Chapter One
The weather had not been altogether bad. South beyond
London, the Forest of Anderida had enclosed them like a
green ocean, but Henry had arranged for a guide to lead
them through its timbered vastness. Snow had fallen, but
not heavily, and not enough to slow down his troop of men.
Henry, huddled in his thick, fur-lined cloak, had thought
wistfully of Christina, her long, dark hair covering the
smooth, pale skin of her back as last evening she'd poured
him wine from a jug. Her movements had been graceful and
languid, and as she had turned to him, she had smiled.
Aye, she had made a tasty picture, dressed only in her
ebony locks.
He did not love her, any more than she loved him. Theirs
was a relationship of convenience, and love was not
something that was part of the contract between them. For
Henry, women like Christina were a necessity -- a
necessary pleasure. If she was not the greatest
conversationalist, and her intelligence was shrewd rather
than deep, what did it matter, when she more than
satisfied him in bed? And as for Christina, the daughter
of an ambitious minor noble, she was more than happy with
her comfortable rooms and fine clothes and jewels.
"I have to leave tomorrow," he had told her, sipping the
wine.
She had blinked. "Go where, my lord?"
"To the Downs in the southwest, Christina. To Gunlinghorn."
Her eyes had widened. "Oh, my lord, I would not like to go
outside London! There are savages in the countryside!"
Henry had grinned. "Then it is as well you are not going,
Christina. You will stay here until I return."
She had been relieved, Henry thought now with wry humor.
Christina had had no desire to share the perils of Henry's
journey. She liked him, or at least she liked the luxuries
he could afford to give her, but that was as far as it
went. She was glad he was going alone.
Why were women so fickle? They couldn't wait to get into
bed with him, but none of them sobbed more than a few
false tears when it was time to part. Was it something to
do with him? Did he not please them in some way? Henry
knew that wasn't so -- his women were always well pleased.
When their relationship had run its course, and they left,
they nearly always took with them a mutual fondness. Nay,
the problem lay elsewhere. And Henry had lately begun to
understand that something was missing.
But what?
As clever and handsome as he was reported to be, Henry did
not know.
In younger days he hadn't felt the need to dwell on such
puzzling and incomprehensible matters. Then all he had
wanted was a lusty woman in his bed. But now ... I must be
getting old, he thought in disgust. Or maybe it was seeing
Radulf and Lily, and Gunnar and Rose, and Ivo and Briar,
all so happy, all content with exactly what they had, all
so much in love ...
It was ridiculous, but it made Henry feel lonely.
Love?
In his heart, Henry held a dark fear. Love would mean
sharing all his secrets with another person and trusting
them to understand. It would mean giving more of himself
than he was prepared, or perhaps able, to give.
Henry had been more or less orphaned at the age of five,
and at thirteen he had been a man well and truly. He did
not look to love as a reason to survive.
What does it matter if I haven't found a Lily or a Briar?
he asked himself angrily. He had what other men envied. He
was well favored in looks and fortune, he had the king's
ear and any woman he wanted. It was no boast, but honest
truth. Women never turned Lord Henry down.
Love!
He had no time for love; it was the least of his concerns.
He admitted to himself that that was why he preferred the
lighter intimacies of women like Christina; it was less
trouble. It was safer.
Henry and his troop of men rode on, into the wintry
forest, through the fertile Weald and onto the windswept
Downs. Here the Gunlinghorn River was born in the chalk
downs and grew wide and strong, leading them into the Vale
of Gunlinghorn. Winter rains had turned ponds into small
lakes, and the water meadows were full of life despite the
weather. Henry watched a long-legged waterbird fly low
across the gray surface, momentarily surrounded by a flock
of smaller linnets. Gunlinghorn had always been plentiful
in its harvests of both land and water. Before the Normans
came, life here had been fortunate, bountiful, and under
Lady Jenova little had changed. In that regard,
Gunlinghorn was truly a small slice of Eden.
The castle stood upon a tall hill, overlooking the Vale.
From the highest point of the keep, one could look out
over the cliffs on the coast of England, to the very sea
the Normans had sailed across to make their conquest.
The keep itself was constructed of timber cut from the
woods surrounding the Vale of Gunlinghorn. The strong
wooden ramparts encircling the keep were currently being
remade in local stone, with the grim-looking gatehouse
already completed. Jenova was ferocious when it came to
protecting what belonged to her, and Henry had suggested
stone the last time he'd been here. Now, seeing with his
own eyes that she had taken his advice, he felt an
unexpected rush of pleasure.
Gunlinghorn's heavy gates opened easily to his name. Henry
led his men into the bailey, casting an eye over the busy
castlefolk, and nodding in reply to the many cries of
welcome. He was known here. Liked, too, he thought. It was
almost like coming home. With an odd catch in his chest,
Henry realized that Gunlinghorn was probably the nearest
thing to a family and a home that he had ever had.