Blythe Gifford - His Border Bride

‘You’re nae my mither.’

Did they all think to defy her once tainted by Fitzjohn? ‘No, but I, not your mother, am mistress of this castle.’ And yet she continued to make mistakes. Mistakes she would never have made if her mother had been alive to teach her. ‘Now go!’

Euphemia did, throwing Fitzjohn a sunny smile as she left.

Clare stepped closer, torn between wanting to hit him and cry. Two things a lady must never do.

‘Are you always so harsh?’ he said.

‘Not nearly so harsh as I’m going to be with you. You’ve ruined it!’ The words tumbled out in a rush.

He shrugged, but said nothing. She had wanted an apology and expected an argument. Her father would have yelled back. But this man absorbed abuse and returned it with a half-smile, as some men would take a blow, roll over and leap to their feet again. He left her with nothing to do but get angrier or to give up.

She was not ready to give up.

‘You’ve destroyed something valuable and precious. I expect payment.’

‘Payment?’ He raised his brows. ‘I’ve seen warriors dead on the ground with no payment for their loss. I cannot mourn woven wool.’ His words were mocking, bitter.

Dead on the ground.

She choked back her fear. Not Da. The phrase like a prayer. Not Alain.

Sometimes, the only thing a woman could do to hold back the dangers of the world was to maintain order in the small corner of it that was hers.

She looked back at the tapestry. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking, to expect a warrior to know how to treat such a treasure.’

This time, a trace of compassion touched his smile, as if he knew what was happening to her men, things she couldn’t possibly imagine and didn’t want to.

‘It’s not something that I was trained to do.’

For once, he made her smile, a rueful hiccup of laughter clearing the tears from her throat. She must take the first blame. Perhaps if she stretched it on the tapestry frame she might salvage it.

She stroked the damp cloth with her fingers and ventured a smile. A knight’s lessons would never be so domestic. ‘What are you trained to do?’

‘Kill.’

She snatched back her hand. ‘You have an ignoble view of war. A knight should be thinking of noble quests, of honour.’

‘You talk as if King Arthur’s knights still ride. Now we quest for land and ransom, not for the Holy Grail.’

She had been weak enough to share a momentary smile and in return, he’d thrown his brutal view of the world in her face. But there was something more in his eyes. An unaccustomed challenge. An unwelcome lure.

‘If you do not seek the Holy Grail, have you at least had the honour to fulfil a lady’s request?’ It was one of the sacred tenants of chivalry, to honour a lady’s wish.

The wind swirled around the edge of her skirt, blowing it towards his boot.

His smile, taunting, returned. ‘Generally, what they’ve desired of me has not included holy objects.’

She grabbed her skirt back from the breeze. ‘Neither does what I desire. I’d like you to clean the mews. Make it spotless.’

Here was a man who treated chivalry with disdain. Would he honour her request? Or, better, would he find the task so demeaning that he would, finally, ride away?

The harsh lines of his face eased, his smile suddenly genuine. ‘I’ve spent more time with falcons than with fabric. I will certainly do my best to fulfil your wish, no matter how hard the work.’

‘Good.’

The vision of him on hands and knees scrubbing gave her some satisfaction.

‘And no matter how long it takes.’ His smile took on a wicked edge. ‘Even if it takes all night and all day tomorrow.’

She gritted her teeth, realising he had turned her demeaning request into his victory.

‘One more night then. But no longer.’

She had judged him unworthy as a fighting man, but she must not underestimate his prowess in verbal battle again.

The next morning, Neil accosted her, brows creased, complaining that she’d sent a stranger to meddle in his mews.

Clare sighed and went to face Fitzjohn, wary of the next trick he might try in order to extend his stay. As she opened the door to the mews, a shaft of light cleaved the dimness and found his bare back. He turned from his raking and she swallowed. His chest, broad, seemed strong enough to need no armour.

‘Mistress Clare,’ he said, shielding his eyes as he looked towards her, standing in the open doorway. ‘I hope you will find that I scrubbed the falcons’ mute to your satisfaction.’

She forced her eyes to meet his. ‘The falconer has some complaints.’

‘He’s a good man. But wedded to old ways.’

He spoke as if he knew falconry.

All the birds were leashed, so she left the door open to allow the light in. The gravel crunched beneath her feet as she inspected his work. Of course, there had been little for him to do but rake the droppings from the stones. The falconer was scrupulous about daily cleaning.

‘Is everything to your satisfaction, Mistress Clare?’

Closer now, she could see sweat dampening his hair and the hose clinging to his legs. She peered at the falcons’ blocks, surprised to see he had even scrubbed away the whitish mute smears from the side of Wee One’s perch. ‘You’ve taken great care.’

He shrugged. ‘You’ve more blocks than birds.’

It was a pitiful mews, by most standards, she knew. Most of the birds there now belonged to the visitors, only temporary residents. ‘We had more, once. But birds and war are both costly. War has won.’

She pulled on her glove and held out her wrist. Wee One hopped on the fist, fluttering her feathers in delight. Clare rubbed her throat feathers gently, noting her crop was almost empty. She might be hungry enough to fly again tomorrow.

‘That’s the bird you were flying in the hills,’ he said.

‘I’ve had this one since she was just a brancher. She’s my favourite of all I’ve flown. Of course, I’ve never had one of the really fine birds from the cliffs near the sea.’

‘The best I’ve flown were northern birds, captured in the Low Countries.’

She assessed him anew. She had heard of such birds, but she’d never seen them and couldn’t have afforded them if a falcon dealer had brought them. If he had hawked with birds like that, he must be of better birth than she’d believed. ‘Those would be worthy of kings.’

He shrugged. ‘Origin means little. I’ve seen gyrfalcons refuse to fly and sparrowhawks take on rabbits three times their size. Did you train her yourself?’

She nodded. ‘I’m all she knows. She’ll not leave me.’

‘You cannot keep her on a creance and practise the art. Each flight is a risk. Each return a choice.’

She clutched the leather jesses tight between her gloved fingers. ‘This one will always come back.’

Behind her, she heard the flapping of wings. As she turned, a bird swooped down, talons nearly tangling in her hair. Then, he soared towards the ceiling directly above Wee One’s perch, performing an ecstasy of swoops and turns.

‘Stop him!’ Impossible. Accustomed to the entire sky, the bird hurtled dangerously close to the wall. A crash would mean a broken wing.

‘I think,’ Fitzjohn said, with awe in his voice she had never heard, ‘that he’s doing it for her.’

Wee One’s head followed his flight. Clare peered up through the dim light. It was hard to be sure, but the stripes under his wings and the ermine look of the feathers under his throat reminded her of the tercel she had seen two days ago.