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?"