The Warrior

Does a hare know when the hawk’s gaze lands upon it?

Aileen knew the moment the stranger spied her. She first glimpsed him from the top of the stairs, but was so unsettled to find his gaze upon her that she immediately looked away. She feigned undue concentration upon her descent to the raucous hall.

The hair on the back of her neck prickled and her face burned under the weight of his regard, though she knew he would soon glance elsewhere.

Curiosity could only compel so long a perusal, especially for so plain a maiden as she knew herself to be. She held her head high and crossed the hall to the high table, fighting her desire to turn and look.

“Such a notorious guest!” whispered a maid as she arranged the skirts of Aileen’s new step-mother, Blanche. This was yet another kirtle that Aileen had not seen before, the silken cloth richly gleaming in the light of the torches. It was trimmed with fur that must be ermine, and embroidered with gold.

Whatever Blanche had expected when she seduced Aileen’s father, she could not have anticipated the simple austerity of Abernye, with its pastures and sheep and rough hall. From whence had the coin come for yet another kirtle? Aileen did not imagine it had been Blanche’s own purse.

Though her step-mother had been rumored to have a fat dowry, it was the treasury of Abernye that seemed to pay for all her fripperies.

“The Hawk is said to have killed a thousand men to claim Inverfyre,” confided another maid on Blanche’s opposite side, her hands just as busy as her tongue.

Aileen’s fears were momentarily forgotten. Their guest was the Hawk of Inverfyre? She knew his name and repute, of course - who did not? She struggled to suppress her urge to glance his way.

“It is said that he stole it from its rightful lords, slaughtering those who opposed him, and without remorse!” the first maid added gleefully.

“He is a thief.”

“A murderer without morals.”

Blanche’s eyes gleamed with interest as she openly watched their guest. She was finely wrought, this prize fetched from the English court, her pretty features and delicate build making Aileen feel all the more tall and ungainly.

“All this and handsome, too,” Blanche murmured with satisfaction. “What fortune brings us such an intriguing guest! I forbid you all to mention such rumors in his presence.”

At that, Aileen could not help but steal a glance, certain the Hawk’s attention would be diverted.

She sorely miscalculated. The man in question watched her avidly. She should have demurely dropped her gaze, she should have looked away, but Aileen could not. She found herself snared by his bright gaze, helpless as the proverbial hare. Indeed, her heart nigh stopped and her mouth went dry, though not simply because of his looks.

The Hawk was tall, his shoulders were broad, his hair was dark with a touch of silver at the temples. He was tanned to a golden hue that spoke of vitality and he moved with a warrior’s resolve. He was handsome, that much could not have been denied. There was an ease about him, a grace uncommon in the fighting men of Abernye yet beguilingly male all the same.

Yet he was a warrior, of that Aileen had no doubt. This man had made choices, he had swung his blade, he had decided who would live and who would die.

He did not appear to be burdened by regrets.

He was garbed in blackest midnight, a hue so dark as to draw the light of the hall and devour it. His boots were high and similarly dark, his tabard was devoid of insignia or embroidery. She decided that he would not be a man who favored embellishment. Three cohorts flanked him, warriors just as fearsome and just as darkly garbed, though there was no doubt in Aileen’s thoughts who ruled them all.

She stifled a shiver, shocked to her marrow that she was still the focus of Hawk’s attention. It was the intensity of his regard, the fixedness of it that put Aileen in mind of his namesake, the predatory hawk. He was so still that she was certain he neither blinked nor breathed, his gaze so intent that he might have been touching her.

Even as she felt a desire to cross the floor to his side, Aileen understood instinctively that this man was dangerous. A thousand prickles raced over her flesh and her color rose hotly, she held her ground but still she could not demurely look away.

“I heard that his own peregrines are trained to hunt men,” the first maid whispered. “That they tear out the very hearts of their prey, and that when he looses them from Inverfyre’s towers, the skies turn dark with their many wings.”

“Fool! It is the eyes of his enemies that the birds devour!”

The corner of the Hawk’s lips quirked, offering Aileen the barest ghost of what might have been a smile. He could not have heard the nonsense repeated by the maids, for he was too far away, but his expression was so knowing that she wondered. Her heart thumped with painful vigor, yet still she could not avert her gaze.

He savored her predicament, her awareness of him, her inability to behave as she should. Aileen knew this. Indeed, the air seemed to crackle between them, as if they were old adversaries met again.

But they were not. Aileen had never met this man before.

All the same, she was not some shy maiden unafraid to speak her thoughts. Aileen lifted her chin and held his gaze with defiance, even as the rumors of his deeds echoed around her, and his smile broadened ever so slightly.

Perhaps he savored his own dark repute.