Knight Quests

by C. C. Wiley

Drem arched his brows in wonder as the innkeeper stepped closer. He feared the little man wanted more than coins for their stay.

  “We, too, are but merchants who have been displaced.” He caught Brigitte’s eye. “My . . . wife and I seek but a place to rest.” He ignored the tiny gasp and pressed on. “My men will guard not only our possessions but you as well.”

  Brigitte stepped forward and touched her palm to the little man’s arm. “We have money to pay for our night’s stay.” She turned. “Don’t we . . . husband?”

  There had been a time when Drem had hoped to hear her call him by that name. But tonight, it sounded like a curse rather than an endearment.

  “Aye.” He did not care for the way the innkeeper’s eyes lit up with greed. “But only enough for one night.”

  “Welsh, are you?” He tapped the side of his head. “I have an ear for the tongue of different lands.” A frown creased the man’s brow. “How is it a Frenchwoman and a Welshman are wed?” He grasped Drem’s wrist and turned it over to feel the calluses on his fingers and palms. “A merchant with archer’s hands?”

  Drem curled his fingers. The weight of his broadsword gave him comfort should he need it. But close contact would make it difficult to wield. And there was Brigitte to consider. Did she recognize the danger they were in?

  Brigitte stepped beside him, closing the distance. She touched the small of his back. The caress stirred his loins.

  “My husband was once a great soldier. But sadly . . .” She ran her hand over his biceps. “He was grievously wounded while fighting at Soissons. I thank God he did not lose his fingers like so many.” Tilting her head, she raised her chin, allowing the folds of her cloak to fall away. Her pert breasts lifted with each ragged breath. “Still, ’tis heartbreaking.” She wiped at the water leaking from her darkened eyes. “I ask you, kind sir, not to speak of it. For the children we will never be able to birth.”

  Her feint appeared to work. The innkeeper’s wife sniffed in sympathy.

  “Husband. Stop bothering them with your questions. Can’t you see they are weary?”

  “Aye, that I am,” Drem said. He made sure to take an exaggerated limp toward the trestle table.

  “Sit here until the mistress airs your room.” The innkeeper held out his hand. “Monsieur Bastion.”

  Drem nodded and led Brigitte to the bench. They sat together, shoulder to shoulder, his sword unhindered.

  * * *

  “Madame . . .”

  Brigitte looked away from the warming fire. She had finally begun to feel her toes again. The woman watched her expectantly and waited for a response. “De Marneir,” she said without thinking.

  Drem’s shoulder and thigh stiffened against her.

  Monsieur Bastion rubbed his hands. “I knew someone by that name. Lovely, lovely woman.”

  Madame Bastion hissed. “And where is she now?” She snapped her fingers. “Gone. With that man . . .”

  “You’ll not speak of it,” the innkeeper warned.

  “Phtt!” she waved him off. “You spoke of it with the other one who came seeking information. How is this different?”

  “Silence,” he growled, drawing up his short stature.

  Drem rose. “I thank you. My lady grows weary.”

  “Oui, I see that she does.” Blanching, the woman recalled her station and curtsied. “Follow me, madame. The men will talk of nonsense while you are settled. I will send up a meal of fresh bread and my husband’s famous sausages. Perhaps some wine as well?”

  Brigitte cast a beseeching glance to Drem, asking him to hurry. He nodded and smiled. Lifting his fingers to his lips, he set sail a kiss into the air.

  The stairs were surprisingly steep. She thought she might never reach the top.

  The innkeeper’s wife chattered as she led the way. “We get but a few travelers this way. ’Tis good to know the damn English king has not destroyed everything. If only our nobility would convince King Charles he is not made of glass. Le Fou.” Her eyes widened, realizing what she had said could be construed as treason against the mad French king.

  “You mentioned others asked about de Marneirs. Perhaps they are long-lost relatives.”

  “Phtt.” She smoothed her palms over her apron. “His tongue and way with words would melt a frozen bank of snow.” She shivered. “Angered my husband well enough when he left without paying his bill.”

  Brigitte’s attention caught. Indeed, it sounded too familiar for comfort. “Did this man have a cane?”

  “Oui, but ’twas all for show. He was . . .” she winked, “. . . robust and fit as they come.”

  “And did he give his name?” Brigitte turned to the bed and ran her hand over the blanket. She shrugged. “I ask only because I had an uncle who used a cane. I thought perhaps ’twas him.”

  “Merde.” She fanned her flaming face, plucking the bodice from her chest. “If that be your uncle, I am the king of England. This one was hale and hearty. Sly as they come. Randy only when he wanted to talk.”

  “Mayhap he is a cousin? Did he give his name?”

  “But of course. He called himself Monsieur Fledgling. Fitting really, the name. I heard word he’s been seen from time to time. Dare not seek him out, though. My husband will put a branding iron to his arse if he sees him again.”

  Brigitte bit her lip. That she would like to see. Mayhap after she first extracted the information she needed.

  She dug into her pocket. “If you should happen across him please let me know. I would dearly love to reunite with family.”

  Madame Bastion plucked the coin from Brigitte’s palm. She ran her thumb over the smooth surface. “Only between us?”

  “Oui.” She nodded. “’Tis best our . . . husbands not know everything. Don’t you agree?”

  Chapter 23

  Drem climbed the stairs to the bedchamber. The door loomed before him. How was he to share a room with Brigitte without making love to her? Guilt nipped at his heels like a pack of wolves. He needed to explain his actions without revealing all his reasons.

  He touched the latch, testing to see if the door was locked against him. It gave him pause when it did not open. There was sense in barring the door behind the innkeeper’s wife. But did Brigitte intend him to sleep in the barn? A freezing pile of straw did indeed seem more enticing than an angry woman.

  “Horse’s arse,” he muttered under his breath. ’Twas time to brave the storm within.

  He rapped on the door. “Brigitte, ’tis I. Let me in.”

  A mixture of relief and absolute terror swirled in his gut as she cracked open the door. Light streamed around her, creating a halo over her head. Dark brown eyes, filled with wariness, snapped at him. His avenging angel.

  Taking a deep breath for courage, he walked in and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, trapping her against his chest. Her heart beat wildly against his. Hope welled. Mayhap she would listen, accept what he told her. “My caru.”

  “We cannot go on this way. I must leave you.” An aching space spread between them as she stepped out of his arms. “I travel to Calais in the morning.”

  “You cannot travel alone. ’Tis unsafe.” He folded his arms, blocking the doorway. “I won’t allow it.”

  Her voice caught before she continued. “I hear a caravan travels that way. I will join them.”

  “Brigitte—”

  “Madame will return with our meal.” She went about the room, feeding the fire in the hearth, withdrawing the blanket from the bed. “When we have eaten, you may choose between the chair, the floor, or the bed.”

  “Where do you intend?”

  “I sleep alone.”

  A relentless tapping came from the other side of the door. “Madame and Monsieur de Marneir,” she called. “As requested, I bring all you desire. Guaranteed to make your mouths water.”

  Drem arched his brow. De Marneir? Why had Brigitte chosen that as their surname?

  Brigitte brushed past him. The transformation from outraged woman to placid wif
e happened in a trice. Her fingers fluttered over the tray like a covey of quail. She cooed over the loaf of bread and sausages. A simple sip of wine—testing for her darling husband, not doubt—brought a sigh.

  Envious of her attentions to every detail of the victuals that were set out on the table, he ached to have her peruse him with such care.

  * * *

  They ate in silence. Brigitte fidgeted under his watchful eye. The bit of parchment Madame Bastion had delivered now lay against her breast, branding her with its secret. She wished nothing more than to eat quickly and pretend to sleep.

  “Shite, woman.” The knife clattered against the table. “What game are you playing?”

  She sniffed and slowly, carefully, placed her dining knife beside the trencher. It rolled under her fingertips. Constantly playing, keeping her fingers limber, was a habit Alexandre had enforced daily. Splaying her hand quietly over her thighs, she leaned into her chair. She plastered a serene smile on her face as she forced her body to relax. She was foolish to think he would readily agree to her plan. He was already angered by her announcement that she was going to Calais alone as he rode to the king’s aide.

  “I play at nothing.”

  She did not want to arouse his suspicions further. She had Maman’s necklace. And she would soon know Alexandre’s whereabouts. Soon she would travel as she had intended before the English had ruined her plans. What more did she need? His heart? The caresses he gave her when he watched from afar? His love? To hear him whisper caru?

  “Brigitte,” he said, pushing back from the table. “As you say, mayhap ’tis time we parted.” He lifted her hands, brushing them against his lips. “I would ask, though, for your patience as I explain why I kept the jewelry.” Flecks of gold winked through the forest of pain in his gaze. “To ask your forgiveness.”

  “No need,” she said, pulling her hands from his. “’Tis nothing to forgive.” Her skirts swished as she paced from the bed to the window. “What is left of Maman has been returned to me. That is all I ever wanted.”

  “All?”

  She placed her hands on her hips. “Oui. All.”

  Drem grunted and shook out his cloak. “Take the bed. I’m off to the barn to see to the men and horses.”

  Brigitte bit her lip. “Where will you sleep?”

  “Do not fear. I’ll take the chair.” He stood at the door, hesitating as if he needed to say more. Adjusting his sword, he added as he left, “If charity strikes you, I would accept a blanket.” He shrugged. “If not, the warmth from the hearth will suffice. ’Tis more than the soldiers are enduring this wicked eve.”

  The swirl of his cloak shadowed the doorway and he was gone.

  She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she had kept locked in her lungs. Drained, she dropped onto the mattress. What had she expected? That he would stay? She had made it known as she pushed him away that there was no room in her plans for him. She feared it was too late to call him back.

  Turning to the window, she opened the shutters slightly to allow the moonlight to filter in and read the scribbled note. Alexandre’s hiding place had been found.

  Brigitte stuffed the note under the mattress and leaped into bed as the door opened.

  * * *

  Drem felt his heart turn to ice without her by his side. How could he fix things if the woman would not listen? He shook the shards from his cloak and tossed it on a peg. The jug of wine the innkeeper had sold him for a hefty price offered a bit of comfort. He set it on the table beside him. Temporary solace.

  Brigitte lay in the bed, her dark mane spread over the pillow. She breathed softly and rolled away. The slope of her back, the curve of her hip, her trim ankles. They all called to him, to trace each tender shape with his fingertips. Slide his tongue over her skin and watch her shiver as she tried to control her reactions.

  He drew back his hand, so close now he nearly caressed her skin. The woman had made it clear she no longer desired his touch. Dropping into the chair, he braced his feet on the hearth and let the heat seep into his frozen toes. He wished his heart was as numb.

  “I have to tell you,” he muttered, hoping his confession penetrated her dreams. “I have to explain myself for I need your forgiveness.” He rolled the cup of wine between his hands before pulling a long drink. “I can’t go into battle wondering if you hate me with all your being. I need you to understand. To say a prayer for my soul now and then.”

  Silence greeted him. “Dafydd ap Hew is my father and he is wanted for treason. He plotted with Owain Glyndr and the French to overthrow the throne of England. Part of the Southampton plot.” Emboldened by wine, he continued as he stared into the fire. Did he betray his brothers by telling her anything more? “Several nobles were beheaded. Not Dafydd ap Hew, mind you.”

  He quaffed the drink and poured himself another. Might as well numb the memories.

  “No. He’s too cunning for that. He’d rather sell his own son than pay for his crimes. Put his family in danger. But he’s out there.” Drem tapped his chest. “I can feel him here. Eating at me.” He slumped deeper into the chair, his shoulders rounded. “And that brings me to the why.”

  After glancing to see if she still slept, he played with the pitcher and debated whether he was a fool or a coward. Perhaps both. “Your maman’s necklace. I saw one like it before. An ugly thing not easily forgotten. At Dunstable Priory. ’Twas a message. A warning or a cry for help. I didn’t know. I thought my dah was teasing me, making me pay for foiling his plans. I feared others would look upon me as a traitor for keeping the knowledge secret. I had to keep it with me. Study it. Use it to draw my father out of his rabbit warren.”

  The fire brought life back to his feet. He wiggled his toes and imagined what it would be like to have a fire waiting upon his return home, his woman warming his bed.

  “I’ll take my chances with the man who tossed me away,” he said. “Even though we’d just met and I didn’t know how that ugly brooch tied you to my father, I wanted to keep you by my side.”

  He took a shuddering breath and set his cup on the table. The wine had reopened the wounds of the past. “I intended to return the necklace. Soon. But I failed you. Didn’t I? I promised you safety, and instead, you took the punishment from your people. All for a bit of remembrance of your maman.”

  Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his thighs and buried his head in his hands. He’d been a fool to think telling the sleeping woman would clear his mind. Now he would have to relive it all again when she woke. The thought of her disappointment and distrust in anything he said made his heart ache with loss.

  * * *

  Brigitte opened her eyes and stared at the wall. She watched the fire dance over the shadows and listened. His voice filled with loneliness and despair.

  She tugged the fur off the bed and rose. Her chemise grazed her nipples and they pebbled. Memories of his mouth, drawing on them until they formed a bud, sent threads of desire through her blood. She padded across the room. Cold air fogged her breath until she drew closer to the hearth. And to Drem.

  The man’s chin had dropped to his chest. Strong legs splayed out. His fingers were lax against the chair. Long golden lashes dusted his cheeks. The fire caught the highlights in the waves of the auburn curls, licking his broad neck. Corded muscles, built strong over the years by the weight of his helm, stretched from shoulders to head.

  Placing her palm on his shoulder, she lowered herself to kneel beside his chair. Warmed by the fire, protected by the fur, she leaned her cheek against his knee and closed her eyes. “You are forgiven,” she murmured softly.

  He touched her head, smoothing her hair, tracing the shell of her ear. She turned into his hand, her lips making contact with his palm. Rough calluses and ridges from years of archery creased his hands. They brushed up her neck. The pad of his thumbs made a whirling pattern over her skin, then nudged deeper, plunging into her hair.

  Drem leaned closer, raising her so that their lips could meet. He hovered over
her mouth, making her ache for what he had yet to give. Yearning, she pressed her hands into the tops of his thighs.

  “I want you to—” She couldn’t finish. Frustration warred with hunger. How did you tell someone what you wanted when you didn’t know yourself?

  “Shhh,” he said as he layered fluttering kisses over her eyelids.

  Wanting more. More of everything. She let the fur drop from her shoulders. Rising, she bent over him until he could see her desire revealed through the chemise. The mere thought of his tongue, his mouth suckling her breasts, made her nipples ache for his touch.

  Drem’s eyes darkened with appreciation. His hands stole around her waist. Strong fingers encircled her as he stood and carried her to the bed. He set her down, his eyes never leaving her face. “I want this with you. To share the night together.” His hand hovered over her mons. “If you’ll have me.” He waited, caressing the ribbons that held the chemise together.

  Heat from his hand carried through the air, warming her core, making her wet with desire. She closed the gap between them. To lie with him again, to feel him inside her, pulsing with life, would make the farewell so much harder. But she could not deny herself the pleasure. She forgave him.

  “Oh, oui,” she breathed. Brushing her hand over his burgeoning flesh, she thrilled at the knowledge that this would be her gift to him. A night of love and tender good-byes. ’Twould forever be etched in her memories as she hunted down the man who had given her mother the necklace.

  * * *

  Before dawn, Drem awoke to the unfamiliar comfort of the innkeeper’s mattress. Thin but sturdy, it was heaven compared to sleeping on a cot or the cold, hard ground.

  Waking up next to his woman made his day brighter. Though a quiet sleeper, she was indeed a vocal, passionate lover while in the throes of climax. His cock awoke refreshed from the night’s love play. He grinned. There were ways to see the sunrise that did not require one to leave one’s bed. Best to ensure her day started with pleasure before heading out into the cold. He rolled over to gather his Brigitte into his arms. My caru.