Warrior's Moon A Love Story

by Jaclyn Hawkes

  The next day, Willem took a message to Lord Rosskeene saying they would come until the legalities were settled and then Willem and Tristan helped them pack a minimum of their things into a cart for the trip north to the manor house. As Chantaya carried her small bag out the door for the last time, she paused to look around, questioning if she was ever going to be able to come back to this little house. It was the only home she could remember. She looked up at the sky, wishing for that reassuring moon, and wondering how far Valais was from Lord Rosskeene’s manor. Peyton was going to be horrified when he realized what had happened.

  The whole trip, Chantaya worried about her mother, who would give her a sad smile and a squeeze, but then wipe at the tears that intermittently slipped from her eyes. ‘Twas an exhausting and worry worn journey.

  At the manor house, the old cook there seemed to be a reasonable sort and, in fact, kind as she pursed her lips in sympathy when Isabella and Chantaya were brought before her and explained they were to be her new help. She actually remembered Isabella from before and got a look of fair determination on her face and then a small smile as she said, “Well, the master might be pure vexed about it, but I’ll not put you to stay in the very house he lives in. He’s bad enough, but that son of his is even worse and 'twould be a mistake to put two such beauties as the likes of you right into the stewpot. The masters would torment you and the mistress hate you, I daresay.”

  She gave them a conspiratorial grin and said, “I can imagine what he’s up to, and he won’t be happy, but he likes his dinner, he does. It gives us in the kitchen some wiggling room. There’s a place for you behind yon stables. It’s only a room, and a small one at that, but the head groom, Master Conrad is there throughout the whole long day and night and he’s to be trusted, he is. Lonely these last years since losin’ his wife, but secure as an old hound. You’ll be safer there than wi’ the rest of us here, I ‘magine.”

  Pausing, she shook her head. “I fear you still won’t be pure safe, but . . . It’s the best we can do under the circumstances. I don’t mean to frighten ye, but you’d best be knowin’. He’s powerful, Lord Rosskeene is. And believes himself fair untouchable. They all do. And, in truth, to a margin they are. ‘Tis a pity they couldn’t all be such as the old Lord Rosskeene is. He’s a decent sort compared to his son and son’s family, but he’s getting on in his years. Hardly ever leaves his room much now, except to meet with some who he has manage his other lands. Still, those of us what serves ‘em will look out for you, we will. We stick together here, the staff does. Like a family. Ye’ll simply be more family. Welcome.”

  She took them to the room near Master Conrad and Chantaya fair breathed a sigh of relief as she met him. He did indeed seem to be able to be trusted and as he was still young enough and nearly as large and strong looking as Peyton, she was encouraged. With the good Lord’s help, and with this beefy groom working nearby, perhaps they’d make it through this ugly wrinkle in their lives.

  By the end of the first day, the wrinkle felt pure overwhelming. Lord Rosskeene was evil, that much was obvious, but his sixteen year old son, Damian was even more frightening to Chantaya. As her mother had been bringing vegetables from the manor garden and Chantaya had been at a work table in the kitchen, he’d come through looking for a morsel to eat and when he’d seen Chantaya, he thought he’d found it. He had looked at her almost as she imagined an animal would as it looked at its prey. He’d walked clear round her, studying her and Chantaya’s heart had begun to pound in fear when he touched her hair where a tendril had come loose from where she’d twisted it up.

  Just then, the cook had come in and hefted her rolling pin at him and the young lord had looked sufficiently intimidated that he pulled his hand away and then left the kitchen, but not before turning to look at her one last time with that predatory gleam. That simple incident had fostered a fear in Chantaya’s heart that was near overwhelming. To that point, she hadn’t realized just how truly vulnerable she could be here at this corrupt lord’s manor. She thought back to how Lord Rosskeene’s visit to their home had made her mother literally ill and suddenly, this trumped up indenturement felt fraught with peril.

  They were in danger here. Real, true, horribly frightening danger. No wonder her mother had reacted so. These men acted like they could do as they pleased with human beings who they considered possessions. It was sickening and probably more so to one who had been so valued through her life. Peyton would have fair destroyed young Rosskeene for looking at her like that had he seen it! She almost began to worry for when Peyton discovered what had happened. He would want to destroy these men and though he was soon to be a knight, it would still be terribly risky for a knight to tangle with a nobleman.

  The incident with young Lord Damian Rosskeene was troubling in other ways as well. Though Chantaya was horribly frightened, she was hesitant to say anything to her already exhausted mother that would further trouble her. Her mother was so haggard of this evening that Chantaya vowed not only to protect her from worry, but to try to ease her burdens in any other way she could as well.

  To this end, Chantaya took her concerns in prayer to the only other who she knew could help her in this frightening new situation. She prayed long and hard that night for protection and comfort. Then, the next morning, she took it upon herself to seek out Lord Rosskeene. They had to have specificity to this situation, even as fabricated as it was. To allow Lord Rosskeene to simply have an open ended ownership of her and her mother was beyond foolish. Even prior to going before the magistrate, she needed to know exactly what Lord Rosskeene was demanding as repayment for his supposed unpaid rents.

  As she sought him out, she worried he would consider her more than presumptuous and become angry, but he seemed to be mildly amused at her audacity to need to know his price. She had been directed to his library where he was waiting to meet with a merchant and when she asked him for the exact amount he was demanding of her mother, he had shaken his head and smiled as if she was a willful child, and said, “So you want my price, do you? Why are you the one to inquire over what your lovely mother owes me?”

  ‘Twas all Chantaya could do to not snap at him over his imperious attitude and disgusting way of speaking of her mother as she replied, “My mother is indeed lovely. Yet she is also the survivor of a horrible cart wreck that left her near dead. She tires quickly and has great pain when she overdoes. She is not in a condition to work long hours in the kitchen and I wish to know what your demands will be of her.”

  Lord Rosskeene merely waved a hand noncommittally. “She shouldn’t have been living on my lands all these years then without paying for the use of my cottage. Yet, if you are willing to work in her stead, I’ll try to see to it that your mother is only required on certain occasions when cook is in dire straits. Does that soothe your pretty daughter’s conscience?”

  Chantaya closed her eyes and counted to three to keep from speaking in a manner unbecoming of a servant. Swallowing hard and struggling not to grit her teeth, she gave a small curtsy and said, “Yes, Sire. Thank you. But for how long?”

  “As long as you have been living on my lands without paying rent, of course,”

  Chantaya wanted to tear into him, but instead decided to hold her tongue until the magistrate had ruled. There was no point in arguing with this beast of a human.

  All the way back through the manor to the kitchen, she worked to remind herself that she was typically quite sunny temperamented and that God would take care of Lord Rosskeene. She needed only to do what she felt God wanted and had to let go of the circumstances beyond her control. At least now, she could report to her mother that she needn’t push herself to such exhaustion here.

  Surprisingly, the Kincraigs were able to settle into a routine of sorts fairly quickly at Rosskeene Manor, in spite of the fact that for nearly the whole of Chantaya’s life they had lived under their own enterprise and they hadn’t been under the rule of any nobleman other than the king. It helped that both Chantaya and Isabella were
extraordinarily good cooks. They were told that the quality of the food at the manner became markedly more appetizing with their arrival. And just as cook had intimated, excellent food came with wiggling room, which was their salvation when Lord Rosskeene found out they were staying in a room in the stable instead of the main house.

  The groom Conrad also helped to make the Kincraigs more comfortable. His soft spoken kindnesses helped immensely, especially when Chantaya left her mother in their room to rest and went to the kitchen on her own with cook there as a sort of buffer. Knowing Conrad would be there to protect her mother and would, in fact, check in on her with ever a sense of gentle concern was hugely comforting to the both of them.

  Even when the two of them went into the woods in search of herbs and mushrooms, if possible, he would typically bring one of the young horses he was training and work the animal nearby to them to insure their security. Several times, they saw Lord Rosskeene watching them, but he never approached with Conrad near. In terms of their peace of mind, he became, quite literally, their guardian angel.

  Cook had been correct in her estimation that the masters would try to torment them and that the mistress would hate them. It seemed that both of the Kincraigs were constantly on the lookout for the Rosskeene men, and ever vigilante to avoid them. And although they didn’t meet Lady Winifred Rosskeene for several days because she had been away visiting, the very moment they met her upon her return, she appeared to fair detest them. She looked both one and then the other up and down with a pure glare on her powdered face. Then she made a most unladylike sound in her throat as she stomped out of the room to demand of her husband at the top of her lungs why he had ever hired new kitchen help without consulting with her first.

  Both Isabella and Chantaya had looked askance of cook, but cook had merely grimaced and lowered her voice to say, “Would that she could send you packing and find ye more genteel nobles to work for, but I fear when Lord Rosskeene makes a decision, she can’t change it, much as she’d like to, poor lass. But mores the pity, she’ll probably stomp round the place for a day or two just to let us all know for sure how pure vexed she is at both him and the two of you.” Cook waved a hand. “Try not to let them trouble you. Respectfully, of course. But once their bellies are full of sumptuous fare, they become much more amiable toward us of the kitchen. Food. ‘Tis truly the way to the heart, all told.”

  She walked across the kitchen and pulled at a small transom window over the door into the dining room and then closed another one high in the wall behind the big stove. Turning back to the others, she shrugged and said, “Twill be much quieter with the transoms closed for the next day or so. They do help with the air flow, but truly 'tisn’t worth having to listen to her brewing. The transoms are like listening tubes at times, they are. Nothing much private here in this household with them wide open. Closing them will be like a dose of peace here in the kitchen.”

  That night, securely in bed, Chantaya asked her mother, “Are all noble households such as this, Mother? Somehow, I expected the staff to be more loyal to their lords and lady. ‘Tis pure distrust I feel from Cook and the others. And some of the gossip here is quite disturbing. Did you hear the stable boy telling Conrad that Lord Rosskeene seemed to be recruiting his own military? An army of malcontents he called it. Should he be doing that, instead of supporting the king and his forces?”

  Isabella yawned before saying, “In truth, I’ve never known another noble household that instilled such distrust in the staff. But, I’ve never known another noble who was as irascible and evil as Lord Rosskeene either. Character begets loyalty, daughter. And Rosskeene knows nothing of character. Only those who seek ill gotten gain as he does are in league with him. The staff here are much as we are. Here because of necessity only. Not for the joy of it. These are hard times. They simply labor for the means of life.”

  After another thoughtful moment, she continued. “Yet, the staff’s attitude is a blessing to us. They have protected us these days we’ve been here. What’s more, Rosskeene’s plans keep him from bothering us as I dreaded he would. And who, knows? Perhaps it’s the Lord’s hand that has us imprisoned here. Perhaps, the distrust here and us hearing this talk of military recruitment is part of His plan. Who better to help keep the crown informed of mounting insurrection than a scullery maid who is the secret love of a knight?”

  Mention of Peyton made Chantaya desperately homesick of a sudden. How she missed him! He had probably been knighted already and here she was, leagues further away from him than even before. She was lost in thought for a moment and then finally, she heard her mother say sleepily, “I love you, Chantaya. Good night.”

  Turning on her stomach, Chantaya replied, “I love you too, Mother. Sleep well.” Gathering her pillow into her arms, she looked out the small window of their room to see if she could see the moon, but there was only darkness and a sprinkle of stars. To herself, she thought, And goodnight to you, Sir Peyton, the gallant. Guardian of maidens and champion of virtue. Builder of confidence and encourager of discovery. I love you. I miss you. Sleep well.

  Long into the night, Chantaya thought about Peyton and considered what her mother had said about informing the crown of mounting insurrection. If Lord Rosskeene truly was trying to build up military forces of his own, unaffiliated with those of the king, then he meant to use them against the very knights Peyton had just become a part of. In fact, if there was to be an attempt at overthrowing the crown, Peyton and the other knights would be the first and greatest target.

  Just the thought made her both fearful and indignant. How dare a brutal and heartless man of Rosskeene’s ilk even consider besting a king as wise and good as Dougal? ‘Twas disgusting and frightening and just what an animal like Rosskeene was likely to do.

  As she lay there thinking, the moon finally appeared through the small window and she looked back up at its pale glow and somehow felt reassured. Peyton was there, just east somewhere, under this same moon. And he was strong and wise and willing to give even his very life if needed to preserve the astute and kind leadership of King Dougal. In addition, there were many with Peyton, protecting the king and the people. If the citizens like herself aligned themselves with those honorable men, what couldn’t be accomplished and protected, with God’s help, of course.

  She turned back over and closed her eyes. Right would prevail. It would. God would protect those men of character and honor, and the citizens as well. She merely needed to be strong and do whatever small measure she could to support them. It mightn’t be much, but she would do what she could.

  Chapter 10

  A drop of blood dripped from inside the cuff of his tunic near his wrist onto the white linen of the table clothe and slowly spread through the fabric, looking like more than the mere drop it had been. He concentrated on keeping his face impassive and discreetly gripped his left forearm to put pressure back on the bandage his new squire Shaun had placed there earlier. It hadn’t been that impressive of a cut he’d acquired in the competition earlier. He had no idea why it insisted on continuing to bleed as it had.

  He calmly looked to his left to see if the princess had noticed the drop of blood and then slid the base of his pewter goblet over to cover the brilliant red blotch. He’d won the honor of being seated next to the princess for the evening banquet, but now that he was here, he almost wished he hadn’t. ‘Twas quite disconcerting to have to remember all the protocols, especially when the princess’s subtle and sometimes not so subtle innuendos and behavior near made him forget everything but the need to put distance between the two of them.

  At that very moment, she put her foot over to touch him under the table and he glanced up at her. She gave him a smile that left little doubt but that she wasn’t going to be stopping the seemingly endless attempts to get his attention anytime soon.

  It had started that day in the village and had gone from that first lingering look to these much more overt physical encounters that he had absolutely no idea how to counter. What was this
girl thinking? He was a knight, not a nobleman, and barely a knight at that! The ceremony had only taken place that very afternoon. If she kept this up, the girl was going to get him beheaded!

  He moved his legs to his right, away from the flirtatious princess, let go of his forearm and picked up his fork again, not giving any other outward sign that he’d felt her nudge under the table. This dinner had already lasted for the better part of an hour and they hadn’t even brought out the main course yet. He looked down at the poorly seasoned soup that sat before him and wished once again that he could go home to see Chantaya. She made far the better soup and would never have put her foot on him under the table.

  Stifling a sigh, he picked up the goblet again in his left hand and then regretted it as another drop of blood stained the table clothe just beside the first.

  The princess noticed it this time and looked at him in concern and immediately stood and put a hand on his arm and said, “Sir Peyton! You’re bleeding!”

  He tried to smile, despite the fact that he wanted to swear and stood as well to be respectful; wishing he’d had a course from Sir Kendall on how to politely thwart a fickle young noble’s affections. The princess’s pretty brow puckered with a grimace of concern and she moved her hand on his arm to better see the blood that was now seeping through the sleeve of his tunic. Her face paled noticeably at the sight of it and Peyton began to worry the girl would swoon on him, in addition to being overly flirtatious with him.

  Instead of fainting, she looked up at him and said quite imperiously, “This must be attended to at once! Come, Sir Peyton. I will have the physician summoned immediately.” Gathering her elegant skirts in her hand, she fairly pushed him ahead of her toward an arched doorway at the side of the great hall to their left and Peyton tried to smile reassuringly at the other guests who were watching him leave with the princess.