Free Crusader Captive by Merline Lovelace Page A

stamping he knew was about to occur didn’t fluster the nervous peregrine.
    When word spread quickly of what was to take place, other residents of the keep came out to watch as well. Kitchen maids, the lads who slept in the kennels to keep the dogs quiet, the keeper of the bees. Even the laundresses straightened from the great wooden tubs, wiped the suds from their arms and joined the crowd. They knew well that many a man had tried to mount the heavily muscled bay. Many a man had failed.
    By the time the stable master led the warhorse from its stall and positioned him next to the mounting block, Jocelyn was near to regretting her impulsive decision. Despite de Rhys’s assertions that he was strong enough to mount the destrier, he’d risen from the sickbed only yesterday afternoon.
    Was she so anxious to be rid of him that she would let him risk his newly restored strength? Did she feel so guilty about forcing him to her bed that she would gift him with her grandfather’s most prized warhorse? Or was it just this itchy, restless and most persistent dissatisfaction that made her half hope he would, indeed, land on his head?
    Lips set, she stood with the others while de Rhys set aside his shield and approached the destrier. It had been saddled and caparisoned with a cloth of red and black. The cloth served as both decoration and identification of friend or foe during battle. It covered a padded leather gambeson that would help deflect arrows and spears.
    As de Rhys approached, Avenger’s nostrils flared. His black eyes flicked from one side to the other, then back to the man now only a few paces away.
    De Rhys crooned something in too soft a voice for Jocelyn to hear. She curled her hands into nervous fists, half enthralled, half fearful of the drama she’d set in motion.
    The stable master held on to the destrier’s reins but kept a respectful distance as Avenger snorted and pawed the dirt with iron-shod hooves. Still singing to him in a soft murmur, de Rhys advanced. When he was close enough, he signaled to the stable master to pass him the reins. He did so gladly and scuttled away.
    Then it was only the man and the steed.
    De Rhys looped the reins around one wrist and reached out with his other hand. Avenger’s head reared up. White showed around his eyes. The watching crowd held its collective breath, and Jocelyn’s heart slammed against her ribs so hard she thought it would jump out of her chest. She’d come within a breath of issuing a sharp order to cease and desist, when de Rhys stroked Avenger’s muzzle. Once. Twice. Still whispering, still crooning.
    Like one entranced, she could not but stare at that strong, battle-scarred hand and remember how it had gentled her in the same manner. Shivers rippled across her skin as de Rhys swung the reins over Avenger’s arched neck and stepped onto the mounting block. In the blink of an eye, he’d settled in the saddle.
    For long moments no one moved, no one spoke. Jocelyn heard not so much as a peep or a hiss as the crowd waited for the tumult to erupt. When it did not, jaws sagged and eyes popped.
    As if unmindful of the gaping crowd, de Rhys signaled for his shield. He looped it over the pommel, then directed the destrier in a slow amble to where Jocelyn stood.
    “Shall we ride out and test the feathers on your bird, my lady?”
    The gleam in his eyes belied the nonchalance in his voice. He’d done what few men could, and knew it. Jocelyn had to smile in response to his smug self-satisfaction.
    “We shall, indeed.”

    A stiff wind blew off the sea and coursed through the corridor between the inner and outer ramparts. The capricious gusts rustled the leaves of the fruit trees planted between the walls and tossed Jocelyn’s hair behind her linen headband. She paid the wind no mind. As her barb clattered over the drawbridge and through the outer gates, her attention alternated between the hooded falcon perched on her leather-clad wrist and the knight riding beside