One Winter Knight

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One Winter Knight Page 22

by Townsend, Lindsay


  Rustling sounded, and the air shifted.

  “Bribe me with a kiss, and my thinking may be swayed.”

  His cajoling voice came from behind, close to her right ear. Imagining a kiss from the virile man heated her blood and sent it rushing in her ears like the buzz of a hummingbird’s wings. A shudder passed through her body, setting off a tumbling in her belly. The delicious smells intensified, surrounding her head like a thick fog, and Thordia feared she would swoon. Such an act would disgrace herself and possibly threaten this sale. Drawing a deep breath, she snapped open her eyes and turned her narrowed gaze toward the soldier. “Now, I demand to speak to the earl. I possess an item he commissioned and seek payment.”

  Reddish-brown eyebrows winged high, then dropped. “You’ve got a commission there, do you?” He raised a hand to his chin before stroking his beard. “So, you’re not part of the night’s entertainment?”

  At that, she did laugh. “Hardly. Not many endure the discordant sounds of me harp plucking.”

  He leaned down until he could look her straight in the eye. A coarse fingertip ran a line along her cheek. “You should smile more. When you do, your face lights with a lovely glow.”

  The tangy scent of ale filled her nose. A drunk. The exact type of man she had come to detest. Her spine stiffened, and Thordia squared her shoulders. “Heed ye do not presume such familiarity, sir.” One small part of her mind registered the lapse in time since a compliment such as his had been cast her way. But mostly, she recognized the situation for what dangers it posed. Her experience with her brother was he never made good decisions when in his cups. This man was probably no different.

  Stepping back, she dipped the best curtsey manageable while holding the heavy sword in front of her. “Yer good advice is acknowledged, sir. I will return on the morrow.” Before she changed her mind and begged for a hunk of fresh bread or a morsel of roasted meat, she spun toward the oak double doors.

  “Wait.”

  Not on me life. Rory MacGuignard unsettled her like no other man had ever done. Thordia broke into a dash but heard heavy footsteps from behind, and they were gaining. The sword slapped at her leg with each stride so she tucked the hilt over her arm and let the blade swing at her side.

  “Don’t go, maiden.”

  A tug paused her step for a moment, and then she lunged forward when the pressure eased. Vaguely, she was aware the cloth bag had been stripped off. But Thordia ran across the threshold and down the wooden steps of the bridge to the inner bailey. She kept running until she passed through the area lit by free-standing braziers with glowing embers and into the shadows of the inner palisade. Here, catching her breath, she stopped to pull up her hood and tuck the sword inside her cloak. Then, keeping her face averted, she moved at a regular pace through the outer bailey, among the servants’ quarters and tradesmen’s houses of those directly employed by the earl. At the gatehouse, she gave her brother’s name and trade and was allowed to pass through the fortified gate into the heath where their cottage huddled with a half-dozen others. Soren took payment for metal work he sold to castle dwellers, but he refused to acknowledge the protection of the earl’s palisade.

  Moments later, she gave the sisters’ special knock on the cottage door and waited, holding her breath, until the locking bar scraped and the door opened. As soon as she was inside, she replaced the bar, then leaned back against the solid wood and let out a relieved breath. Safe.

  “Where in blue blazes have ye been at this hour?” Soren planted himself two feet away, a stormy look twisting his face.

  What to say? Her plan hadn’t allowed for the possibility of not receiving payment. She lifted her chin and stared him down. “To the great hall to deliver the earl’s sword.” The backhanded slap caught her off-guard and knocked her to the floor, the sword clattering at her brother’s feet.

  “That task is not for ye to perform.” He stooped and picked up the sword, holding it toward the dim firelight for inspection.

  With a hand pressed to her stinging cheek, Thordia struggled to stand. She would not be cowed. The situation under this roof had gone on long enough. “Someone had to. Soren, we need the payment.”

  “I decide when a commission is finished.” His lips clamped tight.

  Seeing his mulish expression snapped something inside her. “Do ye now? Have ye taken a good look at the craftsmanship?”

  “What do ye mean?”

  “Did yer shaky hand inscribe those designs?” She stepped close and pointed to the spidery runes. “Did ye not wonder at how fast this one was finished?”

  He moved closer to the fire and stared, turning over the gleaming weapon.

  “Thordia.” Embla stepped close then swung an arm toward the pot over the fire. “Come help me get supper on the table.”

  Always the peacemaker. Thordia tossed her sister a shrug then glared at her brother. “Soren, have ye truly not noticed how yer drinking is starving yer sisters?” She stomped to the stew pot, scooped up a ladle of the thin stew, and let it dribble back into the pot. “This supper is made from vegetables Embla pulled off the O’Keefe rubbish pile.”

  Soren’s mouth gaped, and he turned toward Embla, eyebrows lifted. “Ye did what?”

  “Don’t ye dare blame her!” Thordia dropped the ladle and jammed her hands on her hips. “She brought home food so we’d have something—anything—to put in our shriveled bellies.”

  “Keep a civil tongue.” Anger flashed in Soren’s watery blue eyes, and he stepped toward her, hand raised.

  “No, Soren.” Embla dashed between the siblings but didn’t touch either one.

  “Mother and Father would be ashamed of what has become of us.” Sadness swamped her, and Thordia slumped to the bench, her fingers fumbling with the cloak ties. The failure of not gaining a meeting with the earl clawed at her chest, and she struggled to breathe.

  Embla pressed a damp cloth into her hand and then moved away to set out their meager meal.

  The three ate in silence.

  Thordia held the cool cloth against her cheek, wishing she had a few leaves of carpenter’s herb to ease the throbbing. At least, the rich goat’s milk would keep her belly from growling during the night. As she spooned the bland stew into her mouth, Thordia remembered the rich smells in the keep and despaired that her life was doomed.

  ****

  Sunlight stabbed his eyes, and Rory groaned. He rolled over on his pallet, the hem of his long shirt twisting at his hips, and a boot dropped to the floor with a muted thud. He’d slept in his clothes? With an effort, he sat upright and immediately cradled his throbbing head with both hands. Too many pints of ale. After several deep breaths to clear his head, he opened his eyes and spotted a blurry cloth heap beside his pallet. He leaned over slowly and grabbed it, fingering the tight weave and smooth texture. A drawstring closed one end of the long bag, but what was it doing in his room?

  Memories of the previous evening flashed through his mind. A sassy blonde…demands for an audience with the earl…berry-pink lips…a strange-shaped package in her arms. His boorish, presumptive behavior that she might welcome a hasty kiss. Mostly, he remembered the flush of her cheeks and her wide-eyed fear as she escaped the keep. His fist tightened. If any of the soldiers under his command had acted in such a discourteous manner, he would mete out a severe recrimination. Soldiers of Kilburren Castle had an obligation to shield, not frighten, those under the earl’s protection.

  Rory stood, and his stomach jumped and rolled. Slapping a hand against the wall, he stilled until he regained his balance. When his vision cleared, he stripped down to his braies and swiped a soapy cloth over his face and torso. Not calling for the delivery of warm water was his first punishment of the day. He vowed not to stop until he’d redeemed his good name.

  A while later, he stood at the top of the bridge overlooking the bailey, feeling better for donning clean clothes and dunking his head in a basin of cold water. Only a skim of wispy clouds along the western horizon marred the expanse of
clear blue sky. The chilliness of the morning air helped clear his mind. He’d foregone any food to break his fast, unsure if it would remain in his stomach.

  Today, Cormick was in charge of running the soldiers through the practice exercises. Rory’s assignment was to find the mysterious woman and make amends—both on his behalf and, especially, for his liege’s honor. After a thorough inspection of the bag for clues, all he’d located was a tiny “TUE” stitched into a fold of the bottom seam.

  A circuit of the entire bailey turned up no one who recognized the weaving or the initials. Standing away from the foot traffic, he surveyed the occupants of the outer bailey, looking for her pretty face, as he thought of his next step. Workers moved about their daily business—launderers leaned over steaming vats of water, saddlemakers stitched buckles onto girths, fletchers fit feathers into arrows. A young lad used a crook to guide a flock of sheep through the gatehouse to the pastures beyond.

  An idea sparked. Rory strode across the footbridge over the moat and turned to the grouping of rundown cottages perched at the bluff over the River Noire. Smoke smudged the air over a thatched hut at the farthest distance from the palisade. The scattered pieces now fit together. A blacksmith. Gleaming silver had been exposed when he yanked at the bag. She’d been delivering a sword. He headed toward the structure with the sign of a carved hammer hanging next to the door.

  Pausing on the stoop, he straightened his tunic and ran a hand over his hair. Not often had he been in this position, and he needed to collect his thoughts about how to form his apology. He rapped his knuckles on the door and waited.

  Light footsteps approached and the door opened, exposing a dim interior. “Good mornin’, sir, are ye here to see the smithy?” The young girl with reddish-blonde hair bobbed a curtsey.

  The lilt in her voice he recognized, but the woman he’d met last night was older. “No.” From an inside pocket of his cloak, he pulled the bag and held it out. “Do you recognize this?”

  The young girl’s eyes rounded.

  “Who be at the door, Embla?”

  That voice. Rory couldn’t stop himself from crossing the threshold and turning toward the far corner where the tall woman stood. “Captain Rory MacGuignard, maiden. I’ve found you.”

  “What are ye doing here?” Her green eyes narrowed.

  He stalled a moment to take a look at the humble accommodations where sleeping pallets shared the living and eating areas. Trunks lined the walls. Nowhere could be seen a single item of luxury, unless one counted the tapestry being woven on the floor loom. Such accommodations were sparser than the lowliest servant in the castle. “I have come to return what you left behind.” He extended the folded cloth and held his breath as the blonde flitted her gaze between the cloth and his face. “Do you wonder how I tracked you down?”

  With head bowed, she crossed the floor with gliding steps and retrieved her bag. “Thank ye, sir.

  Something is wrong. Her manner was so different from what he remembered of the previous night. Where was the sassy woman who had heated his blood long after her disappearance? “Allow me please to inquire of your name again.” He cleared his throat. “I’m afraid I don’t remember hearing it.”

  “Me possession is returned, sir.” She eased a scarf over her head, pulling it forward over her right cheek. “We’ve no need for further acquaintance.”

  He glanced at the girl who hovered by the door, then turned his back in her direction. His next words were intended for only the ears of one woman. “I also wanted to extend my humblest apology for anything untoward I might have said last evening. As a soldier and a captain representing the Kilburren guard, I wouldn’t want any misunderstanding between us to disparage the earl’s name.”

  Straightening, she inhaled then glanced away. “I accept, and wish ye good day.”

  This conversation wasn’t going like he thought it would. He stepped to the end of the table and reached out a hand, then dropped it to his side. “I never meant to address you with any disrespect. Often times, the soldiers tease the maids or the musicians. All in good fun. With the coming holidays, gaiety sails through the air.”

  She whirled. “I came to the keep for a serious matter, and ye thwarted me at every turn. Yer treatment proved not any type of fun I ken.”

  In an instant, he recognized the challenging tone. Then the scarf fell away, displaying a purple mark covering her cheek. Rory clenched his jaw and moved in front of her. “Who did this?” Four darker circles appeared at the edge of the bruise. “Who raised a hand to mark your face?”

  The woman covered her cheek and winced. “This matter be not yer concern.”

  Turning toward the closest window, he stared through the opening to figure out his next move. Had his actions of denying her an audience subjected her to this injury? She’d claimed to be a maiden, so she’d been slapped by a brother or father. His own family had been a non-violent one, but he had seen evidence of abuse among the servant class on the castle grounds. He spun. “I see you’re a weaver, but I still need your name. I must do something to make this right.”

  “Sir, ye have done what ye came for. I urge ye to leave.”

  “Her name be Thordia Ulfsdottir.” The younger woman stepped forward. “She be trying to receive the fee for the sword our brother made, but a brute of a soldier stopped her.”

  “Embla, quiet yerself. I will see our visitor out.” Thordia moved toward the door and pulled it open. “Truly, sir, I must ask ye to hurry. No one benefits if our brother finds ye here.”

  Brute? Shame brought a flush to his skin. He followed her direction and stepped over the threshold, catching her elbow and easing her to join him. “Maiden Thordia, I dislike what my actions have caused, and my honor compels me to offer you remedy. Last night, I overheard the countess mention the need for additional servers for the Christmas feast three days hence.”

  Her chin lifted. “I be a weaver, sir, not a serving wench.”

  Rory fought back a smile at her show of pride. “Each worker receives a loaf of bread and a dish of roasted meat for a Christmas Eve meal. Perhaps your sister might be interested.”

  Chapter Three

  Thordia and Embla walked over the footbridge, arms linked, and headed across the bailey. Their Christmas morning had been subdued, but the siblings had exchanged small gifts. Thordia made a special porridge, and Soren surprised them with a side of bacon. Amazing how the world looked happier when hunger pangs didn’t attack one’s belly. Over the past three days, the atmosphere in their cottage had improved.

  The day after the argument, Soren received payment for the sword, but he didn’t spend the entire night at the tavern. Upon his return, he made a point of plinking several coins into a crock that he set on Thordia’s trunk. Although he still went out for a drink after supper, Soren no longer returned home stumbling drunk. Even better, he stayed focused on his work, producing more than one piece a day.

  Embla looked on the task of serving at the feast as an adventure, and Thordia had become caught up in the excitement. Why not spend the day in a convivial atmosphere filled with candlelight, warmth, and good scents? Weren’t most people happy at the Christmas holidays? Her own attitude toward her new duties had improved the moment she’d learned the earl and his wife were entertaining a group of thirty people for the entire Twelve Days of Christmas. No time spent fretting over providing meals for almost two weeks. With their reduced appetites, she and Embla could hold back half of their portions and give Soren a late supper.

  She remembered Ro—uh, the imposing soldier had mentioned musicians. Listening to a performance by experts was a rare treat that would make a wonderful holiday memory. She steered her sister toward the back entrance of the keep and stepped up to the end of the line of workers. An hour later, they looked almost indistinguishable from the other servers clad in long-sleeved royal blue smocks with fresh white aprons tied over their dresses and scarves knotted around their heads. Thordia fingered the cloth, pleased at having a new dress—if only
for while she served.

  Head cook Mistress Tompkins, a plump woman with a yellow apron, walked down the line, viewing them with a critical eye. On her second pass, she matched workers with assignments.

  Thordia was pleased to learn Embla would be on the bread service, which should not be too taxing. Her duty was to keep the wine decanters filled—diluted for the daylight meals and full-strength for supper. Apparently, the two most important aspects of serving were to be prompt, and then fade into the background until needed again. A feat she was well-practiced at doing.

  Embla bounced on the bench at her side. “Hasn’t this day been fun?”

  Thordia wiggled her toes inside her boots to stop the tingling. On the morrow, she would wear a second pair of stockings. Two meal services were finished, and the next one would start within the next quarter-hour. She had been kept so busy that she hadn’t really let herself reflect on the reason for the absence of the soldier captain. Although the serving work was manageable so far, Thordia struggled with the periods of inactivity. Weaving allowed both her fingers and her mind to be involved as she created the designs. She rolled her head against the wall where she leaned toward her sister. “Ye liked serving?”

  “That part is all right. But I like talking with folks, don’t ye?” Embla’s eyes glistened. “And the gowns. The styles and the ribbons.”

  Ah, the naïveté of youth. Long ago, Thordia had stopped noticing the finer things in life, so she could be more content with what she had. “Pretty, aren’t they?”

  “Someday, I will have a pink gown with bows on the sleeves.” Embla sighed.

  “Servers, line up.” Mistress Tompkins stood in the hallway, waving them all toward the kitchen.

  The workers responded, each knowing that soon they would have a chance to taste the foods they’d been serving. The room used to transfer food brought in from the various houses of preparation buzzed with moving bodies and shouted instructions. Thordia and Embla passed each other in the hallway with barely an acknowledging nod, intent on completing their tasks.

 

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