One Winter Knight

by Townsend, Lindsay

  Until Thordia started watching every move he made while forging a sword so she could replicate them when he fell into a drunken stupor. Not strong enough to manage the initial heavy hammering and multiple dousings of the fiery metal, she concentrated on learning the more delicate tasks. At the beginning of her trials, any mistakes he found the next day he shrugged off to being in his cups while working. Soon, he just picked up the sword the next morning, not wondering about an added engraving or a smoother hammered point.

  Without the money owed on this commission, there’d be no food for the next several days, until she and her sister finished weaving an intricate covering to adorn a wall in the ladies-in-waiting room.

  The door flung open, and the iron hinges squeaked.

  Jerking at the interruption, Thordia made a mental note to grease them on the morrow.

  Embla rushed into the wattle-and-mud cottage, her reddish blonde curls flying behind. One-handed, she untied her cloak and tossed it over the closest bench. “Thordia, look what Mistress O’Keefe tossed out onto the rubbish heap. I was walking by the cottage and heard the thumps.” Crystal blue eyes dancing, the thin sixteen-year-old held out her the front of her yellow tunic and revealed two half-moldy turnips and three dry wrinkled carrots.

  Pushing to a stand, Thordia then moved to the other end of the table and forced a smile. “Such treasures, love. How thoughtful to remember the pitiful state of our larder.”

  “How can I forget! Me empty stomach growls with constant complaints.” She dumped the vegetables on the table, leaning to catch a turnip as it rolled toward the edge. “These will make a fine stew, methinks. Do ye not agree?”

  “I do. Now, if only people tossed out flour and meat, we’d eat like kings.” Thordia draped the cloth over the sword and walked across the hard-packed dirt floor to the box that held the cooking implements. After gathering two knives, she dipped a wooden bowl into a nearby water bucket and brought it back to the table. Washing and chopping the vegetables allowed her a few precious moments to organize her thoughts. What she had planned was a bold action, and she worried about the consequences to the family.

  Now that Soren seemed diminished as the provider, all hopes to sustain the family lay on Embla making a good match. At twenty-and-one years, Thordia acknowledged her prime years were in the past. Not many a young man of promise would cast her a second glance.

  “Dear sister, I must ask for yer help in keeping a secret.”

  Embla held her knife aloft as she peered across the table. “What secret be ye having? A suitor, mayhap?” Her lips rose in a smile.

  “Nay.” Thordia scraped at a spot of soil on the turnip skin. “I will present the sword at the earl’s hall tonight and request payment. We must do what we can to avoid starvation. I intend to give Soren only a portion of the fee.”

  Eyes wide, Embla shot a frowning glance over her shoulder and then scurried to Thordia’s side. “But what will Soren say? Won’t he know?”

  Irritation tensed her muscles, and she forced a smile, hoping to alleviate her sister’s concerns. Thordia could concoct a story to satisfy her brother, but her worry was how to present the situation in front of the lord of the realm, his family, and his company of guards. “Not if there is food to eat. Ye see how angry he gets when the pot over the stove is empty.”

  “Will ye walk into the great hall unescorted?”

  Unable to hide her feelings, Thordia turned and glared. “If our brother saw fit to tend to his business hisself, then I wouldn’t be forced to do this.” Over the past few days, she’d worried about the situation, and this was the outcome that seemed to offer immediate respite to their dire finances. Thin arms wrapped around her shoulders, and Thordia patted her sister.

  “Oh, Thordia, I meant no criticism. Ye are so brave to walk through the palisade gate and across the entire bailey alone.” Embla rubbed her head back and forth. “I would be so frightened, my knees would fail to hold me upright. I worry the Huldra might snatch ye into the forest and take ye down to her spirit world.”

  Hearing Embla speak of a childhood fear forced a giggle through her lips. “That is why I wish to go now and return before sunset.” She scooped the chopped vegetables into her hands then dropped them into the metal soup pot. From plants hung on an overhead beam, she grabbed several pinches of dried herbs to flavor the thin stew. “Ye can gather in the goats, do the milking, and tend the stew while I be gone.”

  “What will ye wear?” Embla carried the pot to the bucket, balanced it on a knee, and poured in several ladlefuls of water.

  “Wear?” Thordia glanced at the plain woven brown dress and dull yellow tunic that clothed her body. “Ye ken, ’tis all I have. I thought to change the cord belt for my chain one.” A gift from Soren from years earlier when their parents still lived and he apprenticed to their father.

  “Nay, not the chain. Ye shall wear me embroidered girdle because it is newer and will give a wee bit of style to yer dress.” Embla hurried to the chest at the foot of her bed at the cottage’s perimeter. She approached, holding out the strip of lavender cloth with ties on both ends.

  The color, when the garment was new and gifted to Thordia for her sixteenth birthday, had been deep purple. Thordia loved the accessory, woven and sewed by her mother’s hands, that marked her emergence as a woman. Earlier this year, she’d worked by candlelight when the cottage was quiet at night to make over the garment to continue the tradition and presented it on Embla’s special day.

  Ready to refuse, Thordia could not stifle the pleasure at being the object of fussing as her sister tied on the garment and then tugged and folded the excess fabric of her tunic to the best advantage. They both agreed the color clashed with the tunic, so now the girdle held her dress close to her middle. A tiny thrill passed through Thordia at the feeling.

  “Look at the improvement in yer appearance. The girdle brings new life to yer dress.”

  Thordia smoothed a hand over the threads stitched in a pattern that looked like random shapes, but was really the story of her father’s Viking roots sewed in runic text. Someday, she must work on deepening her sister’s understanding of this important tie to their lineage.

  “And ye must wear me cloak because the hem is less tattered.” She scooped up the heavy woolen garment and brushed off bits of straw before laying it on the table. “I’d offer me boots, but they be too short.” Eyes wide, she jammed both hands on her thin hips. “Why is every item of me own clothing so much newer than yers? Oh, Thordia, has me head always been in the clouds and I never noticed?” She crumpled to the wooden bench and lowered her face to her hands.

  Thordia pulled in a quick breath. Embla’s sunny outlook about their lives getting better was often the attitude that Thordia needed to get through each day. Making light of their situation could help put off revealing the truth a wee bit longer. “Yer things are newer because yer still growing, my sweet.” She reached for the cloak, then swung it around her shoulders. “And I have more practice than ye at making do.” The warmth of the heavier cloak enveloped her back, making her realize her own threadbare cloak needed a thicker lining. Constructed from what fabric, she knew not. “Now, dry yer eyes and wish me luck.”

  ****

  The torches in the castle wall sconces let off a flickering light, and thin black tendrils of smoke drifted upward. Earthy scents of straw and herbs rose each time someone walked across the stone floor. Evergreen boughs lined the edge of the dais where the high table sat. The castle was accented with signs of the coming solstice celebration.

  Rory MacGuignard tipped back his tankard and took long swallows, letting the tangy ale quench his thirst. He and his team of soldiers had worked hard that afternoon, drilling their fighting skills. For half that time, they’d practiced in armor vests and gauntlets, toning their muscles to carry the extra weight. Although the days shortened and the nights grew icy, threats of a rebellion continued to swirl through the great hall each evening at supper. The castle guard all had sworn on their very li
ves to protect the earl and his family, and Rory’s job was to see the men ready to carry out that oath.

  Raucous laughter caught his attention, and he glanced down the table at his men—Cormick, Lonn, Peadar, Orren, and Tully. Stalwart, loyal warriors like himself, each was in the prime of his life and always eager for action. Transplanted from Normandy, the fighting company accompanied de Harcourt in his alliance with the local ruler who had been killed in the first skirmish. The Normans’ superior fighting skills were no match for the small tribal bands, and de Harcourt was proclaimed Earl two years earlier. The transition to life in Ireland had proved easier than Rory anticipated, because the locals spoke a form of his native Gaelic. Only a few intonations or words caused confusion.

  “Aye, that is what I said.” Black-haired Lonn Ciardubhan jabbed a beefy arm to make his point. “If ye lunge with bent knee, the sword wields more speed.”

  “Leaving your thigh, not to mention your precious lance, exposed.” Thick eyebrows bunched over a hook nose, Peadar Torrance shook his head and crossed his arms. “I am not one for taking such a risk.”

  With a laugh, Tully Banning clapped a hand on Peadar’s leather-covered shoulder. “Old Torrance, here, is a walking resource for the tried-and-true methods of our fathers and our fathers’ fathers.”

  “If not back to the last century.” Orren Forbes elbowed Peadar until the man cracked a grin.

  “Let the man be.” Cormick Slaven brushed a hank of wheat-colored hair from his forehead. “Peadar’s methods have kept him alive.” He raised his tankard and glanced around the group. “Sláinte to soldiers and warriors everywhere.”

  A robust chorus of “sláinte” resounded in the great hall. The discussion continued over preferred fighting methods and the accuracy of each—the topic an oft-repeated one.

  Rory leaned a leather-banded forearm on the table and listened to the jovial tone in his friends’ voices. Life was good. In three stone hearths set in a line down the middle of the hall, fires blazed, casting dancing lights to the oaken timbers set high over their heads. The castle’s thick wooden walls held off the encroaching night’s chill. Soon, servants would appear, carrying in platters of food from the cook houses and pitchers of ale from the brew houses. Voices raised in merriment would fill the hall.

  Although on occasion he missed his family back home, Rory had worked hard to earn his position as captain of the guard. The esteem granted by his men meant almost as much as the trust bestowed by the earl. From the corner of his eye, he spotted the castle steward hurrying his way, the back of his tunic sailing behind him.

  “Captain.” The thin-faced man stopped opposite him and nodded before glancing over his shoulder toward the front entryway.

  “Aye.” The man’s nervous manner compelled Rory to look in the same direction. He caught a glimpse of a tall blonde woman peeking around the corner of the arched opening. “What matter needs tending, steward?”

  “A woman wishes to speak with the earl.”

  “The meal is almost upon us. Tell her to return on the morrow.” Rory faced the table again and drank from his tankard, thinking the matter complete.

  A rasp sounded as the man cleared his throat. “Ah, sir, the woman insists she speak this night to someone in charge.”

  Whispers ran up and down the benches as his men speculated on who the bold woman might be.

  Frowning, Rory cut a glance over his shoulder, but the woman had disappeared. He narrowed his gaze on the man who shifted from foot to foot. “Did she give a name, perhaps?” No matter the person, if she wasn’t part of the earl’s immediate household, she had no business appearing in the keep at supper time. Better take care of this before she was allowed access to the hall. He shoved himself to a stand, tossing back the last of his ale. The quick movement made him sway, and he slapped a steadying hand on the table. How much had he imbibed? “Take me to her.”

  Again, the steward bobbed his head, then pivoted and scurried off toward the archway, his soft shoes slapping on the stone floor.

  Careful to plant each boot flat on the flagstones, Rory strode toward the entry, his chain mail overshirt tinkling with each movement. At the last moment, he brushed a hand over his shoulder-length, wavy hair to ensure it was somewhat contained. The other hand, he ran over his beard to whisk away any droplets of remaining ale. He rounded the corner and turned in the direction the steward indicated before the harried man disappeared toward the cook house.

  Under the earl’s coat of arms stood the woman, enshrouded in a dark, hooded cloak, gazing upward at the heraldic shield with gloved hands laced behind her back. Nothing about her appearance provided a clue as to her identity.

  Curiosity bit at Rory’s gut, and he debated about walking across the expanse to greet her where she waited. Then he decided that watching her approach might give him insight. If not, he’d have a few seconds of pleasure at gazing at a woman who, at first glimpse, had appeared to have a pretty face. “Madam, how may I be of service?”

  The woman whirled, making the hood fall away to her shoulders. A long braid flew a second behind, like a whip, landing over one shoulder, the strands at the tip curling at her waist. “Ye not be the earl.”

  For a moment, the candlelight reflecting off the woman’s golden hair stole his words. The rich blending of yellow and light brown reminded him of fields of grain he’d walked through in his childhood. He shook his head and focused on her accusatory words that didn’t match her fair appearance. “True, but I am Captain of the Guard, Rory MacGuignard. And who might I have the pleasure of addressing?”

  The woman stooped to retrieve a long cloth sack and hefted it into her arms.

  Ah, she was to be tonight’s entertainment. He’d heard a harpist was due to perform following the meal. He watched her cover the expanse of the entryway with measured steps, chin held high. Her strides caused the cloak to flap open, exposing a drab dress girdled in the middle. But the outlines of her shapely legs were what drew his attention. Lust flushed hot blood through his body, straining the gousset of his breeches. He lifted his gaze to her sweet heart-shaped face and met discerning green eyes that met his look from beneath an arched eyebrow.

  “A woman uncertain ye mayhap not be the one to give me satisfaction.”

  Chapter Two

  The moment the words left her lips, Thordia wished to pull them back. If only to have forestalled the knowing gleam she spotted in the bearded soldier’s eyes. A blue-eyed gleam that brought an embarrassed flush to her cheeks.

  The man moved half a step closer. “A statement not often heard from those who’ve known me.”

  Her challenge had been interpreted differently than what she intended. Inexperience with such an innuendo left her speechless to respond. What she wanted was to have this matter decided quickly so she could return home before Soren did and learned what she had done. That meant speaking with the earl, and none other. “No need for rudeness, sir. I have dealings with the earl.”

  A corner of his mouth quirked upward then flattened. “Are you maiden or mistress?” The man crossed leather-banded arms over his wide chest to the accompaniment of metal clanking.

  Thordia fought to keep her gaze latched onto his. She had thought herself tall for a woman, but the man standing opposite towered over her. He presented a solid block that might keep her from gaining the access she so ardently desired. “Maiden, sir.” A knot clenched in her stomach. “I wish to be presented to the earl on a matter of important business.”

  Shaking his head, Rory again surveyed her from head-to-toe. “The family remains upstairs in the solar. I won’t disturb them with business that can wait until a more appropriate time.”

  Wait? The image of Embla’s trusting gaze and the thin stew simmering at home flashed through her mind. She stepped close enough to catch his scent of wood smoke, manly sweat, and pungent sage—a pleasant mix that fit his warrior presence. Her straying thoughts caused her hold on the sword bag to slip, and she gasped before regaining control and resting the swor
d tip on the floor. “And ye possess the right to decide on the earl’s behalf which matters he hears when?” She bit her teeth into her lower lip, knowing her sharp tongue would not help her predicament.

  “That, I do.”

  If only she could catch sight of the earl or the countess, she mayhap could gain entrance! Thordia shuffled sideways toward the archway. “So, a captain such as yerself handles the earl’s appointments, do ye?” She slid her boot another step to the left.

  The soldier frowned and shifted opposite her. “Again, true.” He rested his large hands on the belt that held a knife sheathed in a scabbard that hung almost to his right knee.

  For such a big man, he was light on his feet. He matched her step in a silent dance. A giggle bubbled up her throat, but she clamped her lips tight. A business-like demeanor was essential for her plan to work.

  At that moment, tantalizing scents of yeasty bread and roasted meat spread outward from the great hall. Servants must be setting out the evening meal.

  Her stomach growled in yearning. She glanced toward the unshuttered windows to gauge the hour and saw dim sunlight. Time was slipping away, and she must gain an audience.

  The captain’s gaze flicked downward for a second, then met hers again. “What are you holding clasped with such security, maiden Thordia? Knowing what you wish to deliver may aid in my decision.”

  The intimacy of his lowered voice sent flutterings through her body. Her eyelids slid closed as she savored the sound of her name spoken in such deep tones. “I have…here be…” How did one man, this big, muscled soldier, have the ability to befuddle her so? Perchance Soren was correct, and women were not meant to be in charge of trade transactions.