“Yes, it is,” she replied. Looking over to see Sir Breckton taking station on her left, Amilia thought she might faint.
“It’s the Duchess of Rochelle’s. She—” Amilia turned. The duchess had moved off, abandoning her. Panic made her stomach lurch. As friendly as Lady Genevieve was, Amilia was starting to suspect the woman enjoyed tormenting her.
Amilia tried to calm herself as she sat face to face with the one man in the entire world she wanted to impress. With one hand holding the bird and the other locked on to the horse’s reins, she realized the cold was causing her nose to run. She could not imagine the day getting any worse. Then, as if the gods had heard her thoughts, they answered using the huntsman’s voice.
“Everyone! Ride forward!”
Oh dear Maribor!
Her horse tripped on the rough, frost-heaved ground, throwing her off balance. The sudden jolt also startled Murderess, who threw out her great wings to save herself by flying. Tethered to Amilia’s wrist, the hawk pulled on her arm. She might have stayed in the saddle—if not for the bird’s insistence on dragging her backward.
Amilia cried out as she fell over the rump of the horse, her nightmare becoming reality. Yet before she cleared the saddle, she stopped. Sir Breckton had caught her around the waist. Though he wore no armor, his arm felt like a band of steel—solid and unmovable. Gently, he drew her upright. The bird flapped twice more, then settled down and gripped Amilia’s glove again.
Breckton did not say a word. He held Amilia steady until she reseated herself on the saddle and placed her foot on the planchette. Horrified and flushed with humiliation, she refused to look at him.
Why did that have to happen in front of him!
She did not want to see his face and find the same condescending smirk she had seen on so many others. On the verge of tears, she wanted desperately to be back at the palace, back in the kitchen, back to cleaning pots. At that moment she preferred the thought of facing Edith Mon—or even her vengeful ghost—to that of enduring the humiliation of facing Sir Breckton. Feeling tears gathering, she clenched her jaw and breathed deeply in an effort to hold them back.
“Does it have a name?”
Sir Breckton’s words were so unexpected that Amilia replayed them twice before understanding the question.
“Murderess,” she replied, thanking Maribor that her voice did not crack.
“That seems… appropriate.” There was a pause before he continued. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” She tasked her brain to think of something to add, but it came back with nothing.
Why is he talking like that? Why is he asking about the weather?
The knight sighed heavily.
Looking up at him, she found he was not smirking but appeared pained. His eyes accidentally met hers while she studied his face, and he instantly looked away. His fingers drummed a marching cadence on his saddle horn.
“Cold, though,” he said, and quickly added, “Could be warmer, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” she said again, realizing she must sound like an idiot with all her one-word answers. She wanted to say more. She wanted to be witty and clever, but her brain was as frozen as the ground.
Amilia caught him glancing at her again. This time he shook his head and sighed once more.
“What?” she asked fearfully.
“I don’t know how you do it,” he said.
The genuine admiration in his eyes only baffled her further.
“You ride a warhorse sidesaddle over rough ground with a huge hawk perched on your arm and are still managing to make me feel like a squire in a fencing match. My lady, you are a marvel beyond reckoning. I am in awe.”
Amilia stared at him until she realized she was staring at him. In her mind, she ordered her eyes to look away, but they refused. She had no words to reply, which hardly mattered, as Amilia had no air in her body with which to speak. Breathing seemed unimportant at that moment. Forcing herself to take a breath, Amilia discovered she was smiling. A second later, she knew Sir Breckton noticed as well, as he abruptly stopped drumming and sat straighter.
“Milady,” said the falconer’s servant, “it’s time to release your bird.”
Amilia looked at the raptor, wondering just how she was going to do that.
“May I help?” Sir Breckton asked. Reaching over, he removed Murderess’s hood and unwound her tether.
With a motion of his own arm, the servant indicated that she should thrust her hand up. Amilia did so, and Murderess spread her great wings, pushed down, and took to the sky. The raptor climbed higher and higher yet remained circling directly overhead. As she watched the goshawk, Amilia noticed Breckton looking at her.
“Don’t you have a bird?” she asked.
“No. I did not expect to be hawking. Truth be told, I haven’t hunted in years. I’d forgotten the joy of it—until now.”
“So you know how?”
“Oh yes. Of course. I used to hunt the fields of Chadwick as a lad. My father, my brother Wesley, and I would spend whole weeks chasing fowl from their nests and rodents from their burrows.”
“Would you think ill of me if I told you this was my first time?”
Breckton’s face turned serious, which frightened her until he said, “My lady, be assured that should I live so long as to see the day that the sun does not rise, the rivers do not flow, and the winds do not blow, I would never think ill of you.”
She tried to hide another smile. Once more, she failed, and once more, Sir Breckton noticed.
“Perhaps you can help me, as I am befuddled by all of this,” Amilia said, gesturing at their surroundings.
“It is a simple thing. The birds are waiting on—that is to say, hovering overhead and waiting for the attack. Much the way soldiers stand in line preparing for battle. The enemies are a crafty bunch. They lay hiding before us in the field between the river and ourselves. With the line made by the horses, the huntsman has ensured that the prey will not come this way, which, of course, they would try to do—to reach the safety of the trees—were we not here.”
“But how will we find these hidden enemies?”
“They need to be drawn out, or in this case flushed out. See there? The huntsman has gathered the dogs.”
Amilia looked ahead as a crowd of eager dogs moved forward, led by a dozen boys from the palace. After they were turned loose, the hounds disappeared into the undergrowth. Only their raised tails appeared, here and there, above the bent rushes as they dashed into the snowy field without a bark or a yelp.