Desire

1

Clare was in the convent gardens with Margaret, the Prioress of Saint Hermione, when word reached her that the first of the suitors was on the Isle of Desire.

"A grand company of men has arrived, Lady Clare. They are coming toward the village even now," William called.

Clare paused in the middle of a detailed discussion of the best method for extracting oil of roses. "I beg your pardon, madam," she said to Prioress Margaret.

"Of course." Margaret was a stoutly built woman of middle years. The wimple of her black Benedictine habit framed sharp eyes and gently rounded features. "This is an important event."

Clare turned to see young William hopping about in great excitement near the convent gatehouse. He waved his bag of gingered currants at her.

A plump, brown-haired, dark-eyed lad of ten, he was a good-natured combination of lively curiosity and unquenchable enthusiasm. He and his mother, Lady Joanna, had come to live on the Isle of Desire three years earlier. Clare was very fond of both of them. As her own family had dwindled down to nothing, leaving her alone in the world, she had grown very close to William and Joanna.

"Who is here, William?" Clare braced herself for the answer. Every inhabitant on Desire, with the exception of herself, had been eagerly anticipating this day for weeks. She was the only one who was not looking forward to the selection of a new lord for Desire.

At least she was to have a choice of husbands, she reminded herself.

That was more than many women in her position got.

"Tis the first of the suitors you said Lord Thurston would send."

William stuffed a handful of gingered currants into his mouth. "They say he appears to be a most powerful knight, Lady Clare. He brings a fine, great host of men-at-arms. I heard John Blacksmith say that it took half the boats in Seabern to get all the men and horses and baggage from the mainland to our island."

A curious flutter of uneasiness made Clare catch her breath. She had promised herself that when the time came, she would be calm and businesslike about the matter. But now that the moment was upon her, she was suddenly vastly more anxious than she had thought to be.

"A great host?" Clare frowned.

"Aye." William's face glowed. "The sunlight on their helms is so bright, it hurts your eyes." He gulped down two more fistfuls of the currants.

"And the horses are huge. There is one in particular, John says, a great gray stallion with hooves that will shake the very earth when he goes past."

"But I did not request a great number of knights and men-at-arms," Clare said. "Desire requires only a small company of men to protect our shipments. What on earth am I to do with a large number of warriors underfoot? And all their horses, too.

Men and horses eat a great deal of food, you know."

"Do not fret, Clare." Margaret smiled. "Young William's notion of a vast host of fighting men is likely very different from our own. Keep in mind that the only company of armed men that he has ever seen is Sir Nicholas's small household force at Seabern."

"I trust that you are right, madam." Clare lifted the fragrant pomander that hung from a chain on her girdle and inhaled the soothing blend of roses and herbs. The scent comforted her, as it always did.

"Nevertheless, it will be a great nuisance having to feed and house so many men and horses. By Saint Hermione's ear, I do not like the notion of having to entertain all of these people. And this is only the first of the candidates."

"Calm yourself, Clare," Margaret said. "Mayhap the crowd that has disembarked down at the harbor is composed of more than one suitor. The three or four you ordered may have arrived all at the same time. That would explain why there are so many men and horses."

Clare cheered at the notion. "Aye, that must be it." She dropped the small pomander so that it dangled once more amid the folds of her gown.

"All my suitors have arrived together. If they have each brought their own entourages, that would explain the large number of men and horses."

"Aye."

Another thought along the same lines struck Clare, one which immediately wiped away her momentary relief.

"I do hope they will not stay long. It will cost a fortune to feed them all."

"You can afford it, Clare."

"That's not the point. At least, not entirely."

Margaret's eyes twinkled. "Once you have made your selection from among the candidates, the others, including their men and retainers, will take their leave."

"By Hermione's sainted toe, I shall choose quickly, then, so that we do not waste any more food and hay on this lot than is absolutely necessary."

"A wise plan." Margaret eyed her closely. "Are you so very anxious, my child?"

"No, no, of course not," Clare lied. "Merely eager to get the matter concluded. There is work to be done. I cannot afford to waste a great deal of time on this business of selecting a husband. I trust Lord Thurston has only sent me candidates who meet all of my requirements."

"I'm sure he has," Margaret murmured. "You were most specific in your letter."

"Aye." Clare had spent hours formulating her recipe for a new lord of Desire.

Those hours had been spent after she had wasted even more time concocting dozens of clever reasons why she did not need a husband. To that end, she had called upon all the skills of rhetoric, logic, and debate that Margaret had taught her. She had been well aware that if she was to avoid the inevitable, she would need to give Lord Thurston a truly brilliant excuse for refusing marriage.

Clare had tried out each finely reasoned argument first on Joanna and then on Prioress Margaret before committing it to parchment. Sympathetic to the cause, both of the women had considered the string of carefully crafted excuses one after the other, offering criticism and advice.

In the months since her father's death, Clare had been developing what she was certain was an absolutely unassailable, logically graceful argument against the necessity of marriage based on the naturally secure position of the Isle of Desire when disaster had struck.

Her neighbor on the mainland, Sir Nicholas of Seabern, had wrecked the endeavor by kidnapping her while she was on a short visit to Seabern.

Furious with Nicholas because he had ruined everything by providing clear evidence of her personal vulnerability, Clare had proceeded to make life at Seabern Keep a living hell for him. By the end of her enforced stay, Nicholas confessed himself glad to see the last of her.

But it was too late.

Coming as it did on top of the increased predations of the robbers who infested the region, the kidnapping was the last stone in the sack.

Clare knew that it was only a matter of time before Lord Thurston heard the rumors. He would conclude that she was incapable of protecting Desire and he would act at once to see to the matter himself.

Outraged and frustrated by events as she was, Clare had to admit she could not entirely blame Thurston for taking such a course of action. In his position, she would have done the same. The portion of the revenues to which he was entitled as Desire's liege lord were too plump and healthy to be put at risk.

And Clare could not risk the lives of the men from the village who accompanied the shipments of perfume. Sooner or later, the robbers were going to kill someone when they attacked.

In truth, she had no choice and she knew it. She had a duty and an obligation to the people of Desire.

Her mother, who had died when Clare was twelve, had taught her from the cradle that the wishes of the lady of the manor came second to the needs of her people and the lands that sustained them.

Clare knew full well that although she possessed the skills to keep Desire a fat and profitable estate, she was no trained warrior.

There were no household knights, nor even any men-at-arms left on Desire. The few who had once lived in the hall had dispersed over the years. Some had accompanied her brother Edmund to the tournaments and had not returned to the isle after he had been killed. Desire, after all, was not a very exciting place. It did not suit young knights and squires who were eager for glory and the profits to be made competing in the endless round of tournaments or by going on Crusade.

The last two men-at-arms who had lived on Desire had journeyed to Spain with Clare's father, Sir Humphrey. They had sent word back to her of her father's death, but they themselves had not returned. With their lord dead, they had been freed of their vows of fealty. They had found new masters in the south.

Clare did not have the least notion of how to go about obtaining a reliable troop of armed men, let alone how to train them and control them.

The first letter of warning from Thurston had arrived six weeks ago. It had been politely worded, full of gracious condolences on the death of Sir Humphrey. But there had been no mistaking the implications of the veiled comments concerning the defense of Desire. The second letter had made it clear that Clare must wed.

Clare, much to her annoyance, had reached the same decision.

Knowing that marriage was inevitable, Clare had done what she always did when it came to matters of duty. She had set about fulfilling her responsibilities.

In typical fashion, however, she had taken charge of the situation in her own way.

If she was to be saddled with the encumbrance of a husband, she had told Joanna and Margaret, she was determined to have some say about the man she would wed.

"They are coming closer, Lady Clare," William yelled now from the gatehouse.

Clare brushed the fine dark earth of the convent garden from her hands.

"I pray that you will excuse me, madam. I must get back to the hall so that I can change my clothing before my guests arrive. These fancy knights from the south will no doubt expect to be received with a certain amount of ceremony."

"As well they should," Margaret said. "I know you are not looking forward to this marriage with any enthusiasm. But be of good cheer, my child. Remember, there will most likely be three, possibly even four candidates. You will have a goodly choice."

Clare slid her old friend and teacher a quick, searching glance. She lowered her voice so that neither William nor the porteress at the nearby gatehouse could overhear. "And if I do not care for any of the three or four suitors Lord Thurston has sent?"

"Why, then, we shall have to ask ourselves if you are merely being extremely selective, mayhap even too particular about the choice of a lord for Desire, or if you are seeking excuses not to go through with the thing."

Clare made a face and then gave Margaret a rueful grin. "You are always so practical and straightforward, madam. You have a way of going to the heart of the matter."

"It has been my experience that a woman who is practical and honest in her reasoning, especially when she is arguing with herself, generally accomplishes more than one who is not."

"Aye, so you have always taught me, madam." Clare straightened her shoulders. "I shall continue to bear your words of wisdom in mind."

"Your mother would have been proud of you, my child."

Clare noticed that Margaret did not mention her father. There was no need. They were both well aware that Sir Humphrey had never been interested in the management of his lands. He had left such mundane matters to his wife and later his daughter, while he himself had pursued his scholarly studies and experiments.

A loud shout went up from the street on the other side of the convent wall. Voices rose in wonder and excitement as the villagers gathered to see the new arrivals.

William shoved his packet of gingered currants into the pouch that hung from his belt and hastened over to a low bench that stood against the wall.

Too late Clare realize what he had in mind. "William, don't you dare climb up on top of that wall. You know what your mother would say."

"Don't worry, I won't fall. I just want to see the knights and their huge horses." William got up on top of the bench and started to hoist his pudgy frame atop the stone wall.

Clare groaned and exchanged a resigned glance with Margaret. There was no doubt but that William's overpro-tective mother would have had a fit if she were present. Joanna was convinced that William was delicate and must not be allowed to take any risks.

"Lady Joanna's not here," Margaret said dryly, as if Clare had spoken aloud. "So I suggest you ignore the matter."

"If William falls, Joanna will never forgive me."

"One of these days she'll have to stop coddling the lad." Margaret shrugged philosophically. "If she does not cease hovering over him like a mother hen with her chick, he's going to turn into a fearful, anxious, extremely fat young man."

"I know, but one cannot entirely blame Joanna for wanting to protect William," Clare said quietly.

"She's lost everyone else. She cannot bear the risk of losing her son, too."

"I can see them." William swung one leg over the top of the wall.

"They're already in the street." He shaded his eyes against the spring sunlight. "The giant gray horse is in front of the rest. I vow, the knight who rides the beast is almost as big as his horse."

Clare frowned. "I requested candidates of moderate size and stature."

"He is wearing a shiny helm and a mail hauberk," William exclaimed. "And he carries a silvery shield that glitters like a great mirror in the sun."

"A great mirror?" Intrigued, Clare hurried forward along the garden path to see the newcomers for herself.

"It is very strange, my lady. Everything about the knight is silver or gray?even his clothing and his horse's trappings are gray. It is as though he and his stallion were fashioned entirely of silver and smoke."

"Silver and smoke V Clare looked up at William. "Your imagination is running off with your wits."

"Tis true, I swear it." William sounded genuinely awed by the sight he was witnessing.

Clare's curiosity grew swiftly. "Just how big is this smoke and silver knight?"

"He is very, very big," William reported from his perch. "And the knight who rides behind him is almost as large."

"That will not do at all." Clare went to the gate and peered out into the street. Her view was blocked by the throng of excited villagers.

Word of the newcomers' arrival had spread quickly. Virtually everyone had turned out to witness the grand spectacle of a troop of mounted knights on Desire. John Blacksmith, Robert Cooper, Alice the brewer, and three muscular farmers stood in Clare's way. All of them were taller than she was.

"Do not alarm yourself about the matter of this gray knight's size."

Margaret came up to stand beside Clare. Her eyes gleamed with amusement.

"Once again, we must allow for young William's somewhat limited experience of the world. Any knight astride a horse would appear huge to him. It's all that armor that makes them seem so large."

"Yes, I know. Still, I would like very much to see this gray knight for myself." Clare measured the height from the bench to the top of the wall with her eyes. "William, prepare to give me a hand."

William tore his gaze away from the sights long enough to glance down at her. "Do you wish to sit up here on the wall with me, Lady Clare?"

"Aye. If I remain down here, I shall be the last person on the isle to see the invasion." Clare lifted the skirts of her long-waisted overtunic and stepped up onto the bench.

Margaret gave a small snort of disapproval. "Really, Clare, this is extremely unseemly. Only think how embarrassed you will be if one of your suitors sees you comporting yourself like a village hoyden up there on the wall. He might chance to recognize you later at your hall."

"No one will notice me sitting up here. From the sound of it, our visitors are far too occupied with putting on a fine show for the village. I mean to see the performance for myself."

Clare grasped the edge of the wall, found a chink in the stones with the toe of her soft leather boot, and struggled to pull herself up beside William.

"Have a care, my lady." William leaned down to catch hold of her arm.

"Do not concern yourself," Clare panted as she swung first one leg and then the other over the broad stone wall. "I may be a spinster of three and twenty, but I can still climb walls." She grinned at William as she righted herself and adjusted her skirts. "There, you see? I did it. Now, then, where is this knight made of silver and smoke?"

"He's at the top of the street." William pointed toward the harbor.

"Listen to the thunder of the horses' hooves. Tis as if a great, howling tempest were blowing in off the sea."

"They are certainly making sufficient noise to wake the dead." Clare pushed back the hood of her mantle and turned to look toward the top of the narrow street.

The rumble and thunder of hooves was closer now. The villagers grew quiet in anticipation.

And then Clare saw the knight and the stallion fashioned of silver and smoke. She caught her breath, suddenly comprehending William's awe.

Man and horse alike appeared to be composed of all the elements of a magnificent storm: wind, rain, and lightning made solid flesh. It needed only a single glance to know that this bleak, gray fury, once roused, would be capable of destroying anything that lay in its path.

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.

"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 sitting 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 fallback 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.

Clare looked at Gareth and felt as if she had just stepped off one of the high cliffs of Desire.

Gareth reached out with his huge, mail-covered hands, caught her up, and swept her off the wall. The world spun around Clare. She very nearly dropped the big sword.

An instant later she found herself settled safely across the saddle in front of the Hellhound. She was steadied by a mail-clad arm the size of a tree. She looked up and saw the satisfaction blazing in Gareth's eyes.

Clare wondered why she felt as if she were still falling.

Gareth raised one hand to summon a knight. A hard-faced warrior rode forward.

"Aye, Sir Gareth?"

"Ulrich." Gareth pitched his voice so that his man could hear it above the thundering cheers of the crowd. "Escort my lady's noble protector in a manner which befits his excellent service."

"Aye." Ulrich eased his mount closer to the wall and held out his arms to seize William by the waist. He lifted the lad off the wall and settled him onto his saddle bow.

Clare saw William's eyes grow huge as he was carried off through the crowd astride the massive war-horse. She realized with wry chagrin that Gareth had just gained a loyal follower for life.

Clare listened to the exultant shouts of her people as the Hellhound of Wyckmere walked his gray stallion through the crowded street. She glanced back over her shoulder and saw Margaret standing in the gatehouse entryway.

The prioress waved cheerfully.

Clare clutched the Window of Hell and considered carefully the excellently set snare in which she had been caught.