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Chapter One
TUCK
Nottingham, England
February 1194
I crept around the cliff’s edge, letting my eyes adjust to the moon and starlight. The dry, sandy earth under my paws made it easy to blend into the landscape, and a brisk sea breeze toyed with strands of my thick mane. I looked left and right, then raced across open terrain to a rocky outcrop, my next point of cover. There, I crouched, belly to the ground, and tested the wind. I whisked my tufted tail back and forth. The enemy was out there, not far away.
Step by step, I advanced, letting my shoulders swing like powerful blades. I heard the faint crackle of campfires and the hushed voices of sentries far behind me, but I tuned them out. Those were my own comrades. My focus was the enemy.
I prowled forward, every sense piqued, knowing my next step could be my last — or could take me to glory.
Impatient, I picked up my pace, jogging, then sprinting to the shelter of a bluff. I took cover there, barely daring to breathe. My heart pounded, because it was a matter of minutes, maybe seconds, until the fight of my life. Then, with a quiet shake of my mane and a quick prayer, I bared my teeth and charged the enemy.
Cries sounded, and a dozen swords were drawn with metal zings. But they were all too late. I pounced, eviscerating the first man, then swatted away a second and slashed at a third. One after another, the Ayyubids screamed and fell, while others ran for their lives. I roared and pursued them, vowing to chase them all the way back to…
A cow mooed, and I pulled up short. My breaths vaporized in the cold night air as reality slowly closed back in on me. Puff… Puff… Puff…
I hung my head, suddenly aware of the hard earth beneath the pads of my feet. The ground was frosty, not dry, the night cold and crisp. I wasn’t in an advance party of King Richard’s forces in the Crusades, and those weren’t ferocious Ayyubid forces ahead of me, led by their crafty leader, Saladin. They were cows. And that heathen I’d eviscerated… I looked over the mess I’d made of the pumpkin patch, then hung my head.
Too bad I wasn’t a wolf shifter instead of a lion. Then I could lift my muzzle and howl in misery.
I wasn’t the knight I had always dreamed of being. I was a friar at Winslow Abbey.
I sat on the frozen ground of the country I’d never left, wishing I were anywhere and anyone else but me. If I’d been born first, like my eldest brother, I would have inherited the family’s title, duties, and estate. Even better, if I’d been born second, I would have landed my dream job of knight. But fate had seen to it that I’d been born third and thus condemned me to the life of a priest.
I ran my claws along the ground, digging deep, frosty furrows. Then I raised my head and let out a silent scream, and another and another. So many, with so much anger and frustration, I could have wept.
And then I did.
Eventually, I dropped in a pitiful heap. Not king of the jungle, nor the land, nor even my own destiny. Just me.
Worse, even. I was a priest. Well, nearly. In a few short days, I would take my vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience and make it official.
Poverty…
No problem. As the son of a wealthy lord, it was only fair to make up for my privileged upbringing.
Obedience…
I made a face. Not my strong suit. If I’d been in an army, I could have lived with it. But it was hard to take orders from men who spoke in gentle whispers and dressed in bathrobes.
Chastity…
Big problem. I just didn’t have it in me.
But that was my future, and damn, was that future bleak.
I tried the only thing I could to regain a sense of control over my life, at least while I was in lion form: grooming myself. I started with my haunches, then worked my way down each paw. One measured lick after another, I worked my fur back into place. Then I moistened one paw and focused on my cheeks, forehead, and ears.
But not even that helped. I gazed listlessly into the distance, letting my shoulders rise then fall in another huge sigh. Mark Tuckerton, the man I used to be, was well and truly gone. Now, I was just Tuck, and the highlight of my life was sneaking out of Winslow Abbey at night to pretend.
The only true satisfaction I felt these days came from helping Robynne Hood, but those occasions were few and far between. Too bad the woman was so damned competent. I might see more action that way.
Still, it was something, wasn’t it?
At least, that’s what I tried telling myself.
