And if there was a fleeting aura of mystery, of forbidden magic about this man, that was discussed in whispers, if at all. For at thirty-nine, Brion of Haldane had kept the peace in Gwynedd for nearly fifteen years. The king who now sat his horse at the top of the hill had earned such infrequent moments of pleasure as he now pursued.

Brion slipped his feet from the stirrups and stretched his legs. At midmorning, the ground fog was just lifting, and the unseasonable cold of the night before still permeated everything. Even the protection of hunting leathers could not wholly prevent the light chain mail beneath Brion’s tunic from chilling like ice. And silk beneath the mail was small consolation.

He pulled the crimson wool of his cloak more closely around him, flexed numb fingers in their leather gloves, drew the scarlet hunt cap farther down on his forehead, the white plume floating gently on the still air.

The sounds of voices, barking hounds, the jingle of burnished bits and spurs and other horse noises drifted up on the mist. Turning to look back down the hill, he could catch fleeting glimpses of well-bred horses moving in the fog, their equally well-bred riders resplendent in finely embroidered velvets and polished leather.

Brion smiled at that. For despite the outward show of splendor and self-assurance, he was certain that the riders below were enjoying the jaunt no more than he was. The inclement weather had made the hunt a chore instead of the anticipated pleasure.

Why, oh, why had he promised Jehana there would be venison for her table tonight? He had known, when he said it, that it was too early in the season. Still, one did not break one’s promise to a lady—especially when that lady was one’s beloved queen and mother of the royal heir.

The low, plaintive call of the hunting horns confirmed his suspicion that the scent was lost, and he sighed resignedly. Unless the weather cleared dramatically, there was little hope of reassembling the scattered pack in anything less than half an hour. And with hounds this green, it could be days, even weeks!

He shook his head and chuckled as he thought of Ewan—so proud of his new hounds earlier in the week. He knew that the old Marcher lord would have a lot to say about this morning’s performance. But however much he might make excuses, Brion was afraid Ewan deserved all the teasing he was certain to get in the weeks to come. A duke of Claibourne should have known better than to bring such puppies out in the field this early in the season.

The poor pups have probably never even seen a deer!