The Knight’s Reward: Border Series Book Ten

by Mecca, Cecelia

  That gave Neill pause. He did not, in fact, know anything of deBeers other than that he was a baron whose daughter was a favorite of the queen’s.

  “His wife is cousin to Joan of Navarre,” Lyndwood continued, after pausing long enough for effect.

  “The French queen?” It was not possible. He’d have learned of the connection after the tournament. Adam or Cora would have told him.

  “Very few know of it.”

  “Yet you are privy to this information?”

  Lyndwood smiled, and Neill decided he rather agreed with Reid and Graeme—he didn’t much like this man. He was the sort who thrived on power. Who cared little for the consequences of his actions if he directly benefited from them.

  Are you acting any differently with Kathryn?

  But he didn’t have any time to devote to that thought, for Lyndwood had already launched into his explanation. “DeBeers and I fostered together many, many years ago.”

  “Ahhh.”

  That, he could understand. The ties between boys who were trained together were as strong as those of family, much like he and Aylmer.

  “Which means . . .”

  He considered the import of what he’d learned as Lyndwood watched him, likely knowing the exact direction of his thoughts. If deBeers was a relative to the French queen, he could be dangerous to Edward, whose father’s policies had brought the two countries to the precipice of war. If this man, the one whose daughter Neill was supposed to wed, had any influence over the French king . . .

  He was an important man to Edward.

  Too important to disappoint. Much more important than the long-running, exhausting situation on the England-Scotland border.

  Hadn’t he always said this king was more interested in France than he was in Scotland?

  “If I do not wed his daughter,” he said aloud, “Edward risks falling out with a man who has the potential to tip the scales of war.”

  “Some say ’tis an inevitability. But certainly Edward attempts to avoid it. You cannot renounce your betrothal.”

  “We are not betrothed,” he said, knowing the argument was weak.

  Lyndwood finished his drink and poured another, filling Neill’s goblet without being asked.

  “A minor detail.”

  Of course, he knew as much.

  Kathryn’s face flashed before him. He could feel her head nestled against his chest even now. Reaching up to rub the back of his neck, Neill sat back against his chair’s velvet cushion, even Lyndwood’s small chamber not without the luxuries of the royal court.

  “If you do, Caxton will remain as warden. The Day of Truce will not resume.”

  Angry at Lyndwood, at himself, and the king, Neill slammed his goblet on the table, splatters of red wine flying out. “That he would risk so much for a woman . . .” He cut himself off, shaken. He’d been thinking of the king’s commitment to Lady Alina, although his words could just as easily be applied to himself.

  “You’ve more to consider than just the borderlands,” Lyndwood said, his expression dark. But Neill already knew what the man was going to say.

  “If you spurn the Lady Alina, you risk not only Edward’s wrath but that of her father, who will not take kindly to a broken promise. Though how he would retaliate, I cannot say.” Lyndwood drank deeply of his wine.

  DeBeers would see it as an affront both from and to Edward. But would he really use his connection to the French crown to retaliate?

  Could Neill’s decision cause not one but two wars?

  Clearly Lyndwood thought so.

  “You cannot do it,” the man repeated.

  His chest tight, Neill stood. He’d heard enough.

  “Thank you for your counsel, my lord.”

  With that, he turned and left. And for the first time in a long while, Neill felt utterly and completely defeated.

  He cared not for the feeling at all.

  * * *

  Kathryn rubbed the cloth across her face, down to her neck and over her arms. She should not have spent her precious gold on such a trifle as dried rose, but had indulged herself. The men, of course, had questioned her about their visit to the floristry and tailor, but she’d remained sufficiently elusive. They’d accepted her explanation, or lack thereof, and followed her about the city, making sure to leave for the inn before the most dangerous part of the day.

  Vespers, otherwise known as the murdering hour here in London.

  Her mind kept straying to Neill. Wondering what he was doing. She knew it didn’t matter—she couldn’t allow him to sway her from her purpose. And though she should be terrified, Kathryn felt at peace with her decision.

  A knock at the door interrupted her musings. Opening it, she let out a breath of relief, realizing she’d not inquired to the identity of her visitor.

  “You should be more careful,” Neill said, not unexpectedly, as he walked in past her.

  She said nothing. The awkwardness between them from earlier lingered. Dressed only in her shift, Kathryn noticed that Neill had recently bathed. His hair, still wet, curled at the ends, and she had the overwhelming desire to touch it. To feel the tendrils beneath her fingers.

  Which, of course, made her think of the only time she had allowed herself to explore him with her touch, his stomach as hard and unyielding as an iron sword. Without a word, he drew her to him, and this time she did not protest. Kissing him felt as natural now as breathing.

  His tongue delved inside her mouth, and she met it with her own. Desperation, knowing what was to come, made her cling to him more tightly than usual. When he pulled away, Kathryn felt . . . lost.

  “I would make you mine this night if I could.”

  She knew and wished it too.

  “Come.”

  Kathryn tugged on his hand and led him to her bed. Though he seemed surprised, Neill did not argue. Instead, he lay down as she silently suggested he do. And then she climbed up against him, burrowing her head into his chest.

  He put his arms around her, one under her head, the other holding her hand, and they lay like that for some time.

  “You smell like roses,” he finally said. She repositioned her head to look at him.

  “Aye.”

  Unwilling to tell him where she’d gotten the fragrance, worried he may make further inquiries, she tried to guide the conversation away from what was to come.

  What tomorrow would bring.

  “Tell me another story about your childhood,” she said instead. “Something I do not yet know.”

  He was silent for some time. Kathryn watched his face as his expression turned from thoughtful to pleased. His lips curled up ever so slightly, faint lines appearing around the corners of his eyes.

  The light from a single candle showed her what she already knew. They were clear blue, just like his brothers’. Sometimes, when he was angry, they appeared darker. But they were as light as a summer sky tonight, and it seemed Kathryn could peer through them into his very soul.

  “Emma could be willful at times. One day, when I was given my first training sword, she asked our father for the same. He refused her request, saying only boys could become knights. I remember Bryce saying that Emma had gotten too quiet. We’d expected her to argue with our father, but she did not.”

  Kathryn was glad her own father had understood the value of her own training, even if it was with a dagger and not a sword.

  “What did she do?”

  “Nothing. Or at least, she did nothing that day.”

  He adjusted himself on the bed and then pulled her even tighter against him.

  “Or the next. Or the day after that. It was a sennight later when she was discovered missing by Geoffrey, who raised the alarm.”

  “Where had she gone?”

  “Into the village. Which, of course, she’d not been given leave to do on her own. She’d hidden herself among sacks of grain, and so the miller’s son had unknowingly brought her to town. From there, she visited the blacksmith—” his grin widened, “—t
o commission a sword, of course.”

  “Of course,” she said, laughing. “He did not make her one, did he?”

  “Nay. He sent his assistant back to the manor to inform us that she was there. She spent the next hour watching him work.”

  “And what did your father do?”

  “Father? He did nothing. But Bryce, admiring her bravery, fashioned a dagger suited for a young girl and showed her how to wield it.”

  Her eyes widened in surprise.

  “Aye, much like your father taught you.”

  “I would like to meet Emma someday.” She said it without thinking and immediately wished she could take back the words. Sighing, she laid her head back down. “I’m sorry. I should not have said that.”

  “There is nothing to be sorry for, Kathryn.”

  His voice sounded sad to her ears, but there was nothing she could say to him. Knowing what she had planned . . . she’d do better to remain silent. They should enjoy this time together while they still could.

  Neill must have been thinking much the same. He rubbed her back as she lay there, her head still nestled firmly against his chest. The last thought Kathryn remembered having was that she loved him and wanted to tell him as much.

  But it was not the time for such words.

  And then she slept.

  Chapter 28

  When Neill walked into the royal training yard the next morn, the reaction was as he expected. One by one, heads turned toward him as he strode to the captain-at-arms.

  “Sir Neill Waryn,” he declared himself.

  “Well met, and welcome, Sir Neill,” the man said, handing him a red and yellow surcoat to be worn over the light armor Aylmer had helped him with earlier. He’d left his squire at Langford, knowing the boy wanted to stay in the south. Aylmer had accompanied him to the royal training yard instead.

  Neill had awoken before dawn, although he couldn’t bring himself to rise for some time. Despite the diminutive bed, which had barely held them both, Neill could not remember a more pleasant night’s sleep. The only difficulty had been ignoring his body’s response to the beautiful woman in his arms.

  She was not his, as much as he willed it otherwise. The thought that he’d almost taken her virginity disturbed him now. The choice he’d thought so clear was anything but.

  Two days until the king received him again. Until he would be forced to make a choice no man should be asked to make.

  Before meeting Lyndwood, he’d made his decision. It would be ludicrous for the sovereign to decline to remove the only barrier to peace along the border, but it was his decision, and his alone. Aye, he could aid the cause by marrying Lady Alina, but Neill could no sooner forsake Kathryn for his unknown bride than he could lose a joust.

  Count victory before you’ve achieved it, and you are lost.

  He could hear Adam’s words in his ears, cautioning him, teaching him humility. Geoffrey had urged him to rethink his choice time and again, despite knowing the happiness of being loved. Despite the similarity between his situation with Sara and the difficulties Neill and Kathryn now faced.

  So much hung in the balance:

  The Day of Truce.

  Caxton.

  His family’s safety.

  Lyndwood.

  DeBeers.

  War with France.

  His mind had been awash with uncertainty, and so he’d done what he always did in times of trouble—he’d fetched Aylmer and the two of them gained entry to the very place he now stood. The training yard was the only place he could find peace, and Neill desperately needed to calm his mind this day.

  “Quintain?” he asked. The captain pointed, and he and Aylmer made their way to the far end of the field. Once, grass may have grown beneath their feet, but no longer. Men’s feet and horses’ hooves had turned the ground beneath them to dirt. A wall of stone surrounded them, encircling one of the largest training yards Neill had ever encountered.

  “Do you remember the first time we were here?” he asked Aylmer, who rolled his eyes in response. “What is it?”

  “We’re being watched,” Aylmer said. “Word spreads as the mighty Neill Waryn makes his way through the yard.”

  Neill pretended not to notice. “Yet another reason to return north.”

  “You’ll not lack competitors if it’s a fight you want this morn.”

  Sounds of clanging swords and the grunts of men practicing their skills rang in the air all around them. A comforting sound that brought Neill as much peace as he was likely to feel under the circumstances.

  “Need,” he clarified.

  Aylmer knew most of Neill’s situation, but he’d not yet told him about his meeting with Lyndwood. He knew why he’d kept the details to himself, which troubled him nearly as much as the decision he would be forced to make.

  He knew in his heart Aylmer would agree with Geoffrey.

  With Lyndwood.

  Even with Kathryn, who’d seemed horrified by Lyndwood’s revelations about Lady Alina. “We cannot do this,” she’d said. He knew she worried about her role in the breakdown of peace, but as he’d told her, the decision was not theirs but Edward’s.

  Still, she was not wrong to think everyone would cast blame on him. On Kathryn.

  He could endure it, but could she?

  “Neill?”

  “Aye,” he said, reaching the quintain. Three were erected far enough apart to allow them to be used simultaneously. One held a shield, another a sack of grain, and a suit of armor waited in the third. The areas were used for training, each serving a distinct purpose.

  In the joust, some men excelled by the strength of their hit, for which the armor would help them practice. Others, speed, the force of their lance coming from the quickness of the mount beneath them. Still others, for precision. The swinging bag of grain was more often missed than hit and provided practice to hone that particular skill.

  Neill was known for all three.

  “Will you progress?” Aylmer asked.

  Neill nodded, approaching the area reserved for those who awaited their turn. They’d not been permitted to bring their own mounts, as was customary in the royal training yard. When it was Neill’s turn, he would borrow one of the king’s crusaders, another name for the destriers bred expressly for this purpose.

  “Aye,” he said as he was summoned to the first quintain.

  Nodding to the stable master, who handed him the reins of a black destrier, Neill grabbed his helm from Aylmer. Donning it, he then took the practice lance from an eager young squire.

  Moving into position, he focused on the very spot that would remove the armor with one blow. The hit needed to be strong and sure, and if he wished to progress to the next of the practice areas, he had just one chance. Patting his mount with his free hand, Neill then wrapped the reins around his wrist and readied his lance. He saw nothing but the armor at the end of the field. He heard nothing but the breathing of his horse, save his own breath, which he steadied in preparation for their lunge.

  With a word, and a kick, he charged toward his opponent. Not a suit of armor, in his mind, but a man intent on dismounting him. Which Neill would never allow.

  When he hit his mark, Neill knew before turning back he’d accomplished his task. He’d done the same hundreds of times. Thousands. In training and in tournaments. And he could always tell if his mark was true.

  He heard the shouts as he rode back, but he ignored them.

  “Another run?”

  The captain was present now, along with another man Neill remembered as the master-at-arms. A growing crowd encircled them. Murmurs of “Waryn” and “champion” reached his ears, but Neill blocked them out as surely as he did his troubles.

  This time, the shield. His goal, to break the lance into pieces, attesting to the speed with which he could hit his mark.

  “Remember Anjou,” he heard Aylmer cry out in the crowd, a reminder of the time he’d nearly lost to a much younger, quite agile French knight. He’d angled the lance just sli
ghtly too high from top to bottom, but Neill had no intention of making that mistake again.

  Still, this maneuver could be tricky—even more so on a borrowed mount. Neill would have to rely on subtle movements to bring the charger to full speed. But judging from his first run, the horse was capable if he could steady him and strike at just the right time.

  When he struck the shield and shattered his lance, Neill was unsurprised at the outcome. He’d trained long and hard, and he was rightly confident in his skills.

  By now, none were left to their own training. The crowd had swelled around him. To progress was a feat few mastered, and Neill knew it well. But he ignored the cheers as he prepared for his final run.

  The most difficult of them all.

  The sack was small, and a squire would swing it from side to side just as Neill brought his horse to a gallop. Hitting the tiny moving target would require him to reposition the heavy training lace he’d just been handed.

  He heard Aylmer’s shouts above the others and smiled. None cheered louder than his friend. Aylmer still hadn’t told him if he intended to stay in the north with him, at Kenshire, but he hoped so.

  Would Kathryn be there too?

  He’d been able to block her from his thoughts until now. But as he prepared for his final run, her sleeping face, so peaceful and lovely, appeared before him.

  If I can be victorious here, I can do the same with Kathryn. I will win. And I will not denounce the woman I love.

  It was no way to make a decision, especially such an important one. But the thought came unbidden, and so Neill embraced it. He would not lose. Had not failed a quintain progress in years. And when he succeeded here, he would tell the king of his intent.

  Kathryn was his.

  For a final time, Neill spurred his mount toward the target. He never took his eyes from it, watching as it swung from side to side, learning its precise path to time his strike perfectly. Moving his lance into position, he determined just where it would be when he approached. Horse steady, arm steady, he aimed.

  And missed.