The Virgin, the Knight, and the Unicorn (BookStrand Publishing Romance)

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The Virgin, the Knight, and the Unicorn (BookStrand Publishing Romance) Page 3

by Lindsay Townsend


  “Look.” He pointed out a squirrel, a red tail-blur, and she clapped her hands, grinning.

  “Pretty, but no unicorn.”

  “Not yet,” he replied, still basking in her smile, glad they were easier with each other.

  “Is it true that younger sons of knights inherit no land?”

  Her sudden question surprised him into truth. “I have none.”

  Matilde frowned. He was so intrigued by this that he asked, “You have land?”

  “We all have, for the moment.”

  Before he had met her, Gawain would not have been listening closely enough to hear the tension in her voice. Now he did. Again, he was surprised and at the same time disconcerted. I am learning too much about this maid, and wanting too badly to learn more. The sooner we reach the pool, the better. He had plans for Matilde and he guessed already that she would not like them—a guilty foreknowledge he would not have even considered a day ago, when he had not encountered her. But I will not harm her and if I can, I shall reward her, so why should she complain?

  “I thought knights were like nobles and had an easy life,” Matilde observed next, granting him a sympathy he could not savor because he felt it to be undeserved.

  “Only in the land of faery,” he grumbled, and kicked the horse into a gallop. His bay laid back its ears and they thundered on, Gawain relieved they could talk no longer.

  What is amiss with me? He could not yet admit that he was starting to care for his companion, but part of him liked the way she made him feel. Part of him liked it very much.

  * * * *

  In the late afternoon sun, the woodman’s hut appeared harmless, but Matilde had heard stories of such abandoned places. “I must cleanse this spot, before we sleep here,” she said to Gawain as he lifted her down, setting her gently on the grass.

  Tending his horse now, Gawain spoke without looking at her. “I do not fear mites or spiders, but if you feel you must sweep, go ahead.”

  “And spirits?”

  His broad shoulders twitched with suppressed laughter. “Demons and elf-shot and beasties?”

  Her temper flared, but he had his back to her and was busy lifting the saddle from his horse, so she did not trouble to glare or answer him. Snatching up her bundle, she stalked into the hut, hearing his mocking, lazy, “Sweep me a space for a saddle,” as she shouldered open the door.

  Using her bundle cloth as a sweeping brush, Matilde soon had the place swirling with stirred dust. She darted to the pool for water, filled her flasks, and set her stores on the bed platform. Carefully, she nudged that, watching for spiders or adders. Nothing stirred in the ancient, dry bracken and the bed seemed sturdy enough. Do we sleep together? Ignoring that thought, Matilde hurried on, dragging the old bedding out into the sunlight.

  Gawain was standing beside his horse and rubbing his side. He spotted her looking and stopped.

  “Hungry?” she asked, unable to keep the sting from her question despite his confession about dining on acorns. Knights are greedy and always ready for food.

  He nodded. “Yes, and this gripe is nothing. It comes and goes.”

  She looked more closely. His tanned, lean face had a shiny look she had seen before with others, and his mention of belly gripes was another sign. She knew the cure, too, but whether he would heed her…

  She walked across to him and pointed to the fresh bracken growing nearby, speaking steadily as she would to a nervous cow she was about to milk. “You may have a worm inside you. If you go into the ferns and eat a piece, that will purge you. But be warned, it acts quickly. Say the lord’s prayer after, to complete the charm.”

  He grimaced, rubbed at his flat stomach, glanced at the green waving ferns, and then grinned. “Why not? I have nothing to lose.”

  Nodding to her—a real acknowledgment this time—Gawain strode off into the bracken.

  I hope he heeds me about it acting quickly. Matilde watched him go, admiring his long, strong legs and wide shoulders before she returned to her sweeping.

  She was busy then, gathering fresh dried grass for bedding, sprinkling precious salt across the threshold as a protection against spirits, praying to the Virgin to protect her and Gawain within the hut. She stopped up cracks in the timbers and wattle with mud and moss. She blessed the hearth with salt and made it up and set her tinder flints to fresh kindling. When the fire was burning steadily, without sparks, she dragged more firewood to the hearth, then carried the saddle inside.

  I need more water. When he reappears, Gawain will need to drink water. He can from here, for the water from the pool is fresh. She took up her water flasks and set off for the pond.

  Returning, she found Gawain had moved the saddle to the threshold and was sitting, sunning himself in the doorway. The fire she had set had burned down and was almost out. Hurrying past his long legs, she laid more dry kindling and twigs onto the ashy hearth and blew strongly until the new flames almost tongued her hair. She sat back on her heels.

  “Better?” she asked Gawain, but she could see that his complexion was clear again and the shiny, pinched look had gone from his face. “Could you…?”

  She had been about to ask if he could feed the fire but now she realized he had fed himself. The stores she had left on the bed platform were almost gone, the pouch of hard-boiled eggs was empty, the pouch of cheese reduced to a few crumbs, the bag of oats torn and spilled, some scattered over the floor.

  Matilde felt her jaw sag. She spun about to face Gawain.

  “That cure for worms works well,” he said, shamelessly licking his fingers. “You make good cheese.”

  “You raided my stores.”

  He shrugged. “You were busy with something and I was hungry.”

  His blazing arrogance hurt her. “And me?”

  “I left you some.”

  “Some!” Angry beyond measure, Matilde hurled the cheese pouch at him. “I brought enough to last several days with care, and now what do we eat? You are like all the others! You are a plague of Egypt all to yourself!”

  Now he jumped to his feet, waving his arms. “You said nothing.”

  “And you did not ask!”

  His bushy eyebrows drew together and his face reddened. Matilde backed away to the fire, moving faster still when he drew his sword.

  “If you chop off my head and put it on a pole the unicorn will not come!” She panted, determined that if she was going to die—most unlikely—then she would have the last word.

  The long, lethal blade clashed back into its scabbard. Gawain stared at her, his blue eyes stormy and cold, but beneath the ice, there was hurt, too. “You believe that of me?” he said slowly. “I would never, ever, do such a thing.”

  “Then why?” Too furious to say the rest, Matilde jerked her head at his sword-belt.

  “I wanted to show you.” He spoke carefully, almost with apology. “A sword is heavy. It takes work. I was trying to explain.”

  “Show me? Showing off is more likely.”

  The half frown on his handsome face transformed into a brief shock of horror, followed swiftly by a full scowl. “There is no talking to you!”

  He stormed from the hut and away, crashing out of sight into the undergrowth.

  * * * *

  Matilde ate a sparse supper of porridge and lay down on the bed platform. Hunger crawled along her insides, but she was used to that. She was less sure of herself. Have I driven him away? She could not forget the look of horror, almost anguish, on his face. I wish I had not said he would chop off my head. I knew I was exaggerating even when I spoke. Should I go after him?

  She was still wondering when she fell asleep.

  * * * *

  A savor of roasting meat roused her. It was past moonrise and a cloak had been laid over her. Sitting up on the bed platform, she saw Gawain kneeling by the fire, turning spits.

  “Here.” He handed her a dock leaf as a platter, then a spit of meat.

  Matilde tried to say she was sorry but the sight and scent of the fr
esh food was too much. She snatched the wooden spit from him and tore at the meat. It was rabbit, nicely cooked. Lords’ and nobles’ fare, for me.

  “Have some ale.” Gawain shook his flask and passed that to her.

  Finally, she found her voice. “Thank you.”

  He handed her another spitful of meat. “I did not mean to deplete your stores. I am sorry.”

  His apology was so solemn and deep that at first she thought she had misheard. Then she was disbelieving. Knights and nobles never apologized to bondswomen like herself. Unsure how to respond, Matilde nodded to the other roasting spits. “Are you not eating?”

  He smiled. “You first. I thought it might improve your temper.”

  Matilde felt herself blush. Wondering still if she should apologize, she hid her face behind the flask as she took another drink. What does he think of me? To her surprise, she realized it mattered. I want Gawain to like me.

  * * * *

  I wish I had not gorged on the lass’s foodstuffs, but how was I to know? I am no cook. Gawain wanted to thrash about on the bed, but with Matilde resting beside him he forced himself to remain still. He wished he had not drawn his sword. Had he been showing off, as she said? His less-than-coherent thought had been to give her the sword, let her feel how heavy it was, and then have her admit that he needed more food than she. Instead, all had gone amiss. Yet how could Matilde believe for an instant that I would injure her? Shame blistered him afresh. Am I so terrible?

  In all his three and twenty years, he had never felt so low. She had helped him, especially with that cure for worms, and he had repaid her by raiding her things. How could she trust him after that? I never used to consider trust where peasants are concerned. Has she bewitched me? Perhaps we should turn about tomorrow and return to my lord’s castle.

  “No!”

  He stiffened, thinking she was scolding him afresh.

  “Not the land.”

  Cautiously, he turned his head. Matilde lay on her back, her eyes tightly closed, her limbs taut. As he watched, a shaft of moonlight stole through the roof thatch and illuminated her face. She was so young, yet so beset with trouble. Her lips trembled and her flawless skin looked clammy. “No!” she cried out, rearing up, still deep in sleep.

  He could not bear it that she should be so haunted. He gathered her into his arms, kissing her forehead and ears and chin, whispering, “You are safe, Matilde, safe. Safe with me.”

  She let out a gasp and for a dreadful moment, he feared she had died in her nightmare, but then she turned more fully into his embrace, trembling and cold. He rocked her and eased the hood of his cloak above her bright head, singing the lullaby he remembered his mother singing to him. Her eyelids fluttered. “Where am I?” she croaked.

  “Safe, Matilde,” he said softly, guessing she was not yet fully awake. “You had a bad dream, but you are safe. Go back to sleep.”

  Obediently, her head lolled against his shoulder and he felt her relax. Another moment and she gave a small, dainty snore.

  Cradling her, Gawain waited until he was certain she was fully asleep again and then he made up the fire to keep her warm. I do this and I tend her because I need her healthy to lure the unicorn, he told himself. He told himself he believed it, even as he luxuriated in her sweet scent and her soft, sleeping trust.

  But what did she mean about the land?

  Chapter 3

  Gawain slept and dreamed. He dreamed first of clouds, soft, singing clouds, and of a woman who became a rainbow. Later he dreamed of a forest pool, visited by many fey and wild creatures. When he spotted a unicorn approaching, gliding like a silver waterfall between the trees, its gray eyes wide, its slim horn sparkling like crystal in the moonlight, Matilde appeared beside him.

  “I have a pretty ribbon to tempt the beast,” she said, but he was not interested in ribbons, only in her.

  He snared her in his arms and stripped her. Her body was slender with pert, pink-nippled breasts, and her intimate fuzz was a darker gold than her hair. He gagged her and heaved her over his shoulder. “To the pool.”

  He heard her rapid breathing as he strode through the woodland and smelled her sweet, clean scent. Her skin was reddening where she bumped against his rough tunic and she kicked her shapely legs in silent protest.

  “Stop that!” He cracked his palm across her thighs, feeling her jerk and flinch. “Here.”

  He halted on an animal trail within sight of the shimmering pool. Dropping her onto her hands and knees, he tied one end of the ribbon she had waved in front of his face around her slender neck. The other end he wrapped about a forked branch and drove into the soft earth.

  Pinned and mute, she looked up at him, trembling through every limb. He smiled in the satisfaction of setting a good trap. “This is the way a virgin lures a unicorn—bared and nude, like a mare to a stallion.”

  She looked her protest.

  “You are mine,” he said, glory lighting through him. “The lord gave you to me, bondswoman. You are a knight’s possession, his toy, no less, no more.”

  She whimpered when he knelt behind her, stroking her shuddering back. “Now, let us make sure you are a maid.” Running his other hand up her legs, he explored the soft, juicy lushness of her intimate parts. His fingers glistened with her feminine moisture as she arched her back, granting him further access. She looked around and gazed at him imploringly, her eyelashes damp with tears.

  No! Matilde would never just plead and cry. She would argue, fight, bite, and kick, and if I truly treated her that way, she would be right.

  Shocked out of the dream, Gawain reared up, stark awake and sweating. His mouth was cinder-dry and his head throbbed. To his deep shame, he was aroused. Shuddering as Matilde had done in his dream, he lay down again, listening to the real Matilde’s light breathing. She had curled away in her sleep and he longed to trace the delicate line of her spine. Instead, knowing he would win no more rest that night, he shuffled off the bed and groped his way to the door.

  Once outside he ran clumsily for the pool, his pounding feet an accompaniment to a single, appalling thought. Thank God above, she did not know I planned to test her maidenhead and stake her by the pond like a sacrificial goat. Thank God, I did not bind or gag her. Thank God.

  * * * *

  Gawain was silent during their breakfast. Matilde took little notice and her own mind was buzzing with ideas. To her surprise, she had slept well and woke feeling refreshed and happy. After washing their crocks, she glanced at her companion. Seated in the doorway, he was fingering his dark stubble and glancing at the cloudless sky, his eyes hooded. Passing him to put the wooden cups by the hearth, she decided to prod him, at least mentally.

  “Do you have a mirror?”

  He started as if a fly had landed on him. “Do I look the kind for such trifles?”

  “Unicorns love beauty and are vain, too. They are drawn to mirrors. I wondered if you had one.” She shrugged. “Everyone knows knights are vain.”

  His dark brows drew together but he said nothing. Sensing he was distracted, Matilde could not resist another prod. “Have you chosen the place where you wish to watch for the beast?”

  To her surprise his tanned, even features took on a darker hue and he gave a brief nod. Wondering why he should be blushing, she walked outside, took out her knife, and selected a tress of her hair, ready to cut it off close to her scalp.

  Faster than lightning, Gawain was on his feet and beside her, gripping her wrist. “No.”

  Furious that she could not move her arm or free herself, she tossed her head—a girlish gesture she considered her sister Ivette’s. “It is my hair!”

  His shadow fell across her as he shifted even closer. “You are with me now. I do not wish you to cut it.”

  She jerked her wrist but could not budge by so much as a whisker. She chose not to look up into his smirking blue eyes. “So, have you gold thread in your pack?” she demanded, glowering at his feet instead. “We need something to draw the unicorn and t
o snare it. Unicorns have a liking for gold. My hair looks like gold.”

  Inexplicably he flinched. “Maybe, but no hair is strong enough to hold a beast.”

  Patiently, she said, “My hair will. A few strands will be sufficient to make a net.” It is magic, Gawain, the magic of my maiden state.

  She heard Gawain mutter something. She looked up and found him still watching her, his face unreadable. More seriously now, to stress that it was possible and they could do it, she added, “If we set a net above where I sit, when the unicorn comes and lays his head in my lap and goes to sleep, we can lower the net and catch him.”

  “How old are you?” he asked suddenly, releasing her wrist and taking her hand in his.

  Conscious of his strong fingers enveloping hers, Matilde wondered at the question but saw no reason not to answer. “I am eighteen, and you?”

  “Three and twenty. Have you always lived close to the castle?”

  “I have. I could not be their dairy maid, otherwise.” What does he want to know from me? What is he after? Puzzled, she studied his strong, supple fingers intertwined in hers. Their hands fitted well together, she realized.

  “It really is so simple?” Gawain was asking, “You sit in a spot where the unicorn will find you and he falls asleep with his head in your lap?”

  Wary, lest he was mocking her, Matilde jerked up her head again to face him. “That is what I know, yes.”

  To her surprise, he gave her fingers a gentle squeeze and smiled. “Can we practice? I could pretend to be the unicorn.” His smile deepened. “To sleep with my head in your lap would be a pleasure.”

  Any tart or saucy response died on her lips. He was not laughing at her at all. His eyes were as welcoming as the pool, as light and sparkling. When he looked at you, Gawain really looked, Matilde thought, feeling as if the sun had come to rest in her. Part of her felt flattered, the rest alarmed. They were not supposed to be learning each other, or flirting. This was meant to be a quest, dark and serious. And we have to do it quickly and return, or my family will be in danger.

 

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