Knights of de Ware 01 - My Champion

by Glynnis Campbell

  The planting stick Linet found was too brittle to make a good weapon. She was just creeping forward, considering the merits of the half-empty milk pail, when a reiver’s sword sang through the air toward her.

  She experienced no fear. There wasn’t time for it.

  “Nay!” the beggar cried. Then he dove with impossible speed in front of her, turning the reiver’s blade deftly aside with his pitchfork.

  His heroics took her breath away, and she staggered back to watch. To her amazement, even without her help, the beggar, armed with little more than farmer’s tools and his wits, singlehandedly held the Spaniards at bay. She stared in awe as he lunged and leaped, feigned and struck with spade and pitchfork as brilliantly as any knight with sword. Where, she wondered, had a peasant learned such combat skills?

  The ferret swung his blade high, and the beggar dropped beneath its path, then came up abruptly, slamming the broad pan of the spade against the back of the reiver’s head. The resulting dull ring made Linet groan in empathy.

  The beggar didn’t wait to see the damage, but turned immediately toward Tomas, who gaped at his fallen companion. Hefting the spade upward, the beggar sent Tomas’s sword sailing across the stable, where it landed mere inches from the cow chewing her cud with bovine nonchalance.

  Now he had them, Duncan thought. He narrowed his eyes, closing in for the final coup. He casually dropped the spade. His prey retreated step by shaky step. Then a movement glimpsed from the corner of his eye reminded Duncan that Linet was watching him.

  By all rights, he should slaughter this scoundrel. Common sense told him so. The man was a sea reiver, one of El Gallo’s brood. He probably deserved far worse even than a quick, clean death. Yet Duncan couldn’t bring himself to kill so cold-bloodedly, not in front of the angel.

  A revelation took sudden hold of him. Here was the perfect opportunity to teach Linet de Montfort something about the lower class and honor. After all, hadn’t he discovered chivalry among the poorest of peasants and pride in the humblest of hovels? Here was a chance to prove to her that wealth and title did not a gentleman make.

  He raised the tines of the pitchfork against the reiver’s bobbing Adam’s apple.

  “I should slay you, knave,” he proclaimed, “but I won’t. I don’t wish to cause my lady further distress at seeing your blood spilled.”

  Tomas’s eyes remained nervously focused on the long tines before him.

  “You two,” he continued, waking Clave with a kick to his skinny butt, “will return to El Gallo. You will tell him that you’ve looked into the face of death and that I let you live. And you will warn him that should anyone so much as touch a hair on the head of Lady Linet de Montfort, they will have to deal with…” He straightened, suddenly inspired. “With the only man to ever have defeated Sir Holden de Ware.”

  “De Ware?” Clave gaped. “But no one has ever—”

  “The next time,” Duncan promised, “I won’t be so merciful.” With that, he lowered the pitchfork.

  Tomas cowered back and turned to go, not even bothering to collect his sword. Clave scrambled after him. Duncan prodded their backsides with the tines just hard enough to make the reivers yelp as they hurtled toward the safety beyond the stable door.

  Linet watched in open-mouthed wonder as the beggar—the most unlikely hero with his rumpled linen clothing and straw-bedecked, disheveled hair—chased them out. Had she heard him right? She’d have sworn he’d called her Lady Linet. He’d shown the reivers a nobleman’s mercy, releasing them with a warning, little worse for wear. Could it be the beggar had some scruples after all?

  Nay, she decided with a shake of her head, not after that outrageous lie he’d concocted about defeating Holden de Ware.

  Still, she thought, dusting the straw from her jerkin, she owed him her life, and she was grateful he’d escaped unharmed. “Thank God you were here,” she said, when they were gone and the dust had settled. “But you know, if you’re going to make a practice of deception, you’d do well to be more subtle about it. Holden de Ware indee-“

  He turned toward her, and horror froze the words on her tongue. As she watched, a tiny wet thread of scarlet worked its way down the front of the beggar’s shirt, staining the white linen.

  “You’re wounded,” she breathed.

  Duncan frowned and glanced down. That? It was only a scrape. A bit of cloth for binding and the cut would heal in a few days. “It’s noth-“

  Linet was as white as a snowdrift. She looked as if she might collapse. His heart leaped to his throat. Was she hurt? Forgetting his own scrape, he strode forward to clasp her shoulders, his eyes wide in concern. “Are you all right?” His voice was ragged.

  She recoiled from him, her eyes rolling like a frightened palfrey’s as she stared at his chest. “You’re hurt,” she murmured.

  He narrowed his eyes, quickly inspecting her for injuries. She seemed unharmed, thank God. A warm rush of relief washed over him.

  Still she looked pale. “So much blood,” she said weakly.

  Her concern moved him. “I have enough to spare, my lady, never fear,” he assured her, wadding the bottom of his shirt against the cut to stanch the flow. “It’s just a scratch.”

  Linet swallowed hard and forced herself to bridle her panic. If the beggar could endure such a wound, so could she. She turned away, reaching beneath her surcoat, and tore a large piece of linen from her undergarment. Biting down on her lip to stop its quivering, she marched over to him. But she wouldn’t look at the ghastly injury. Averting her eyes, she donated her cloth to the cause and the pressure of her hands to the task.

  He caught her hand in his where it rested on his chest. Curiosity played in his eyes. “You’ve never thrown a dagger to kill a man,” he said, recalling her boast.

  “Nay,” she replied, too queasy to lie.

  “You’re really made of the sheerest silk, aren’t you, beneath all those layers of thick wool?”

  Her silence condemned her.

  “Then I’m glad I spared those two,” he said softly. He removed her bloodied hands from their reluctant task with gentle fingers and nudged her away. “Go, wipe your hands on the straw,” he murmured. “I can bind this myself.”

  She glanced at her hands. She tried to imagine that the tips of her trembling fingers were stained with carmine dye, not his blood. “I’ve never been able to abide the sight of blood,” she muttered in self-disgust.

  “For a woman with no taste for blood,” he said, wincing as he wrapped the linen tightly around his ribs, “you certainly seem to engage in more than your share of violence.” He glanced meaningfully at his palm, which still bore the faint marks of her teeth.

  Linet was spared having to think of a defense, for barreling in through the stable door came the crofter’s wife.

  “Paul!” the woman shrieked when she beheld her fallen husband. Her voice startled the poor man from his unnatural slumber. Wild-eyed, she turned on the beggar in accusation. “You! You ungrateful wretch! I give you bread, and this is how you repay me—by beating my husband? Get out of here! Get out! You devil’s spawn! You thieving bastard—”

  “How dare you!” Linet cried, whirling her skirt regally before her. “Listen, you addlepated woman. If it weren’t for this man, your husband might be dead. And you—you might be tossed over a sea reiver’s shoulder, bound for the slave market!”

  Duncan felt a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. His arrogant angel sounded absolutely indignant. This was a peculiar turn—Linet de Montfort leaping to his defense.

  Mathilde was clearly taken aback. She curved a brow toward him. “Who is she?”

  It was all Duncan could do to keep a solemn face. “This,” he announced, “is Lady Linet de Mont—“

  “Mathilde?” the crofter called weakly.

  Mathilde rushed to his side at once. All else was forgotten as she murmured endearments to her groggy husband, helping him to his feet and trying to explain to him the presence of boarders in his barn as sh
e led him away.

  Duncan whispered to Linet, “I have yet to pay for the bread and lodging.” Then he thoughtfully furrowed his brow. “Though I fear my wound may make the work difficult.”

  “Work?” she whispered back. “What work?”

  “On the other hand…”

  “Should we not be making our esca—“

  “Have you ever milked a cow?”

  She blinked twice.

  “Have you?” he repeated.

  “Milked a cow?”

  “Aye.”

  “You jest.”

  “Come,” he told her. “I’ll teach you. It’s not difficult.”

  Surely he wasn’t serious. She wasn’t about to soil her de Montfort hands on the teats of a beast. She whispered as much to him.

  He murmured back, “Would you rather have it bandied about that a de Montfort stole three loaves of good bread and a night’s lodging?”

  She pursed her lips. He had a point. And by the glimmer in his eye, he seemed to be enjoying making it.

  In the end, she supposed it wasn’t so terrible. Indeed, once she became accustomed to the rhythm, milking a cow proved almost pleasant. It wasn’t unlike weaving—a simple motion repeated over and over, slowly but surely achieving results. The pail was already three-quarters full. But she didn’t want to stop. And it wasn’t only because the beggar had convinced her that doing the service was the noble thing to do, that paying her debt honestly would demonstrate her de Montfort honor. Nay—as against her nature as it was, as foreign to her upbringing, she had to admit the experience was enjoyable. She leaned her cheek tentatively against the cow’s flank. The beast had a sweet odor, like summer, and her hide was warm and as soft as brushed wool.

  The beggar crouched behind her and murmured against her hair, “Are you sure you haven’t done this before?”

  “Certainly not. My father would rather have seen me dance with the devil than set foot in a barn.”

  The beggar’s chuckle sent shivers up her back. “Then perhaps I should have asked you to dance instead.”

  She stiffened and stopped the milking.

  Duncan mentally chided himself. Arm’s length indeed, he thought. He could scarcely keep his hands off of Linet. Only last night he’d sworn to keep his distance, yet here he was in close contact with her again. Patiently, he eased her back into the rhythm of milking, squeezing her supple fingers in a downward motion.

  By the time the cow ran dry, it was all Duncan could do to keep from tumbling Linet off the stool and into the hay. He’d never ached with such an agony of longing.

  When he loosed Linet’s hands from the cow’s teats, a drop of milk trickled across the inside of her wrist. Acting solely on instinct, he lifted her arm and lapped the sweet liquid up with his tongue.

  It was the wrong thing to do.

  She snatched back her hand as if he’d scalded it and shot to her feet, knocking over the milking stool. Fortunately, Duncan thought to give the cow a reassuring pat before Linet could entirely spook the animal. But the peaceful moment they’d shared had passed. Tension once again rippled through the air.

  Duncan righted the stool and rescued the brimming milk pail from beneath the cow.

  “We should leave before El Gallo’s men find us again,” Linet murmured, still awkwardly holding her wrist.

  Duncan only nodded, too frustrated to speak.

  The sun had begun to slide toward the afternoon. Linet could remain silent no longer. They’d walked for hours. For hours she’d listened to the creak of the beggar’s leather belt and the soft slap of his sheathed dagger against his thigh, endured the occasional brush of his cloak against her leg, caught the manly scent of him as a breeze wafted past. And each moment spent near him made it more difficult to imagine life without him.

  It wasn’t his fault. She knew that. But the torment inside her made her peevish. “Do you have any idea where we’re going?” she asked breathlessly, slowing as the stitch in her side begged for relief. “I would swear we’d marched to Jerusalem by now.”

  The beggar looked at her apologetically and called a halt to their breakneck progress. He stopped at a place where the stream they’d been following widened into a deep pool. She supposed it was a beautiful place—green and shady, overhung with lush elms—but she was too exhausted and irritable to notice. She flopped down onto the mossy bank against an old tree overhanging the water. Then she removed her boots, wiggling her toes, half in pain, half in relief, as they tugged free of their leather prison.

  The beggar rummaged through the provisions Mathilde had packed for them, offering her a hunk of bread and cheese. So hungry was she, she fell upon the fare with haste and a lack of manners that would have shamed her father.

  “You’re hungry. Why didn’t tell me sooner?” the beggar asked as she choked on a bite of bread.

  Weak and humiliated, she fought the sob that longed to burst forth from her throat. “I shouldn’t have to be hungry,” she muttered, pathetically sorry for herself. “I shouldn’t be traipsing about in rags, miles from civilization, blistering my feet on this cursed rocky Flemish ground.” She knew she should keep her feelings to herself. A lady didn’t complain about such things. But once begun, she could no more stop the words than one could cease the flow of ale from a cracked keg. “I should be working peacefully at the spring fair right now, selling my wool, raking in a tidy profit.” To her dismay, the sob escaped her. “I want to go home, back to my life.”

  The beggar was silent for once, leaving her childish, selfish sniffles to echo foolishly, endlessly, across the water. He didn’t speak to her until the well of her tears ran dry. Then he took a long pull at the jug of wine and spoke in a taut voice. “We’ll be safe in a day or two. I’m sorry you’ve endured such…hardship.”

  She could tell by his tone that he’d seen far worse in his lifetime, and suddenly she felt quite ignoble.

  He lifted the jug toward her. She compressed her lips, stifling a new bout of self-indulgent weeping. Even now, the beggar refused to show her the slightest favor. He should have let her drink first. Damn him—everything he did was against convention, against nature. Why did he find it so difficult to follow the rules of society?

  “Well, are you thirsty or not?” the beggar asked impatiently.

  She was thirsty. She sniffed and took the jug from him, wiping the mouth of it with her sleeve before she perched her lips atop it.

  “I had no idea you were so fastidious,” the beggar said wryly, sitting down beside her. “I must be certain to scrub my lips before I kiss you the next time.”

  She choked on the wine. There wasn’t going to be a next time. He was a commoner. She was a noble. There was not going to be a next time. She started to tell him so.

  “So tell me, Linet de Montfort,” he smoothly intervened, “what makes you so despise common folk?”

  She looked warily at him, sure he was baiting her. But his expression showed mere interest. She folded her hands in her lap. She’d be only too happy to oblige him.

  “I don’t despise them. I just don’t trust them. Commoners have no sense of loyalty,” she began, enumerating the faults her father had named of her mother. “They’re conniving, filthy, coarse-mannered—”

  “I see,” he interjected, slicing a morsel of cheese for her. “And have you found me so?”

  She declined the cheese, taken aback by his question. Was the beggar untrustworthy, disloyal, conniving? Thus far, he had kept his promise to protect her almost like a religious vow. Filthy? He was clean enough now. His skin was golden, his chin smooth. His black locks glistened in the dappled sunlight. Coarse-mannered?

  “You are coarse-mannered,” she decided.

  He smiled. “It seems to me that you’re the one I must keep reminding of your manners.” He nibbled at the piece of cheese. “You know, you have yet to thank me for saving your life back there.”

  Linet blushed and shifted her focus back to the deep stream. He was right. She’d thanked God, but she hadn’
t thanked him.

  “Well, no matter,” he said with a shrug. “Don’t let it trouble you overmuch. I know scores of nobles even less honorable than you, Linet de Montfort.”

  Linet gasped and shot up to her feet. He couldn’t insult de Montfort that way. “You dare speak to me of honor? What about you?”

  He cocked a brow up at her.

  “What about carting me about that ship as if I were your doxy?” she asked. “What about tossing me overboard like…like so much offal? What about forcing me to enjoy your pawing at a brothel?”

  The beggar came lazily to his feet. A smile flirted with the corner of his mouth.

  “Well?” she demanded, her hands on her hips. God, the man was infuriating. “What do you find so amusing now?”

  “Nothing, nothing at all.” He grinned. “God’s bones—you’re in a foul humor today.”

  “I am not! It’s you who—“

  “You need to cool your head, my sweet,” he said in mock concern.

  “I am not your—”

  Before she could rake his face with the claws her hands had formed, he placed one great palm in the middle of her chest and pushed.

  Duncan swore she sizzled as she plunged backward into the stream. The icy water took her power of speech away. She came up sputtering, her hair plastered to her face in long wet streamers. Her face registered shock, then outrage.

  “How dare—” she managed before the water bubbled up above her chin, cutting off the last word with a gurgle.

  He crossed his arms and watched her. “Has your temper cooled yet?”

  “You devil-spawned son of a—”

  He clucked his tongue. “Such language from a noblewoman.” He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I think I shall leave you in the stream. Aye, you shall stay there until you thank me for saving your life.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Come, come, my lady, I have served as your champion.”

  She found her footing on the slick, pebbled streambed and took a step toward the bank. But he wasn’t about to let her out, not without just payment.