.

noting how gently she took the tidbit from his fingers.

      Accustomed to flying peregrine falcons, Gerard had selected the goshawk from the mews at Corwin’s suggestion. She’d quickly displayed her strength in the field.

      “Nary a mark on the bugger ‘cept where the talons caught the head. That makes four clean kills, milord,” the game bearer said, presenting the hare for inspection.

      “Of course ‘tis not marked,” Corwin said. “Gwen never tears a pelt, so Ardith can use the fur for clothing.”

      “Gwen?” Gerard asked, eyeing the bird.

      Harold snorted. “Aye, Ardith named her Gwen. ‘Tis a wonder the hawk hunts, for all the chit spoils the bird. I swear that hawk would heed Ardith’s fist without the call.”

      “She does, at least in the mews and the yard,” Corwin stated to Harold’s disgust. “Ardith trained her, feeds her, never uses another bird when she hunts.”

      “Made a ruddy pet out of a hawk,” Harold complained.

      Gerard reacted privately, surprised and oddly proud that Ardith had trained the hawk. He knew ladies who liked to fly hawks, but none who would trouble to train her own bird.

      “If Ardith likes the hunt, why did she not join us?”

      Corwin answered. “Ardith said she wanted to finish stitching a gown that Bronwyn desires for court.”

      “About time the chit had a bit of work to do. Lord knows she has few duties about the manor,” Harold huffed.

      Corwin turned to hide a frown. Gerard managed to keep an indifferent expression. He’d noticed, yesterday noon and last evening, the efficiency of Lenvil’s people. Ardith’s gentle but firm hand had guided the manor’s servants.

      Bronwyn, dressed in fine clothing and delicate slippers, had played hostess. But Ardith, in coarse wool and leather boots, had assured a plentiful table laid, prompted a lad to keep the fire fed, kept ale and wine at the ready, and asked John, captain of Gerard’s guards, if Wilmont’s men-at-arms needed extra blankets.

      He’d also noticed a decidedly independent side of her nature. She’d ignored his invitation to share his furs. She might have misunderstood, but Gerard didn’t think so.

      “Despite a preference for her mistress, the hawk flew well for me this day.” Gerard deliberately kept his praise light. If he marveled overmuch at the bird, Harold would feel duty bound to offer Gwen as a gift. He didn’t want the bird.

      He wanted the bird’s owner.

      Harold shifted in the saddle. Gerard guessed the man’s leg hurt, having noticed his limp yesterday. But Harold’s dignity wouldn’t allow him to complain before his liege lord.

      “I suggest we return to the manor,” Gerard said, halting the hunt. The party had bagged several hares and a few partridges and pheasants. Gerard supposed Harold’s hunting forays were short and infrequent. Then who hunted fresh meat? Ardith? Perhaps. Gerard didn’t doubt she could, not when flying so magnificent a bird as Gwen.

      “Shall I take her, my lord?” the attendant offered.

      Gerard looked at the hawk comfortably perched on his arm, grooming her feathers. Gerard wrapped the leather jesses around his arm.

      “Nay, she is content and not heavy. I will carry her.”

      “As you wish, my lord,” the attendant said, looking askance, but hurrying to take Harold’s bird, then Corwin’s.

      “Are you content to ride with me, Gwen?” Gerard softly asked. The hawk simply continued her preening. Gerard chuckled and turned his horse in the direction of the manor.

      Gerard looked around for Corwin, who’d been riding at his side. For some reason Corwin lagged a pace behind, studying a copse of trees to his right.

      “My son remembers his triumph,” Harold said with pride. He called out, “Proud of you, I was, Corwin. Never was there a finer meal than the boar you slew with your sword, and you a bit of a lad and new to weaponry.”

      Corwin rode up beside Gerard. “Killing the boar was no great feat, Father. ‘Twas kill or be killed.”

      Addressing Gerard, Harold protested. “Corwin nearly separated the beast from his head. Cook had to piece the boar back together before impaling him on a spit. You should remember the feast, my lord. Baron Everart brought you and Richard to help us celebrate Corwin’s bravery.”

      “’Twas Stephen who came, Father, not Richard.”

      “Are you sure? I seem to recall…”

      “Quite sure. Richard was ill and could not come.”

      Harold stared at the horizon for a long moment, then said, “Aye, ‘twas Stephen. No matter. ‘Twas a fine feast to honor Corwin’s prowess.”

      Gerard remembered the feast. He’d been seated between Bronwyn and Edith, nodding at Bronwyn’s endless chatter and wondering if Edith would ever end her prayer so he could eat. In his boredom his gaze had wandered the hall, finally resting on a head peeking from behind the corner tapestry.

      After the meal, he’d circled the hall to investigate and found Ardith crouched in the corner. The discovery had been the one bright moment of an otherwise dreary day.

      “Harold has the right of it, Corwin. You saved not only your life, but Ardith’s. ‘Twas a feat to warrant pride.”

      Gerard saw Corwin’s pallor, but before he could remark on it, Corwin pulled ahead and grabbed the game bag from the bearer.

      “If we are to feast on this meat tonight, I best get it back to the manor.”

      “Tell Ardith not to stew the hares,” Harold ordered. “I want them roasted.”

      “Aye, Father.” Corwin wheeled and rode off.

      

      Ardith shooed a goat from the manor doorway. Since the weather had turned cold, the animals relentlessly sought the warmth of indoors. The peasants might share their huts with sheep and oxen, but Ardith was firm in herding the manor’s animals toward their outdoor pens—except the hunting hounds, one of which loped past on his way to a spot by the fire.

      She glanced beyond where Corwin now dismounted, looking for the rest of the hunting party. Gerard hadn’t yet returned. She fought the disappointment, and lost.

      Ardith had always known that someday she would again see Gerard. She hadn’t known how much the meeting would hurt.

      Last night, awake on her pallet, she’d relived their first meeting. She’d again felt Gerard’s tender concern for an injured maiden, heard those words he’d uttered to put her at ease. But mostly she remembered the comfort of curling in Gerard’s arms as he’d carried her from hall to pallet.

      Just before falling asleep in the wee hours before dawn, she’d convinced herself she was glorifying a childhood fancy. Then had come the dream, of the man Gerard, standing in the glen where the boar had attacked, his arms reaching out to her, beseeching. She’d tried to run to him, but no matter how fast she ran she couldn’t reach Gerard.

      Forced to admit a continued enchantment with Gerard, she resolved to stay as far away from him as possible. Later, after Gerard left Lenvil, she would mourn the penalty imposed by her wounding but once more, then put aside for all time the folly of longing for a husband and children.

      Corwin handed over the game bag. She almost dropped the heavy pouch.

      “A fine hunt,” she commented, inspecting the contents.

      “Father says—”

      “He wants the hares roasted,” she finished for him, shaking her head. “He will risk his few remaining teeth for the sake of his pride. Who took the hares?”

      “Gerard and Gwen.”

      “She