“I was lucky. No one cared where I was. I wager that any search, if search there was, would have been fleeting.”
“Ruth—”
She lifted a hand to silence Tom, careless if he was about to speak comfort or not. Having begun her tale, she wanted only to finish it.
“I ran all that day, and through the night, listening to distant wolves. I walked another day and slept beneath a holly that night. The third day, I turned east, for no reason other than to find a stream in the forest.” She felt her mouth tremble and firmed it into a smile. “I discovered my water and this place. The things in here, including the pelts, were already here.”
Tom’s arms tightened about her. “By the saints, girl, you were fortunate.”
Ruth tried to speak, tried to nod, but the burning rush in her throat made any answer impossible. She turned into his blazing warmth and wept, tears she had never shed before and now, could not seem to stop.
They sat in silence for an age, Tom rocking her as if she was a tiny child. Somewhere in that cradling, Ruth drifted into sleep.
****
The water in the basin had gone cold. Tom lifted Ruth so he could shift the bowl, easing her carefully so she did not wake. Her story had not been unexpected, even if the conclusion was.
He understood where they were. He had guessed for days, but had been waiting for his companion to admit it, to prove that she trusted and liked him, if only a little. Since forming that wish, they had kissed—and now, she slept on him.
Tenderly, he brushed a streamer of her brown-black hair from her pretty face. Her nose wrinkled slightly but she did not stir. Her trust in him made him proud and amazed together, especially given her brutal past. Thanks to her callous brothers, greedy master, and apathetic villagers, it was a wonder she could stand to be in the same place as him—much less in his arms.
I must strive to keep her good will, for it is precious.
Content, he watched her while she slept. Around them, shadows lengthened as the daylight outside grew short. Soon, it would be moonrise, and the forest would be quiet again, their tower safe and warm.
A tower for a warren master, Tom decided, that was what this place had been once, when rabbits were considered to be rare creatures, needing special care.
He chuckled at the idea. Rabbits may have started out as delicate and dainty, but no longer—especially in this part of the country. The last warrener must have died, or moved away, and none taken his place. No doubt the tower had fallen into disuse, and then the lord or lady who had once owned it had forgotten its location, even its existence.
How?
The crusades had taken knights. Death in child-bearing could have taken any lady who had known of this tower. A few missing records and the spot was missed in turn, especially here, in a part of the northern woods not known for boar or deer or larger hunting prey.
And now Ruth had claimed it, made the tower hers. After what she has endured, she deserves it.
In his head, Tom heard the scoffing of fellow knights. They would consider her claim as worthless and many would instantly move to appropriate the tower. Not me. I will help her keep her home.
The vow warmed him like a dragon’s breath, and he relaxed, in turn. Tomorrow, he decided, sinking against the wall with a bundle of wolf pelts as a back rest, abruptly aware that his old wound no longer pained him. She has done that for me, too. Tomorrow would be soon enough to speak of the Snow Troll.
Tomorrow, he would speak of other things, also. Their contented weeks together had tempted him...and tonight, watching her face down those hunters, had decided him.
Pray God she is not too stubborn to accept my offer.
Chapter Five
She bathed in sunshine, although she had a crick in her neck. Frowning, Ruth lifted her head and winced as a dart of hot pain stabbed down her shoulder. Straightening slowly, she blinked into full wakefulness. In the weak winter light she realized she had been dreaming of summer, and no wonder. Tom had wrapped her up in furs and pelts and his arms, sleeping with his own head against the wall at what must be an uncomfortable angle.
She shifted her elbow, ready to gently prod him to move, if not stir, and he began to mumble.
“Marry...marry...”
He does not mean me, Ruth told herself. But her heart quickened, nevertheless. Her wits, sharpened by experience, hit down hard and fast on her day-dream, brutal as the winter hail. No doubt he has a lady somewhere whom he plans to court with all knightly flourish. Why else would he be travelling to seek his natural father, if not but to ensure there is no consanguinity between him and his intended?
Even as she fought to convince herself, Tom opened his eyes and groaned. “My back!”
“You slept in a crook-form,” she said, ignoring his narrowed eyes at her sharpness. “Do you plan to leave today? You are too hard on my stores for any long stay.”
He blinked at her harsh statement and hauled himself fully upright. Watching him stand and stretch, the now less-than-white linen shift clinging to his tall, sinewy frame, Ruth longed to take back her lie.
But I must maintain it. He means to marry. I cannot bear to remain in his company when he intends to marry someone else.
Hurt and anger and a sense of betrayal she knew was unfounded warred in Ruth, making it impossible for her to lie still any longer. Kicking off the furs, she shot to her feet, stumbling forward several steps in her haste to escape the lovely cage of Tom’s embrace.
No, not Tom. He is not my Sir Tom and he never was.
She wanted to thump the large brute and kick his shins. She wanted to cling to him and beg him to stay.
“What is it?” Two large, warm, heavy hands clamped upon her shoulders and turned her firmly. “I was welcome yesterday and the days before, so what has changed?”
“You were handy against the hunters, that is all.”
Tom sighed at that lie. “Let us test that, shall we?”
She guessed his intent but did not turn her head. He kissed her lips, forehead, ears, cheeks and lips again.
“Such a little liar,” he murmured against her throat, while Ruth found it impossible to draw back. “I will know the meaning of this, but I can wait. Do you know the way to Magnus’s manor?”
No, she wanted to say, to keep him with her longer. Contrary-wise, now it seemed that Tom would indeed be leaving, she could only think of ways to make him stay. “The snows will be very deep and dangerous.”
Too late, she realized that mentioning danger to a warrior was like dangling spices before a cook. Tom’s eyes glowed with amusement—and something more. “We shall have an interesting ride, then,” he observed, milder than fresh milk.
She shrugged swiftly out of his grasp. “I must not leave.”
“Oh, you cannot find your way back?”
“Of course I can,” she bridled, clenching her teeth together as she mentally upbraided her foolish pride in revealing such an answer.
“So, we can set out, even better! And since your Snow Troll has worked its menace, no other villagers will come prowling near here to find your tower.”
“But my animals...”
Again, he had a reply. “We need not be away for long. Come, I will help you feed them.”
I thought it was Magnus’s wife who was the maker of magic, not his son.
Ruth knew the deeper reason. Tom did not wish to part from her, and so long as he clearly felt that way, she found it impossible to gainsay him.
Is this love? A burning need for his company? Ruth had little knowledge of love but she discovered, packing and gathering clothes and food and bedding for a journey, that she did not greatly care. She was still with Sir Tom...and that was all that mattered.
Yes, it will hurt when we part, but until then, I will bask in his dark sun. Why not? I am harming no one but myself. She told herself she was happy and let the rest go.
****
The journey, north and east, keeping sight of the old Roman road but travelling alongside to
it, passed too quickly. Tom insisted she ride Darkie while he strode alongside, but even then, they made swift tracks. The day did not help, bright and sunny, as if the skies mocked her predicament.
“At this rate, we shall be there by sunset,” she called down to her companion, who gave her a grim nod and then a large smile, as if he could not help himself.
Is the smile for me or for his soon-to-be-met kin?
For me, Ruth told herself, when Tom stopped beside a rowan and cut and handed her a spray of the bright red berries. “For your good fortune.”
She smiled her thanks, feeling that her voice would be too uncertain for her to speak. Expecting Tom to move on, she started as he caught her in his arms, lifting her right out of the saddle into a fierce embrace.
“I would hate to do this without you,” he confessed into her cloak and hair, kissing her temple and that wretched little mole of hers as he gently set her down again on Darkie’s broad back.
She clutched him hard, once, then made herself draw back. “Magnus will love you.”
She did not stammer on the word “love”, it was what she wanted to say. Two weeks together and you think it is love? What do you know? A devil chattered in her ear. We passed the time gladly and easily and know more of each other than most betrothed couples, her hope responded. That was also true.
“The fellow does not know of me. And he has a wife, a new family of his own.”
Looking into the handsome, strained face, Ruth gave the only possible answer. “He will acknowledge you.”
“I learned nothing until this winter,” Tom went on, seizing Darkie’s leading rein and kicking forward, sending great plumes of sparkling snow into the air. “Mam felt guilty on what she thought was her death-bed, and confessed.”
He kicked more snow and scowled like a gargoyle, looking much as his natural father was rumoured to look now, with his battle-scars, Ruth thought.
Before she could ask after his “Mam” Tom sighed, tugging distractedly at his ragged curls.
“My real father loved me, so I do not know why I have bothered with this journey. It can only cause trouble.”
He was walking and talking faster. “Will his wife curse us, you think?”
Her heart feeling to rise within her chest at his linking them together, Ruth said steadily, “You wished to know where you are from, your roots.” She stopped herself from saying lineage, since that was a tangled matter for Sir Tom. “I have not heard of Elfrida cursing anyone.”
“Elf-Strength? That is her name? A good one for a witch.”
“I have heard she has bright red hair,” Ruth added, instantly experiencing a shiver of shame for gossiping like an old woman at the village well. “But I do not know any more than that.”
“Soon, we will know.”
Too soon for me. Ruth ducked her head to hide her aching hurt. When Tom joggled her booted foot in the stirrup he had shortened for her, she started at the feeling of mingled pleasure and pain as he tapped her toes. “Warm enough?”
She nodded. He remembers when I had icy feet and wants me to be warm. She reminded her stirring hopes that such memories meant little, but was buffeted afresh by his next words.
“Thank you. Your words helped, Ruth. You helped.”
He turned on the snow-filled track that was hidden save for its border stones and clicked his tongue for the horse to go on. Watching him walk away, bright and solid in his cleaned, dry clothes, the scarlet tunic that showed off his lithe form and hearty color and the long, dark blue leggings that she had spent so long scrubbing clean, Ruth experienced a blaze of pride—and then, sorrow. He is going forward into his future. He is leaving me. She wished for an instant that she was in truth a snow troll, with a clump of ice for a heart.
The glittering sun smeared across her eyes. In another few hours, it would be sunset and Tom would be reunited with his kindred, anticipating a family Christmas and all good things.
Ruth gritted her teeth and hung on tight to the saddle. I was alone before. I can be again.
Even in her own head, she sounded unconvinced.
Whatever happens, I must meet it. I did not flee a life of slavery to be defeated, not even by love. She fixed her gaze between the horse’s pricked ears and let herself be guided to her fate.
Chapter Six
“What made you devise the Snow Troll?”
Tom had decided they had waded through enough snow in this heavy, sullen silence. Something was amiss with Ruth and he sensed he knew what it was, or rather he hoped he knew. His plans all hinged on this aggravating, beguiling little mushroom.
And do not call her that to her face unless you want your own to smart from the flat of her hand.
She must agree with my plans, though.
First, he had to tempt her to talk to him again. “Were you troubled by many huntsmen?”
As he suspected, Ruth’s pride goaded her response.
“Stragglers and hunters never came close to my tower!”
“You made sure of that.”
His prompt evoked a vigorous nod on the part of his companion, plus the admission, “That is one reason why I created the Snow Troll, for the winter months when food is scarce and men are driven to seek game in wider areas.”
“I never believed that rabbit heads could look so evil,” Tom agreed, glad even now of the brightest of the day. Those shrunken, hanging heads and lolling ears had been uncanny and made even him uneasy, for a space.
He glanced upward to see Ruth blushing. “After I made that wicker brace and pole of...of heads, I had bad dreams for nights,” she said softly, telling him through the fingers of one of her hands. “They were what I had, that and berry juice to look like blood.”
Tom wanted to kiss those trembling fingers, and then her mouth. “You said one reason,” he said, dragging his eyes away from her face to scan the empty countryside again for any threats.
’Tis my duty to protect us, including on wholesome afternoons like this one.
He heard Ruth sigh. “I suppose it is more of the same,” she said. “When I escaped I was angry with everyone, for a long time. I liked being the Snow Troll. I liked creating terror, and knowing there were whispers of a fell beast all over the forest.”
“You do not seem angry now,” came a new, musical voice.
Tom whipped about in the direction of the voice and found himself staring down a spear point. Looking beyond the spear, he felt his breath freeze in his chest. Here is a real troll, of stone, surely, rather than snow.
“It seems your dreams spoke truth, my heart.” The troll spoke without lowering his weapon. “Splendor in Christendom, lad, what is your name? And why did I never see nor hear from you before?”
“My lord...Sir...” Ruth spoke softly. “Perhaps he did not know before?”
With that low, calm question, a new figure stepped up beside the troll and touched his braced arm. Tom still could not speak, could not move.
Scars, I was told, but not this, his whole body is a battlefield. He could see the old wounds that had been inflicted by curved swords, the missing nose-tip and hand, the peg-leg foot, the great grooves in his face. Stranger still, beyond the ruined features, Tom could see a queer mirror to his own stark good looks. Magnus had been handsome once, even as his mam had told him.
Thinking of his mother reminded Tom of one of the reasons he had made this journey. And behind that, a darker dread. What if he rejects me?
In all his years, Tom had never felt as wanting as now.
“You are Elfrida.” Steady as a queen, Ruth slipped down from the horse to stand beside him, her unseen hand placed squarely on his back in support. “God’s favor and greeting to you and yours.”
The little red-head dimpled a smile and bobbed. “And to you, mistress—of the warren tower.”
If he had not been sure Elfrida was a witch before then, Tom knew it for certain, now. Ruth, for her part, laughed softly. “Well met, indeed,” she said.
As if they had already agreed to be fr
iends, the two women stepped closer to each other and embraced, Elfrida swiftly drawing Ruth off to one side. Through their hushed voices, Tom caught, “A little one, Robert Magnus, walking and into everything. He loves to ride on his Da’s shoulders.”
As I never did. Tom hoped that none of his surprising envy showed on his face. He looked at the hulk that must be Magnus.
“He will have a sister, pray God, in the summer after the solstice,” remarked the older man. “If another lad, then he shall be called Thomas.”
At the name, his name, Tom could not stop the hiss of breath escaping his stiffened jaw.
“A good name, I find,” continued Magnus, staring straight at him. “Any father would be proud of such a son.”
He plunged the spear into the snow and, before he could react, Tom found himself enveloped in a bristly hug.
“Welcome,” said his father, his other father, before he planted a kiss on his cheek. “Prodigal or not, you are always welcome here.”
“I look forward to hearing your stories, sir knight,” called Elfrida.
“And Robbie shall have a new hero.” Magnus’s right eye had a sparkling golden cross in its depths, now blurring a little. He clapped Tom on the back and growled softly, “Your mother?”
“Doing well now, sir,” Tom replied quickly. “She was ill, believed she was dying, and made her confession to me.”
Magnus gave a soft snort. “A woman of secrets. I would say I remembered her clearly...but in truth, I do not.”
There was a sadness to his words and about his mangled, ageless face that made Tom want to offer comfort, even though they had just met. “Mam always did like her secrets,” he agreed. “She said nothing of you, sir, until just this last month. But Sir Guillelm, my fath—”
He broke off, but Magnus picked up his words as deftly as he might a ball, for all he was one-handed.
“Your father in soul, yes? Guillelm of Tissaton? Good man. And your mother is surely Lady Christine, a gracious woman...”
One Winter Knight Page 4