Five Unforgettable Knights (5 Medieval Romance Novels)

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Quickly, she averted her eyes. Being so close to him was having a strange effect on her, almost as if his fever were contagious. The sensation was at once disconcerting and compelling. Hastily, she covered him with a blanket and then busied herself with rinsing out the foul bandages and setting them on rocks to dry.

  Night seemed to fall at full-tilt, and Cambria decided they should remain where they were rather than risk traveling in the dark. She agreed it would be necessary to secure Holden so he couldn’t escape, although secretly she thought it was unnecessary and cruel. Jamie hobbled Holden’s ankles where he lay on the litter and tied his wrists around a young tree.

  She took the first watch of evening, sure that every rustle in the bushes was either Sir Guy or a hungry wolf, and she wasn’t certain which she would have preferred to meet. Even afterward, when Robbie took over, she didn’t sleep well. Her prisoner, too, seemed to toss and trash all night at unseen ghosts.

  She woke early in the morning, rubbing weary eyes. Pushing herself up on her elbows, she surveyed the small camp. Her eyes alit instantly on Lord Holden. What she found made her wince in shame and anger.

  The poor wretch had kicked the blankets from his body, and there was a wet stain on his hose.

  Pushing the hair back from her face, she stood and approached him. His forehead was etched with lines of pain, his cheeks two spots of color in an otherwise wan face. She reached out to touch his stubbled jaw, and then pulled her hand back suddenly from the heat. His skin was dry and his lips parched.

  Young Graham caught her eye then, entering the clearing with an armful of kindling. He glanced first at her, then Lord Holden, and challenged her with a look that said he had no intention of seeing to the prisoner’s comforts.

  Muttering a curse, she soaked a clean rag in the spring and brought it, dripping, to Holden’s lips. Eagerly as a nursing babe, he sucked at the wet linen, craving the meager moisture even in sleep. Again and again she dampened the cloth and let him gradually slake his thirst in that way. She untied his bonds and noted that his wrists were badly chafed from his fevered stirring in the night.

  “Do you think that’s wise?” It was Robbie, returning with a brace of coneys he’d snared. Jamie followed at his heels.

  “God’s blood!” she snapped. “The poor bastard cannot even rouse to relieve himself! Have you lost all sense of humanity, Robbie?”

  Robbie’s eyes grew flat. “He’s the enemy, Cambria.”

  “You wouldn’t leave a dog in its own piss,” she bit out.

  Robbie only stared belligerently.

  “Jamie,” she called, barely controlling her ire, “remove his hose and rinse them. The blanket will have to do for cover now.”

  Jamie didn’t obey at once, but looked to Robbie for approval, which made Cambria livid. At his nod, Jamie gave her a disgusted grimace, but moved to do as he was bid.

  She stalked off through the wood before she could lose her temper. Damn them! She was laird now. How dare they question her commands? This had the makings of treason. Her father had been right. She should never have welcomed them back to the clan. They would turn on her as quickly as they had Laird Angus.

  Still, for now she needed them. She would just have to proceed carefully then, placate them until she could join with her allies at Blackhaugh.

  When she came back to camp, her emotions in check, Holden was properly covered. She slipped the top of the blanket aside to inspect his wound. Again, she had to sponge the linen bandage loose. This time, beneath the bandage, there was an angry red swelling around the perimeter of the gash. Her heart sank. She recognized the sign of infection, but she had neither the time nor the skills to do anything about it now. Cautiously, she applied a new bandage and rinsed the old one, and, although she had strong feelings otherwise, proclaimed him fit to travel.

  The sun had at last appeared through the thick clouds, looking like a grim yellow eye, when the party stopped again to rest. By her calculations, they’d arrive at Blackhaugh the following morning. The weather had been arguably kind of them, waiting in a strange misty limbo between rain and sun.

  Their prisoner, however, hadn’t fared well. He was too debilitated to eat the food they’d brought with them. The most Cambria could get him to swallow were a few bites of bread soaked in wine. Then, when she inspected his injury, her earlier suspicions were confirmed. A foul smell came from the wound. Damn, she should have abducted the physician. What did she know about healing?

  She’d have to do something. She couldn’t just let him die. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she gently pressed the edges of the cut. A yellow liquid seeped out, and Holden came alive like a scalded kitchen boy. He cried out and flailed his limbs violently, striking her more than once with a stray fist―on her cheek, on her ear, on her shoulder.

  “God’s hooks!” Jamie swore, ready to beat their hostage to a bloody pulp.

  “It’s all right,” she groaned, rubbing her cheek where a bruise was no doubt already forming. “He doesn’t know what he’s doing. Hold him still, lads, will you? He’s not going to like what I have to do.”

  The men complied under duress, but only by great effort could they restrain the Englishman. Swallowing down the nausea that crept up the back of her throat, she drained as much of the wound’s infection as she could while Holden thrashed wildly. She finished applying the new bandage and, depleted, sat back gracelessly on her haunches to stare hard at the man for whom she was going to so much trouble.

  It was difficult to believe that she was actually dressing her enemy’s wounds. Still, gazing at the sword tucked into her saddle, she knew her father would have been proud of her. She had recovered his weapon, she was on her way to reclaim Blackhaugh, and she had his murderer at her mercy.

  What, then, was this underlying shame she felt when she looked at her captive, writhing in torment as he fought unknown demons? Damn it, she shouldn’t feel a pittance of remorse for this assassin. He’d come into her life and destroyed...everything. Yet she couldn’t look upon his face without feeling pity.

  By nightfall, beside a creek that ran through Gavin land, that pity had turned Cambria into a mass of jangled nerves. Holden hadn’t improved. In fact, he’d taken a turn for the worse.

  Robbie had left to fetch reinforcements from the Blackhaugh renegades hidden in the hills nearby, and she was again reminding Jamie that the Englishman was of no use to them dead, when Holden began convulsing.

  Graham stumbled backward from the litter and crossed himself. “He’s possessed by devils!”

  Jamie warned, “Aye, he’s done for.”

  Fear stabbed her like a dagger. “Nay!” she denied harshly, threatening with a desperate glare any who would cross her. She forced down the lump in her throat and sniffed back the stinging in her nose. “Nay! He cannot die! I need him!”

  She cast about, looking in vain for some kind of inspiration from the dismal wood. Curse his English hide! She’d be damned if she’d let him die here, not now, not after all the trouble she’d gone to.

  Some deep-rooted instinct made her reach down and tear the covers from Holden. His nude body quaked in the silver-blue moonlight, and he was as hot to the touch as new-forged iron. She had to cool him. Now.

  If she could get him to the water...

  The others gaped on in half-hearted protest while, with a strength born of necessity, she reached beneath his arms and dragged his heavy, trembling body across the forest floor, toward the gurgling creek.

  The cold water stabbed like needles into her ankles as she pulled him with her into the stream. She shrieked at first with the shock of it, but waded further until the bulk of his body lay submerged. It was pure torture. The icy waves wrapped around her body as if to freeze her where she stood, and soon she shivered uncontrollably.

  But Holden’s shuddering gradually slowed, then ceased. His body was cooling. He would live.

  Cambria’s own body was suddenly racked with sobs of relief, and she struggled to conceal them from her c
lansmen as she hauled the Wolf back out of the water and onto the bank. Quivering with cold, she peered down at the man cradled helplessly against her and bit out a self-denigrating oath, forcing herself to admit the sad truth.

  She wasn’t a killer. She had the skills, the chivalry, the spirit of a soldier. But she wasn’t ruthless enough to be a killer. Her enemy lay helpless in the palm of her hand, and yet she couldn’t let him die. She could almost imagine her father clucking his tongue and shaking his head at her soft heart.

  Her strength spent, she struggled to move Holden off of her. Jamie and Graham, at last snapping out of their amazed stupor, helped her pull him back to the litter. She dried him and wrapped him again in the blanket.

  “You saved the bastard’s life,” Jamie said in wonder.

  “Aye,” she agreed with a shiver, irony curving her lips. She was exhausted. Her skirts would be icicles by morning. But she’d saved his life. “God grant that he last the night.” She added under her breath, “He owes me as much.”

  ~*~

  A strange bird call woke Cambria. When Jamie mimicked the sound, she realized it was a signal. Shortly after, Robbie returned to camp, announcing that reinforcements were arriving and gloating over the fact that a band of English knights from Bowden Castle had been apprehended by the Scots.

  “Good.” She’d had an idea that loyal Sir Guy would ignore her warning. “Now we have more hostages to bargain with.”

  Plans were made to gather at midmorning in the field below Blackhaugh. Robbie, Jamie, and Graham set out to join the rebels in the forest, leaving Cambria to guard the prisoner.

  She squinted into the rising sun, ran a grimy hand through her hair, and moved to check on the Englishman. Looking down hopefully at the slumbering knight, she realized that his face was at last peaceful, his brow untroubled, his breathing slow and even. Welcome drops of sweat rolled down his forehead and neck. The fever had broken at last. Thank God, he was going to live.

  She loosed him from the tree, but bound his wrists together before him. There were just the two of them now. She couldn’t afford to take chances.

  As she began the ritual of changing his bandage, Cambria suddenly felt him staring at her. She slowly lifted her gaze until their eyes met. Her heart lurched like a whipped ox. His stare was still glazed with pain, but it was no longer vacant.

  With effort, he parted his lips, croaking a single word. “Water.”

  She dipped a clean rag in the stream and held it to his lips. He chewed on it a few times, and then turned away in disgust.

  “More,” he said.

  She tossed down the rag, then added water to the bit of wine in her goatskin pouch and crouched behind him. Her heart beating erratically, she reached under his heavy head to support it while she helped him drink. He groaned at the pain of movement as he tried to gulp down the sweet refreshment.

  “Easy,” she advised.

  He clutched the bag with his bound hands, ignoring her words.

  “Easy!”

  They battled with the pouch, but in the end, his sapped strength was no match for hers, and he was forced to take the meager sips she allowed.

  After he’d drunk, he continued to stare at her with emotionless eyes, eyes that made her feel strangely guilty.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “You were wounded,” she replied, lowering her gaze and busying herself with his covers. “You’re lucky to be alive. A blade slipped through that flaw in your mail I warned you about.”

  He was silent for a beat, properly chided. “Where are we?”

  “Near Blackhaugh,” she said with deliberate pride, expecting an outburst from him. “I’m going to reclaim my castle. The renegades fight by my side, and we have you for a hostage.”

  Holden closed his eyes and had surprisingly little to say. “You trust the men who deserted you?”

  Damn him. He sounded just like her father. How dare he question her judgment?

  “Garth will give you Blackhaugh without a fight,” he conceded. “But you won’t hold it long.”

  “You can’t know that!” she snapped. She didn’t want to admit it, but his words seemed eerily prophetic.

  Holden said no more, and Cambria, vindictive but not cruel, offered him some cheese and bread. He ate slowly. His mouth was doubtless still dry from the fever.

  “Leave me a moment,” he abruptly requested.

  “Leave you? Are you daft? You’d escape faster than a loosed hare.”

  “Fine. I merely thought it might offend you to watch my attempts to relieve myself.”

  The heat that suffused her face likely amused him. She gave him his privacy, and when she returned, kicking up the forest debris to ensure that he heard her coming, he was already lying docile upon the litter, his eyes closed in rest.

  Shortly afterward, the others joined them, a score or so Scots renegades, roused and hungry for the kill. They held the prisoners from Bowden. At the fore was Sir Guy, his cheek split and his eyes smoldering rage. Hell, Cambria realized as he glared at her, even held captive as he was, murder infused his black gaze and inspired fear.

  She swallowed and glanced away. As she searched the bloodthirsty faces of her countrymen, she saw that Holden had been right about the possible danger of fanatics. But it was too late to turn back now. The wheels of revenge had been set in motion.

  Chapter Seven

  Garth de Ware nervously stroked the soft down of his upper lip. He never should have come, never should have agreed to join his brother’s retinue, never should have listened to Holden, who’d refused to believe that his little half-brother had aspirations, not to the battlefield, but to the church. But nay, Holden had insisted he needed to get one final taste of grand adventure before making the decision to take on a monk’s robes. And Garth had believed him.

  Lo and behold, what had happened?

  It was true that things had gone surprisingly well at first. The Scots seemed to appreciate Garth’s fairness. He made a point of treating them with respect. He’d even developed a friendship with Malcolm the Steward, who was teaching him a great deal about the fortitude of the Scots. He’d started believing that he could indeed handle the responsibilities of a lordship.

  Until now. Now he was convinced he was right in limiting his enterprises to the confines of monastery walls.

  Outside the keep, Cambria Gavin held a dagger to his brother’s throat. From Garth’s vantage point atop the wall walk, Holden, supported by two men, looked as weak as a maid. A score of savage-looking Scots held hostage a handful of Holden’s best knights as well, and they were making outrageous demands. Garth was to surrender himself and the other English within the castle to this girl.

  Beside him, Malcolm swore under his breath. Garth shook his head. How had the maid escaped? How had she acquired a whole company of swordsmen to follow her? And most disturbing of all, how had she brought Holden, his brave, powerful, undefeated brother, to his knees? He pounded his fist upon the stone merlon. For the love of God, his brother at the mercy of a woman. It was an abomination.

  He knew with a futile certainty that Holden would disapprove of the decision he was about to make, but he had to make it. Garth admittedly had none of the relentlessness for which the older de Wares were famous. His compassionate heart went out to Holden in his helplessness. He only prayed that his brother would somehow forgive him for that weakness.

  Grudgingly, he allowed the Scots to enter the castle.

  Holden came in on a litter. Garth fought the almost irresistible instinct to run to his brother. Lord God, he was as pale as parchment. He might be dying.

  “Holden,” he breathed, his voice breaking.

  “He’ll heal,” the Scots lass said all too optimistically.

  He turned his eyes to her then―that smug Gavin vixen who had dared rouse the Wolf―and the de Ware blood in him began to boil. Thou shalt not kill be damned―it was all he could do to keep from drawing his sword and lopping off the wench’s head.

  He
stretched himself to his full height in an unconscious mimicry of Holden and addressed her directly, his voice unyielding. “What have you done to him?”

  The girl blinked, obviously taken aback for a moment by the change in his manner.

  “I’ve brought him back to the living,” she replied, rubbing a bruised cheek, “despite his clear determination to avoid my care.”

  “And what do you intend?” he demanded. From the corner of his eye, he could see that his men itched to take up their surrendered weapons against these barbarians.

  “You will either swear fealty to me upon your knighthood,” she told him, “or stay below in the dungeon.”

  Garth didn’t bother to seek the counsel of his knights. He held his arms boldly out before him for the shackles. His men imitated the gesture. They would all die in a damp cell before they would yield to a Scots lass.

  ~*~

  Cambria pursed her lips. Stubborn Englishmen. She could have used those strong arms for the coming battle. Yet she knew full well she would have done the same in their place. With a sigh of exasperation, she ordered the men taken below.

  Holden, on the other hand, she secured to the bed in her father’s chamber, which adjoined her own. There she could change his bandages and see to his meals. He was too valuable a hostage to be kept in the dungeon where he might fall prey to disease. He was probably one of Edward’s favorites. It would be stupid to incur the English king’s wrath by mistreating a beloved vassal.

  That was the excuse she gave the Scots, but it fell far short of the truth. The truth was she couldn’t let Holden die. Whether it was because of the trouble she’d gone through to save him, or the admiration she bore for his courage, or just the way her heart raced when he caught her in his forthright gaze, she knew she couldn’t let harm come to him. She only prayed that when the king of England came to bargain for the Wolf’s life, he wouldn’t perceive the emptiness of her threats.

  ~*~

  Even after a week, Cambria still didn’t feel as if she’d come home. Blackhaugh had changed irrevocably in her absence. To her chagrin, the Gavins had grown quickly accustomed to living under English rule. Even Malcolm was vexed at her actions and refused to speak with her, only answering her questions with a curt and formal “aye, my lady” or “nay, my lady.” He expressed no interest in hearing about her daring escape, and he regarded her with harsh disapproval, disapproval that many others of the clan shared. She felt their cool resentment at her interference, as if she were an outsider. It felt like her clan had scattered out of her control like goatsbeard seeds on an English wind.