his might able to enforce his whims. While I am less than naught, a woman who must concede all. Sweet Jesu, I hate this!”

  Jhone’s expression turned bleak. It was not the first time she had heard how much her sister hated the woman’s body she had been born into. And all those times before, just as now, there was not much she could say to make it easier for Milisant to accept.

  It could not be disputed that a man could direct his own actions—at least most of them. But a woman could direct none of hers. Most women never questioned the Tightness of this, that they were considered property by the church, by their king, by their families—by their husbands. Those who did question it, like Milisant, would never be happy with their lot.

  Fourteen

  They stopped in a small clearing to release the falcons. There would not be many birds for prey at this time of the year, not that many small animals either, for that matter, but whatever there was, the falcons would spot them from their soaring height and swoop down for the kill.

  For a hunter, it was a compelling sight, to witness a regal falcon in action. Though Milisant preferred to hunt using her own skill rather than that of a bird, she could still appreciate the sight of a born predator trained to perfection.

  The Dunburh knights all had their own birds; the visiting knights did not, however. Though many people did travel with their own falcons, Wulfric and his men had not traveled with hunting in mind.

  Most of the nobility, though, men and women both, owned such creatures, and some were so prized and beloved that they were never left at home. In fact, such birds would be regularly brought to table, no matter whose table, and were hand-fed the choicest meats. A prized falcon could usually be found on its owner’s wrist or the back of his chair.

  But like Milisant, Wulfric was there merely to watch. Ironically, she found herself watching him instead of the falcons in fli
ght.

  She wished Jhone had not pointed out how handsome he actually was, for she found that she could not disagree with that fact. The lines of his face were clearly defined and clearly masculine, even though he adhered to the old Norman fashion of keeping his cheeks and jaw smooth of hair. King John sported a beard, and most nobles followed the fashion of their king, but not Wulfric.

  His hair was a bit longer than usual as well; actually, was as long as her own. This made her feel somewhat—strange. Though she did not begrudge him such a thick mane of lustrous, raven dark locks, she found herself wishing her own hair were a bit longer—actually a lot longer, which was absurd really.

  He looked quite regal, sitting on that fine black stallion, his voluminous gray cloak spread back over the animal, halfway down its tail. Even when he was relaxed, Wulfric’s posture was straight, emphasizing the broadness of his shoulders, the trimness of his waist.

  Jhone had spoken true; there was no excess flesh on his body. She had not mentioned the muscles, though. Verily, he had those aplenty. They rippled beneath his black tunic. They were prominent on his long legs. Even his knee-high boots seemed too tight because of them.

  There really was naught about him that was not pleasing to look upon. It was too bad that he was a typical brutish knight, and that she expected much better than that for a husband. She knew she was being unrealistic in wanting a man who was violent only on the battlefield, but there it was, that was what she wanted—and what she could have if she could have Roland instead of Wulfric de Thorpe.

  She had stared at Wulfric too long. He must have sensed it, for his dark blue eyes fixed on her suddenly and stayed there, as if he were now taking stock of her as she had done to him. It gave her a funny feeling to think so, and an even stranger feeling when he did not approach, just continued to gaze at her intently.

  She tried to look away but could not. His gaze was too magnetic. She barely felt the cold, felt warm actually … That very fact chilled her and had her wrapping her cloak tighter about her body, an action that caused him to smile, as if he knew he was responsible for her discomfort.

  And then he was riding toward her. She was only surprised that he had waited this long to approach her, after he had ordered her presence in the hunting party—then proceeded to ignore her as soon as they left the castle.

  It took him a few moments to reach her side, since she had kept the greatest distance between them that she could manage while still being considered present. But reaching her, he meant to keep his distance from Stomper. His stallion had other ideas, however, and headed straight for Milisant’s hand for a gentle nose scratch, despite Wulfric’s attempt to jerk him away from her.

  She heard him swear when he could not control his animal, then, “Jesu, what have you done to my horse?”

  “Naught but make friends with him,” she said, smiling at the stallion as she scratched him. Stomper merely tossed his head to the side for a look, to make sure naught was threatening her.

  “’Tis witchly, your way with animals.”

  Milisant snorted, then wished she had not. Perhaps it could benefit her if Wulfric thought her a witch. He might not be overly harsh with her if he thought she might get even with him in some unnatural way. The thought was a pleasant one.

  “The animals I befriend simply know I will never hurt them. Does your stallion think the same of you?”

  “Why would I hurt him?”

  “You just did,” she said pointedly, “in trying to get him away from me.”

  He flushed red, then scowled. “Lady, you do try my patience.”

  She nodded thoughtfully, then smiled. His scowl grew darker. Her smile got brighter. Mayhap it was not wise, to provoke him, even subtly, but she simply could not resist the opportunity.

  He tried again to get his stallion to move back, less harshly, but still without success. Finally he ordered her, “Release your hold on him.”

  “I am not holding him,” she replied calmly. “Mayhap if you apologized for hurting him, and showed him that you care about him, he might obey you.”

  To that Wulfric growled, dismounted, and led the stallion some distance away on foot. Milisant managed to keep from chuckling as she watched his difficulty, but she did call out, “Do not forget the apology.”

  He ignored her—at least, he did not glance back at her to reply. He did say a few words to his horse, though, which she was unable to hear. Likely threats and dire warnings about not embarrassing him again.

  After a few more minutes, he remounted and tried once again to approach her. He just made sure he kept his distance this time, and kept his stallion turned partially away, so the animal would have trouble noticing her.

  This worked, and the knight was able to relax somewhat. Which was why Milisant knew, to the second, when he realized that she was looking down on him, even at the extra distance between them.

  Due to the huge size of the destrier, Wulfric’s greater height still did not put them at eye level. It was close, but not quite enough. And it was so very obvious that he did not like having to look up at her, even if only a few inches.

  Perversely, Milisant straightened up in her saddle, adding a few more inches. Wulfric, seeing this, made a sound of disgust and turned his stallion about to leave her.

  Then she gasped in pain.

  It was completely involuntary. She certainly would never have drawn him back to her intentionally. It was merely her surprise at hearing the arrow as it neared her, then feeling the sting of it on her upper arm. It only nicked her, continued on to embed in a nearby tree, yet she was still staring incredulously at the blood appearing on her cloak as Wulfric turned back to her.

  His reaction to seeing the blood was a bit faster than her own. He had her off of Stomper and buried in the cocoon of his chest, arms, and cloak within seconds. His shout of “To arms!” swiftly followed, to bring his knights to him.

  She was trying, in vain, to find an opening in the voluminous cloak wrapped about her, so she could at least get her head out of it. No luck. And then the stallion was galloping away, so she gave up trying.

  She was feeling a bit dizzy as well, and her efforts had made that worse. And she was also noticing that the sting on her arm was getting increasingly more painful with each jarring bounce of that wild ride back to the castle.

  By the time the drawbridge was reached, Milisant had lost all feeling. For the first time in her life, she fainted, not because of the pain, which she could withstand better than most, but from blood loss. Since she was hidden under Wulfric’s cloak, neither of them could see just how much blood she had continued to lose.

  Fifteen

  “What is taking the castle leech so long?” Wulfric asked.

  “Mayhap the fact that I did not send for him,” Jhone said quietly in answer.

  “That should have been the first thing you did when you arrived. See to it now.”

  Milisant tried to open her eyes to see them, knew they were standing nearby, but simply could not muster the strength. Her senses were still spinning dizzily. There was a ringing in her ears that made hearing difficult. She needed to sleep, she knew, to regain her strength, but the burning sting on her arm kept her from succumbing.

  “Do you bring him, I will bar the door,” Jhone told the knight. “He can do naught for Mili that I cannot do. Faugh, look at her! She has lost so much blood already, she cannot afford to lose any more.”

  “Nonsense—”

  “Think what you like, but it has been our experience, my sister’s and mine, that leeching may do fine for certain illnesses and infections to draw out the poisons, but for simple injuries and clean wounds, we have never seen them improve the condition. More like, the bloodsucking they do worsens it. Besides, my sister hates leeches and would not thank you for being responsible for bringing them, when she is too weak to tear them off of her.”

  “I do not seek her thanks, merely her recovery,” Wulfric said stiffly.

  “Then leave me be to tend to her. Do y
ou wish to be helpful, tell my father that it is a simple wound and Mili should be fine after a few days of rest.”

  A moment of silent indecision, then, “You will inform me if aught changes with her condition?”

  “Certainly.”

  “I wish to see her when she awakens.”

  “As soon as she agrees to see you.”

  There was a snort, then the order, “I do not ask for her permission. Summon me.”

  The door closed behind him rather loudly, proof of how annoyed Jhone had just made him. Milisant still could not manage to get her eyes open, to make sure he was gone. But she did manage to part her lips.

  “Do not … summon him,” she whispered.

  Jhone’s gentle hand came immediately to her brow, and her voice was soothing by her ear. “Shhh, you intend to sleep for nigh a week. He would not be so churlish as to disturb your sleep.”

  “Would … he … not?”

  Jhone tsked. “I will see that he does not. Now, brace yourself. ’Tis lucky you did not wake for the stitching, but I still need bandage you.” “How many?”

  “It took six stitches,” Jhone said, understanding the question. “I was careful to leave no puckers.”

  Milisant would have smiled if it would not have cost so much effort. Jhone would hover over her until she was well, she did not doubt.

  She was almost asleep when it occurred to her to ask, “Did they find him?”

  Again Jhone did not need to ask who. “Nay, not yet. Papa was directing the search when I left the clearing. He is furious, Mili, and rightly so, that one of our hunters could be so careless.”

  “’Twas no hunter … or accident,” Milisant said as the last of her strength gave out. She slurred the rest. “Someone wants to see me dead.”

  “Wulfric has placed guards outside the door—nay, do not look alarmed. ’Tis not to keep you in, but to keep everyone else out.” Jhone was whispering, as if those guards could hear her and would be reporting every word. “He took to heart what you said.”

  Milisant sat up in bed, where she had spent the last three days. They were beneficial. If not for the pain on her arm, she was feeling almost normal.