Roger's Bride

by Sarah Hegger

  She led Striker in between the trees and ducked behind a convenient juniper bush. “I see you, Sir Roger.”

  The entire kingdom could see, and hear him, he charged around with so much fuss. His size negated any need for stealth she supposed. Whereas she…the ghost in the forest, the shadow on the road, and the girl who had followed Sir Roger from Anglesea for the past three days. He thought he had bested her, slipping out in the small hours before dawn. Kathryn of Mandeville did not give up so easily. Not when she hovered so close to her perfect solution.

  Sir Roger dismounted and entered the tavern. His magnificent bay stallion pawed the ground, and a stable lad rushed to take his reins. The destrier stood a full hand higher than Striker. Kathryn patted an apology to Striker. He nuzzled her back and gave a soft whuff.

  “At least you know how to be silent.” She kissed his cheek. “Not like that big beastie.”

  Kathryn’s belly growled, and she slipped deeper into the thicket. With Sir Roger’s destrier being taken into the stables, she had time for a quick bite. Striker first though, and she slipped the nosebag over his head.

  Anglesea’s stables had been well supplied with what she needed. There’d been a momentary conscience wince as she filched the supplies for her and Striker, but a woman need do what she must. Shield-maidens of old would not have stopped at a few bags of grain, a nosebag and a water bucket. Nay, they would have taken the entire stable, horses and all. Left only the wood intact enough to burn. Those had been grand times, when women could take their part as equals beside their men.

  Not in England, however, but in the great frozen north many years ago. She had read all about it in the old scrolls at Mandeville. Those women had even owned property, become powerful Jarls in their own right. With her back against a graceful goat willow, Kathryn opened her pack.

  Anglesea’s larders had also been well stocked, and she ate a slice of jellied ham. After three days of following Sir Roger, she’d almost finished the ham, but she still had a bit of cheese, and some bread—if you did not mind gnawing it a trifle. She would have taken more, but a noise had interrupted her, and she’d had to leave with what she had. Still, the farms hereabouts appeared prosperous enough. They might not notice a little judicious raiding.

  Kathryn closed her eyes and enjoyed the sun on her cheeks. Flickering light painted the inside of her eyelids. Life outside the keep was grand and filled with sounds and sights. Soon, she would have to announce her presence to Sir Roger, along with the unwelcome news that he searched in the wrong direction. First, she needed to make sure they were far enough from Anglesea for him not to send her back. A quickly penned note to her mother about retiring to the Abbey to pray before her marriage should give her time, but a girl could only pray for so long.

  Matty would never have returned to Mandeville. Father kept them confined to the keep and largely friendless. Nay, Matty would have headed east to the home of a girl who had fostered with them for a few years. Kathryn had been jealous of their friendship, as they had often left her alone. For a brief time, Kathryn had nursed the hope Matty would marry Cecily’s brother, Ranulf. Until the day Ranulf beat his horse nigh to death when it unseated him. Stupid dolt! If he had ridden with any skill, the poor thing might have known he wanted to go left and not right.

  “Ho!”

  Kathryn opened her eyes.

  “Bring me my horse.” Sir Roger stood in the inn doorway. Sure and strong in partial armor, he shrunk the men around him to scuttling mice.

  As she crawled forward, she stuck close to the juniper.

  He mounted, tossed a coin to the boy and set off in a westerly direction.

  Kathryn snorted as she stood and walked to where Striker waited. If he had taken her with him from the beginning, they would have Matty by now.

  * * * *

  Roger kept Beast to an easy walk. Their journey soothed him, and he reveled in each mile he traveled. Out here, free of crying sisters and a disappointed mother, no expectations dragged him down. Here he could be Roger, and not Sir Arthur’s heir.

  Perhaps if he stayed out here for long enough, Sir Royce and his brood would make their way back to Mandeville. He shook his head at his unworthy thought. Lady Mathilda could be in grave danger, out in the world with no escort. Unlike her sister, Mathilda struck him as meek and gentle, a lamb amongst wolves.

  Sir Royce’s porcine eyes had lit up when Roger explained he would find Mathilda, and remained resolved to marry her. The man set his teeth on edge. Roger knew the type; brutal, uncouth bullies who picked only on those weaker than them. No wonder Lady Kathryn grew desperate to get her sister out from under his boot heel.

  What would happen to Kathryn then? He did not like to think of sending her back to Mandeville. When he found Mathilda, he would invite Kathryn for a long stay at Anglesea. Other than her midnight wanderings, he enjoyed her. Kathryn had fire and spirit and did not deserve to have it crushed.

  The sisters were of a height, which surprised him about Lady Kathryn. With her spirit, she seemed to stand taller than Mathilda, and broader. That night in his bedchamber, he’d noted the same pleasing curves as Mathilda. Pert, full breasts that would fit nicely in a man’s palm, not to mention the way the fire behind her had clearly outlined her shapely hips.

  Lady Kathryn would not make a terrible match. For another man. Nay, he did not need a harridan in his bedchamber. Chaste, mild-mannered, modest, meek—he sought these qualities in a wife.

  Odd prickles sprang up along his nape, and he halted Beast. Not for the first time, he sensed eyes on him. A few times, he had circled about to confirm his instinct, but the path behind him remained clear. Still, the niggle persisted. Sir Arthur had taught him never to dismiss his instinct. Sometimes instinct alone stood between a man and hard steel.

  He dismounted and fiddled with the buckle on his stirrup. Behind them, the road remained clear. He moved so he could see the bushes on either side. Breeze stirred though the leaves in a gentle wave. The sensation came from there.

  Who in God’s name would be following…ah, nay! He had best be wrong about that.

  * * * *

  Kathryn approved of the rest place Sir Roger selected. Beside a stream, on higher ground and in the shelter of a large copse. As he’d taken the best spot, Kathryn made do at the bottom of the rise with a clear view of the road. Far enough away not to attract his notice, but close enough to keep her eye on him. Dense foliage aided her cause.

  Nights proved the most difficult part of her adventure thus far. Whilst Sir Roger enjoyed peaceful slumber, she awoke every hour or so to ensure he had not left in the night without her. Her concealment made a fire impossible, and although the spring weather remained mild, the night could be long, chill, and jammed with strange noises.

  Smoke drifted to her, followed by the belly-aching aroma of roasting fowl. Kathryn dug out the last of her ham and ate. Earlier in the day, he had taken a short break to bring down two fat pheasants. Roasting bird filled the air and her belly growled. She tortured herself with visions of fowl, cooked golden over a hearth, cooking fat glistening on their crisped skins.

  For a moment, she considered sneaking into his camp once he slept and stealing the remains of his meal. A big man like Sir Roger would consume both pheasants. Also, following him for three days served as a chilling reminder of his competence. She dared not. A stiffening breeze renewed the torment and saliva flooded her mouth.

  Kathryn leapt up, and busied herself with Striker.

  He nudged her shoulder as she removed his saddle, greedy beggar looking for his feed.

  The feed sack felt light in her hand. She would need to see about more food for Striker as well. Tomorrow her provisions would run out, and she would make herself known to Sir Roger. She certainly hoped he would prove more agreeable this time to her company.

  She finished removing Striker’s tack and fed and watered him. There was no need to hobble him, Striker would never leave her. From the slight noises a
top the rise, she guessed Sir Roger had settled for the night.

  Kathryn huddled at the base of a large rowan. Through the trees the faint orange flicker of Sir Roger’s fire gave her comfort and lessened the sense of alone. Above her, stars pitted the deep canopy of the sky. A waxing moon rose like a fat yellow cheese wheel and hung over her. Sir Roger’s horse neighed, and Striker stamped in response. A fine night, to be sure. A huge yawn cracked her jaw, as she found a comfortable position. She would close her eyes for a bit, and then check on Sir Roger. Perhaps she would be fortunate and find half a pheasant sitting on the outskirts of his camp.

  Kathryn closed her eyes. The sprightly chirp of the crickets faded away.

  “Do you know what happens to little girls who are found where they are not supposed to be?”

  Kathryn awoke with a gasp. Her heart thudded in her ears.

  “I could slit your throat.” Sir Roger’s voice. Thank you, Lord.

  “I wish you would not.” Steel pressed against her pounding pulse. So close she dared not turn her head and look at him.

  “You followed me,” he said.

  No point in denying the truth. Especially when she had bigger concerns. She did not believe he would cut her throat, but she had seen him sharpen his dagger often enough to know one slip and her blood would flow. “Do you think you could move your dagger?”

  “I shall consider it,” he said. “Best you start talking, little girl, before my desire to teach you a lesson you will never forget triumphs over my honor.”

  He sounded angry, not really surprising. “I came to help.”

  “Help?” He chuckled, jiggling the dagger at her throat. “What help can you be?”

  “If you remove the dagger, I will tell you.”

  “You have stones for a girl with a knife pressed against her neck.”

  “I am wagering my life you will not use it.”

  The dagger vanished and Kathryn drew in a deep breath. She scrambled about to face him.

  He crouched beside her, scowling. Night cast brooding shadows across him. His head and shoulders made a darker outline against the forest.

  “My thanks.” Kathryn touched her throat, just to be sure.

  “Start talking.” He played his thumb over the edge of his dagger.

  “I followed you.” She shuffled away from him. He had not seemed so large and fearsome within Anglesea’s walls. “I aim to help you find Matty.”

  “I do not need your help.” He slid his dagger into his boot and rested his elbows on his knees.

  “Have you found her yet?”

  He tensed and stood, casting his long shadow over her.

  “And you will not find her either. That is where I can be invaluable.”

  The husky trill of a nightjar rolled through the trees.

  A stiff breeze cooled her hot cheeks.

  Roger shifted, hooking his thumbs in his belt. “You know where she is?”

  “Nay, but I know enough not to be going in the wrong direction for three days.”

  Offering her his hand, he peered at her. “You should not be here.”

  “I am your best chance of finding Matty.” She accepted his hand and he hauled her to her feet. “I know my sister, better than anybody else. I know where she went.”

  “You just said you did not.”

  “Well, I do not know…exactly, but I know the best place to start.”

  He caught her arm and dragged her closer. “And what did you mean the wrong direction?”

  Ah, so he had caught that. “Matty would never return to Mandeville. She knows that is the first place Sir Royce would seek her.”

  “Then where would she go?” Releasing her, he folded his brawny arms.

  The beauty of his hauberk made her lose her train of thought. Finely wrought links that covered his wide chest and arms, but allowed for ease of movement. What she wouldn’t give for one like it. Perhaps he would commission one for her, if she made herself extremely useful to him. Probably best not to wager on that, not with him glaring holes in her head.

  “I cannot tell you that,” she said.

  He sneered. “Because you do not know.”

  “Nay, because the moment I do, you will cart me back to Anglesea and leave me there.”

  He dropped his hands to his sides and balled his fists. “I am going to do that anyway.”

  Blast! He intended to be stubborn. “Why would you do that when I can help you achieve your goal?”

  He advanced on her, long legs halving the distance. “This is no place for you.”

  Kathryn leapt out of reach. “Just hear me out.”

  “Nay. You go back to Anglesea.”

  Her back hit the rowan’s trunk. “And you will never find Matty.”

  “I will if I search long enough.” He stepped closer until she had to tilt her head back to look at him.

  “I am glad you have that much time at your disposal.”

  “Bedamned!” Spinning about, he scraped hard fingers through his hair until it stood up on end. “This is madness. I cannot be responsible for you.”

  “You need not be.” Was he softening? She edged a step forward. “I have done fine by myself for three days.”

  “Up until the moment you woke with my dagger at your throat,” he said and kept walking.

  A direct hit, to be sure. “Up until then, aye.”

  Growling, he snatched up her provision sack. “Come along, then. We accomplish nothing by arguing in the dark. Bring your horse.” He shouldered her saddle and strode up the rise.

  Kathryn gathered her blanket and hurried after him, Striker at her heels. “Is there any pheasant left?”

  Chapter 6

  Capricious spring struck in a cold coating of frost the next morning. Roger woke and rolled out of his blankets. The fire had died down in the middle of the night and he blew on the embers until it caught again. Traveling at this time of year always proved uncertain and he drew a childish satisfaction from the white crust that covered Kathryn’s blanket. The girl had no business being outside a keep on her own.

  Should he put his blanket on her?

  How she had managed to trail him for three days without getting into trouble escaped him. Last night, she had devoured the remains of his pheasant as if she hadn’t eaten in days. He pulled out a small pouch of ingredients Cook mixed up for him, added water and stirred them together. He wrapped the dough about the end of a stick and placed it over the fire.

  The smell of baking bannock bread had Lady Kathryn stirring. Her nose twitched over the edge of the blanket before her eyes opened. She caught sight of him and smiled. Lady Kathryn smiled with her entire being. It lit her from within and coaxed an answering smile from him.

  Annoyed at himself, he dropped her gaze and dug out some salted ham and placed it on a stone beside the fire.

  “Good morrow.” She sat up and stretched like a sleek, hearth cat. Her hair tumbled around her shoulders in a dark cloud of walnut. Her tunic pulled taut across the swell of her breasts.

  Roger snapped his stare back to his bannock bread.

  Kathryn rolled out of her blankets. She stamped her feet and shook her hands. “It is cold this morning.”

  “Aye.” He turned the ham for a crisp cook on both sides. Women had no business out in the elements like men. Let this morning’s chill be a warning to her.

  “I do like a little nip in the air,” she said and disappeared into the thicket. He assumed to take care of necessities, but Roger kept an ear out in case.

  After a few moments, she emerged with barely a sound. At the stream, she splashed the frigid, clear water over her face, rinsed her mouth and dug out a sprig of mint to chew. As he worked on breaking their fast, she moved to their mounts.

  Try as he might, he could find no fault with her care for the animals.

  “Who taught you to take care of yourself out here?” His plan to freeze her out notwithstanding, curiosity got the better of
him.

  “Oh, I do this all the time at home.” She grinned and crouched across the fire from him. “The folk at Mandeville are quite used to me, and as long as I return before he has need of me, my father does not really care.”

  “You go out on your own all the time?” Roger could scarce credit his ears. Sir Arthur would rather have his fingernails drawn than allow his girls to risk themselves.

  “I can take care of myself.” Kathryn stuck her chin out.

  That remained to be seen. Roger apportioned their meal and handed her a share.

  After smiling her thanks, she tucked in.

  She puzzled him, so many contradictions and unanswered questions. Sitting on a log in her soiled man’s riding clothes, eating as neatly as a queen at court, sword strapped over her chausses. Fiercely determined to accompany him. “Why do you not wish to marry?”

  She stilled, and dropped her head. “I have other dreams.”

  “Such as?”

  She shrugged and tore a small portion of her ham and stuffed it into the bannock bread. “So, how are we to proceed?”

  “I will return you to Anglesea.”

  “Nay.” She jerked stiffer than a board. “I can help you find Matty, you know I can.”

  “I cannot be responsible for you.”

  “You do not have to be, I can take care of myself.”

  A few jousting skills, and a sword did not make her any more capable of that than a babe. “Why do you not want to marry?”

  She huffed and rose to her feet. “I want to be a shield-maiden.”

  “A what?” He must have misheard.

  “Like the north women.” She crossed her arms and averted her gaze to the trees.

  His history was not what he would wish it, but even he knew enough to recognize a culture long passed. “Umm…you do know—”

  “Aye, aye.” She flipped her braid over her shoulder. “Shield-maidens no longer exist, but I want to live by my sword, and roam the lands.”

  If her face were not so set and serious, Roger might have laughed. What a preposterous notion, worse than that. Women did not live by the sword, they remained in keeps, sheltered and nurtured by their menfolk. She’d be dead within the year, and the thought stopped him cold. There were female knights, aye, and Roger had even met one or two, but none of them looked like Lady Kathryn. Big women, large as any man, damaged by battle and life. The idea of Kathryn scarred from eye to mouth by a sword chilled him. Or her pretty eyes haunted and darkened by the cruelty of battle.