The Knight's Runaway Maiden

by Nicole Locke

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘How did he lose his hand, Mama?’ Clovis said.

  ‘Is it all the way off?’ Pepin asked.

  ‘He lost his hand. It’s not hanging there.’ Clovis kicked Pepin’s shoe.

  Pepin kicked back. ‘If he lost it, where is it?’

  ‘Boys!’ Sarah clucked under tongue as she wove through the construction.

  ‘They’re curious, that’s all.’ Séverine carried two buckets of water to the workers. They were heavy, but not terribly so. When she’d first started, it had taken her two hands to carry one. There had been so many changes since then for her and her sons. Changes and skills she welcomed. Having Balthus here and him being a part of the conversation as well as village activity was unsettling. She wondered, not for the first time, if it was because he was a Warstone or because he was...him.

  ‘We’re all curious,’ Sarah said. ‘Do you know why?’

  ‘I’ll ask him,’ Clovis said, dropping a bread loaf and picking it up.

  ‘You’ll do no such thing!’ Sarah said.

  ‘Why not?’ said Pepin, who carried one loaf as if it were a stick, and already bits were falling off along the way. There were three dogs following behind them through the village streets, just waiting for their opportunity.

  ‘Because a man is allowed his secrets,’ Sarah said firmly.

  Which was not what Séverine would have said, but she wouldn’t correct her. Especially since she didn’t know what exactly she would say. Warstones shouldn’t be allowed any secrets. Balthus, however, had many, and for some reason she was giving him time. She could fool herself into thinking she’d waited because her demanding to know why he was here, or if he’d help her while he suffered was too soon, but in truth, there was a vulnerability about him that wasn’t because his hand was missing but perhaps why his hand was missing.

  ‘Who are they, Mama?’ Clovis asked quietly, discreetly, as if he knew the question was loaded with secrets.

  ‘Balthus and Henry!’ Pepin announced. ‘Henry’s the one that Mama hit with the log. He says he’s got a hard head, which is good, isn’t it, Mama? Because I think Denise likes him!’

  Séverine glanced around, while Sarah clucked.

  ‘Quiet!’ Clovis snapped. ‘Mama?’

  ‘They’re men who came to help us, that’s all.’

  ‘Why’d you hit him, then?’ Clovis whispered.

  Pepin ran in front of her and whispered loudly. ‘And why does Balthus keep staring at us?’

  ‘Is he a good man?’ Clovis said.

  Her children! How to protect them and not lie? More difficult, how to tell the truth in a way they could understand? She couldn’t, not easily. She also couldn’t simply brush their questions aside anymore. Balthus was in their lives now so it was natural they’d have questions.

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ she said.

  ‘Why isn’t it Father?’

  Stopping, Séverine set down a bucket, and placed her hand on her son’s shoulder. This was important and needed to be said. ‘Clovis, bad people are after your father. I think he doesn’t want them near us, so he stays away.’

  That was what she liked to think. She didn’t want to remember Ian the way he’d been that day he’d left them. Mumbling to himself. His eyes unnaturally wide and searching and he’d been talking to shadows as if madness had been overtaking him.

  ‘My father is strong, and could protect us from anything,’ Clovis said. ‘Maybe he’s trying to protect us from him!’

  Séverine’s heart froze even as her legs carried her faster. Who was she to argue that? She didn’t trust Balthus. Not completely, and in the ways that she did, how was she to explain that to a child? ‘Even if someone...isn’t good for us, sometimes they simply need help. Sometimes that makes the difference between whether they are trustworthy or not, if they are good or bad.’

  ‘He looks ill,’ Pepin said.

  ‘That’s because he’s recovering, and still hurts.’

  ‘What if he’s bad, and you made him worse by pushing him in a pit?’ Clovis said. ‘What happens to us if our father kept him away, but you let him in?’

  Part of her heart broke; there was so much anger in Clovis, and she feared her actions made it all the worse, but he had to know the truth. She may not know Balthus, but she knew herself. ‘I will protect you with my life, Clovis. With my being, my heart, my soul. If he is bad, if he means either you or your brother harm, I will kill him myself. This I swear to God and you.’

  Pepin nodded frantically. Clovis measured her words and gave her a single nod. Séverine took his acknowledgement.

  Peril never waited for convenience. She didn’t object to Balthus watching her boys. If they were curious about him, he’d be doubly so about them. But it was only a matter of time before the children or the villagers noticed the resemblance between Balthus and the boys. Imbert and Sarah knew the truth, but they wouldn’t lie if asked a direct question, and Clovis was already asking questions, his eyes hardly leaving Balthus. She’d need to press him again on his intentions, and now that he was recovered and his companion was here, it was time.

  They entered the place where building work was going on, handed out the supplies and took orders for whatever else she could. Her thoughts, however, weren’t on the tasks ahead but on the knight and a man who’d come in to rescue him. Whom Imbert reported was a butcher.

  It was too outlandish to be true. If that man wasn’t an indication that Balthus was different from the rest of his clan, that man called Henry with no skills and a too jovial manner to be taken gravely, was.

  She should take this gravely. Since she had last been in this tiny village, Imbert and Sarah had accumulated an array of tools that could also be used as weapons. They’d also purchased teams of oxen and ploughs. All of which were being used today to build fortifications that would help to keep the villagers safe but couldn’t last long when it came to arrows and torches. Sarah and Imbert had to know that, and yet they pretended because she had kept Balthus alive, and she stayed.

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Over there.’ Sarah indicated with her chin. ‘Imbert’s following them around. Since they left that hut, they’ve been keeping themselves to themselves.’

  Séverine’s eyes followed where Sarah had indicated. The three men were walking away from the construction, all engaged in conversation, and were given a wide berth.

  Henry was gesturing wildly while Imbert was listening intently. Balthus walked a few steps away from both of them. His arm was bound, and he cradled it in his other arm; he was also walking slowly. Still, she couldn’t keep her gaze off him.

  Unlike most days, today the sun shone brightly, the wind was crisp and blew his dark locks away from his face and allowed her brief glimpses of his profile. She craned her neck to see a bit more of his jaw, his high cheekbones, the curve of his lips. What was it about him? At first she could only see the similarities shared by the Warstone family. Over the days of caring for him, wondering whether he’d survive the fever, he’d just become... Balthus. It didn’t mean she wouldn’t use any advantage she may have. She still needed to persuade him to let them go. Still needed to know why he was here.

  Except now he’d held her...and he wasn’t anything other than a man whom she wanted to touch, to kiss.

  ‘Mama, could we play hide-and-seek?’ Pepin said.

  ‘Ask your brother,’ she said.

  ‘I already did.’

  ‘Clovis, help your mother,’ Sarah said.

  Séverine could hear the ensuing argument, but she didn’t listen. Instead, she watched Balthus stumble. That wouldn’t do.

  Balthus shouldn’t have heard her behind him, shouldn’t have felt her presence. The entire village was a cacophony of hammering and shouts. But she was there, and he turned, cursed when he swayed, gave Henry a dark look when he reached out t
o steady him. Then he wanted to strike him when he gave a knowing smirk, knowing why he refused his help. Turning his back on the annoying butcher, Balthus waited as she came closer.

  Her eyes in the sunlight were like the leaves on spring trees. The worry, the questions...the annoyance, however, were completely her.

  ‘You’re bleeding too much,’ she said.

  He had put his hand on the end to cover it, and the men who walked beside him didn’t notice, but she did. He didn’t know if that was because she cared, or because he was undoing her efforts.

  ‘Given that you’re the one who hit it, I thought you wanted it that way.’ At Henry’s rough cough and Imbert’s outrage, he softened his words. ‘I don’t have thread.’

  For a moment she looked as if she wouldn’t help, and he thought fast about what he could say to make things better. He wanted to make it good between them...as if anything ever could.

  ‘I do. Follow me,’ she said.

  Always. Though what he had said about her hitting it wasn’t kind. Why couldn’t he simply say something right?

  He walked beside her, aware that her height was almost equal to his and her long limbs had a natural grace he admired, and wished the road was longer so he could watch her more. They entered a home next to the one with the pit. Inside it was vastly different. Lavish beds, quilts. Quality that she couldn’t have travelled with, but must have been here before.

  He wanted to ask if it was the old stablemaster’s cottage, but there were too many beds for that.

  She caught him in his curiosity, flushed and rummaged through a small basket, pulling out thread and needle.

  He sat and began to undo the linen. When she turned, he stopped.

  ‘I’m probably undoing all your hard labour.’

  She shook her head. ‘No, it’s not that, it’s only... Before you were hiding it from me, and now you’re simply uncovering it.’

  He was. Disconcerted, he looked away. His whole life he’d had to pretend to be someone else; he almost felt he was displaying more of himself than an arm.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She clutched the thread in her hand. ‘I’m saying words that have little—’

  They had more meaning than she knew. For him to simply forget his weakness, his disfigurement. For him to simply be...himself? The meaning for him was staggering, and difficult to believe.

  He rocked his arm. ‘You’ll continue caring for it?’

  ‘Every day. The bindings must be tighter, and you’ll need the poultice with honey rubbed in deeply.’ Her eyes widened, shone like summer’s grass. ‘Oh, do you not want me to tend it now? I’ll need to show you how to apply the poultice without harming the stitches, and—’

  ‘That’s not it. I...’ He wanted her to continue. Now that he was awake, he longed for the time they could be together even if it meant he would continually present his greatest flaws.

  ‘You have experience and should tend it,’ he said. ‘I am obviously saying words that have little meaning. In truth, I probably muttered words when the fever was on me.’

  She gave a knowing look. ‘You weren’t very pleased with me.’

  He grabbed her wrist, which stopped both of them. ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘You will be sorry when you discover what it was you said.’ Her words were light, but her voice held a softer tone.

  She looked down at where he his hand still clasped her wrist, then her gaze went to his. Eyes darkening before they fluttered closed. Before he knew what he was doing, he tugged, and she flinched.

  He quickly let her go.

  Looking down at the ground, Séverine berated herself for her conflicting reaction to this man’s simple touch. All he’d done was wrap his callused fingers around her wrist, and yet the warmth, the tiny bit of friction, the slight tug towards him wasn’t simple at all.

  ‘We...we shouldn’t have done that. Earlier, in the other hut. We... I’m married.’

  She hated the hesitation in her voice, hated the inanely repeated words they both already knew. It was simply... When he’d realised that she’d helped him, Balthus’s grey eyes had been full of utter relief, utter wonder, and when he’d touched her, rested his forehead against hers, it had felt right. Something good. And her stuttering words now were all wrong, even though they were the ones that made sense. Feeling anything for this man didn’t.

  ‘Nothing happened, that is...nothing that you should concern yourself with,’ he said.

  An odd choice of words. The way she felt, the way she’d acted was everything she should be concerned with. She was married! She was his sister-in-law.

  ‘If Imbert hadn’t arrived—’

  ‘I’d have more than kissed you,’ he said. She looked up. ‘And most likely not even God would have pulled you from me.’

  ‘That’s blasphemy.’

  ‘No, you healed me, a Warstone. If God wasn’t involved, then the Devil was.’

  Odd man. ‘I wouldn’t have been enough?’

  The blaze of emotion, of utter stark desire, almost made her step back. No, it was enough to make her hold still...for him. Then he blinked, and when he looked at her again there was nothing noticeable in his grey gaze, and his lips gave a small smirk. ‘Not blasphemy,’ he said. ‘Truth. Those two have been arguing over my fate for as long as I can remember.’

  ‘I didn’t think Warstones believed in the whims of fate; rather, they prefer taking it.’

  He looked away; a slight tension tightening the corners of his mouth. ‘Warstones maybe, but not me.’

  Very odd. He was a Warstone, wasn’t he? But then...hadn’t she been arguing to herself that he was different? Oh, why was she wondering any of this? It wasn’t the point!

  ‘It’s been almost six years since I last saw Ian, and even then...’ She shook her head.

  ‘You ran,’ he said. ‘Did he frighten you?’

  Surprise ran through her at his wording, but it was the truth. ‘Your parents, too. I wanted nothing to do with any of them. I didn’t want them when they took me.’

  ‘I remember you saying that when I first saw you.’ He looked away. ‘Yet you healed me.’

  She had, and her argument to Imbert and Sarah was that she’d sway him to their side. Maybe he’d help, but why would he? And was that entirely the reason she’d attempted to free him from the pain? It was undeniable—she felt drawn to him, but not his brother. It was also a certainty that if he had kissed her, she would have kissed him back.

  When he glanced at her again, she waved her hands for him to lift his arm, and she unwrapped the linen the rest of the way, then placed his hand on the last bit that held the blood.

  ‘I don’t even have to worry about you telling him.’ She threaded a needle and set it aside. ‘You all keep secrets. I won’t tell him either, but I can’t say he won’t guess.’

  But Ian and his touches had been very infrequent. He had never been cruel, always tender, as if she were something precious, but something had been missing, some fierceness, some urgency. Something she’d felt the moment Balthus’s callused hand had squeezed the back of her neck, as if...she was everything.

  That was what had been missing. She hadn’t been Ian’s everything, and he hadn’t been hers. And this man wasn’t either and could never be.

  ‘And why you?’ she said, pouring water over the area to see where it was torn. ‘When no other man has ever?’

  ‘Séverine, do you realise I’m right here?’

  Balthus’s voice sounded amused. She wasn’t. She held his limb underhand and carefully made one stitch. ‘Who else would I be talking to?’

  ‘Only confirming. You seem agitated, and you are poking me with a needle.’

  ‘I know you can take pain.’ She glanced up. ‘Sorry.’

  His eyes were amused. They also looked soft. ‘It’s actually a compliment now. Before you fixed me, if anyone had at
tempted this, I would have fainted. I can take the pain now. You’ve made me strong again.’

  She’d never seen his eyes like that before. She didn’t like the way that affected her, either. She went back to working on his arm.

  His breath hitched.

  ‘Felt that?’

  He chuckled. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Am I offending your dignity now?’

  His silence was heavy, so against her better judgement she looked up.

  Chin dipped, the length of his lashes casting shadows around his cheekbones that shouldn’t belong to any man. He seduced with his very presence, with the rough edges of his voice. ‘When it comes to you, I have no pride. Whatever you want me to do or be... I would.’

  Unexpected, the words pierced until she remembered who had delivered them. A liar, from a deceitful family. A man who had been half-crazed with pain yet had tried to defend her. A man who’d said he’d hold her against him and fight off God. A man she’d already told she trusted. She was another’s wife. But Ian had left her, and long before that he’d scared her. Six years with no husband. A man with every resource hadn’t found her, and yet his brother had? She shouldn’t trust these men!

  She narrowed her eyes. All those fancy words when they couldn’t be true. She healed a man to persuade him, but how could she persuade a liar? ‘Your brother is far more charming than you. His smile came easier. That helped when he told the world he’d be marrying me instead of Beatrice.’

  Mentioning Ian was a far more effective way of halting his thoughts about holding Séverine than the stabbing of the needle into his flesh, which was still tender. She was killing him with her words, with her proximity. He should keep quiet and let her sew his arm. He should tell her the truth. What he shouldn’t do was sit here with her kneeling next to him and listen to her tell him about his dead brother as if he were alive and, worse, as if she regretted his touch, while he burned for her.

  But he didn’t want to let her go. He didn’t deserve her even if she wasn’t married. He was wrong, desperately wrong to do this, but she took away his pain, and he felt...alive. Or at least like someone new. So for now, though he’d burn in hell for yet another transgression, he simply couldn’t give her up.