by Jill Barnett
"A Knight in Tarnished Armor" copyright © 1995 by Jill Barnett
Published by Jill Barnett
www.jillbarnett.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including informational storage and retrieval, without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews. For information contact Folio Literary Management, 505 8th Ave Suite 603, NY, NY 10018
ISBN: 978-0-9831804-0-1
Printed in the United States of America
Cover Art by Kim Killion
O, what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
I met a lady in the meads
Full beautiful, a fairy's child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.
—La Belle Dame Sans Merci, John Keats
Chapter One
The sight of her took his breath away. He, a fierce and valiant knight, sat frozen atop his mount and watched the young woman from the edge of the clearing. She stood captured for a timeless moment in prisms of misty white light that spilled into the forest.
Had he not been alone, he'd have asked his men-at-arms if she were a vision—a dream borne from the weakness of a man who had fought too many battles, drunk too much, and had too little sleep. For only a vision could have hair that rippled down her back, almost touching her knees. Hair the rich fiery color of a sunset. Only a vision could look so innocent. Only a vision could sing like the angels.
To the very crowns of the trees her voice rose in song, a sound that he could only fathom was the music of heaven—clear and fresh and flawless. He dismounted and moved closer, his search for water suddenly forgotten. At that moment it mattered little that his mouth held the dusty flavor of the road, so caught was he by this young woman.
She bent down and picked up another bright yellow flower from the forest floor, weaving it into a garland of wildflowers and lush ivy that hung over her arm. She turned then, spinning on one bare foot while her hair flowed outward and her brown tunic belled slightly. She was singing a bright and merry tune, a song to the kittens that frolicked at her feet.
I've yearned time past to be a fairy,
To fly in the pale light of the moon.
With gossamer wings so light and airy,
On a midsummer night in June.
A foolish song filled with whimsy, yet somehow it charmed him as nothing had in longer than he could remember. He continued to watch her.
Soon a squirrel scurried down from a tall tree, followed by two more. They stood on their haunches and cocked their curious heads as she sang. Three rabbits hopped from the bracken and ferns, twitching their noses and tails instead of instinctively using their speedy back legs to spring away. And the birds—hedgesparrows, robins, and hummingbirds—fluttered above her.
Odd, he thought, how the animals had no fear of her. ‘Twas as if they were drawn like he was to a siren's sweet sound.
He asked himself if he had been too long at war. Had he seen so much bloodshed, been from his homeland so long that the mere sight of an English beauty made his mind play him false? The forest was a dark place of legend, the setting for the evil side of a bard's tale, and home to trolls and witches, if one was to believe in fancy.
But fancy was not for men of war, anymore than a young woman could turn into a fairy. No, to a warrior's mind, the forest was a place for thieves and wastrels, and the best possible place for ambush.
His sixth sense told him there was no danger here. As though enchanted, this forest appeared to come alive in the joyful aura of this one small and lovely creature. And he felt it too, that full feeling of life he'd thought was long lost. Or perhaps it had never even been there.
She danced over to a small bubbling stream where she lifted her tunic and skipped from stone to stone, laughing when the birds followed her and the squirrels, rabbits, and kittens watched her from the bank.
He smiled. God's blood. He asked himself how long had it been since something had touched him so. He knew the answer—too long.
She came back to the clearing, still singing and dancing. Added to her audience were bright butterflies that fluttered through the shimmering mist and a plump white duck with a trail of fluffy butter-colored ducklings that waddled like drunken soldiers from the stream.
He had never seen anything like this.
The girl picked up her flower garland and hung it around her neck, then spun again with her arms wide open and the garland flowing with her. Her song rose higher, its end sadly growing near, so he moved back where bracken was thick and the forest trees and ferns hid him and his mount from sight.
Humming now, she danced a bit closer, pausing at a rock where she picked up a pair of red leather slippers. She chattered to the animals while she dusted the leaves off a small pale foot and slid into the shoe, then propped her foot on the rock so she could tie the laces around the slimmest ankle he'd seen in months.
She finished with her other shoe and gathered the kittens into a small willow basket before she picked up her wildflower garland, this time tucking it around her small waist. She lifted the top on one side of her basket and spoke to kittens, calling them by name, silly, fanciful names that made him smile again. She moved closer to where he stood and when she was but a few feet away she set down the basket, then picked up a dark woolen mantle and swung it around her, tying it securely beneath her small firm chin.
In a gesture that almost made him groan aloud, she combed her fingers through her flaming hair and lifted it, then raised her gaze at the same time. She stood before him, completely unaware of his existence, which almost made him laugh at the irony, for he was aware of nothing but her.
She had a face that was proof of Heaven's perfection—a small nose, lips of rose, and skin the shimmering pale cream shade of dunes in the desert. But her eyes were what struck him, knocked his breath from him as surely as if he'd been struck with a Turk's lance. They weren't the familiar dark brown eyes of the Mideast, nor were they English blue, not even Celtic green.
They were the same golden yellow color of the bright wildflowers she had picked. Yellow eyes. Wild eyes, he thought, watching as she turned and moved toward the opposite end of the clearing.
He waited a few seconds, then followed slowly, using the thick grove of ash trees and heavy mist as a shield. Soon the forest ended and a meadow scented sweet with freshly mown grass spread to a ripening grain field and on toward a craggy hillside where a castle, stark and gray and majestic, broke the blue horizon.
High above the stone walls flew the distinctive flag of the earl of Arden. Minutes later, the girl disappeared inside the gates in a stone curtain wall.
But still he stood there, his arms crossed as he leaned against the trunk of an ash tree. For the longest time, time where seconds turned into eternal minutes, he just stood there, watching, thinking, before making a decision with the same swiftness and gut instinct he used on the battlefield.
His sense returned swiftly and he stood, calling himself a lovestruck fool. He mounted his horse, then rode toward the highway that rimmed the thick forest. The road wound northward, a ribbon of dirt in the lush green countryside of his homeland, and at the crest of a small rise he stopped and turned in the saddle. He took one last long look at the castle known as Ardenwood. For a heartbeat he allowed himself one final golden moment of her memory. She would be his—yes, she would--this fairy child, the woman with eyes so wild.
He vowed that she would be his, because after years of waging war and living in dry, foreign lands, after years of bloodshed and waking to the clash of sword and scimitar, after years of loneliness, he
wanted, needed, a little gentleness and peace in his hard life.
Then England's newest lord, Baron Warbrooke, nudged his mount around with spurs as golden as her wild eyes, and he rode away.
One month later in London
"Arden is a hardheaded old fool!" Baron Warbrooke paced the king's quarters while his liege lord watched him with royal amusement.
"Warbrooke, my friend. I bid you cease that infernal pacing. Makes me light-headed."
The baron stopped in front of the king and growled, "The man has refused my fifth, fifth, offer for his granddaughter!"
"What was his reason this time?"
"Same as the last four times. He adamantly refuses to force his granddaughter to wed."
"I assume you've sweetened the offer?"
The baron named a figure.
The king whistled, then muttered, "I believe I need to meet the Lady Linnet." He looked at his friend and laughed, then raised a hand. "Stop glowering. You've lost your sense of humor, Warbrooke."
"Any sane man who had spent three hours haggling with that stubborn old goat would no longer have a sense of humor."
"He might be a stubborn old goat now, but he has been intensely loyal to the crown for over forty years. My father owed him greatly." The king's voice lowered to a more serious tone. "As great a debt as I owe you, my friend. I will not force him."
"There must be some way."
Both men were silent.
The king rubbed his chin thoughtfully and said, "I could make a royal…" he paused as if searching for the correct word, "…suggestion to Arden."
Warbrooke looked up. "What kind of suggestion?"
"Arden claims he will not force his granddaughter to wed."
"Aye."
"Suppose you can convince the lady to accept you, to wed you willingly of her own free choice."
Warbrooke was silent for a long moment, then said, "You are proposing that I pay her court."
The king nodded. "If Arden's only objection is the matter of forcing her into marriage. You need only agree to woo the girl."
Warbrooke swore viciously.
The king laughed. "Come, now. It won't be that difficult. You forget. I've seen you when you are driven to win a battle. Look at this as a challenge. Your own war, the spoils of which is the Lady Linnet."
"Fine," Warbrooke snapped, beginning to pace again in agitation. "But to waylay any interference from Arden, I want time alone with her." He looked at the king.
"I'll make that point when I persuade Arden to allow you opportunity to court her." The king sat silently, then laughed somewhat wickedly. "Arden's pride won't allow him to deny this. He will be forced to agree."
One month later at Ardenwood Castle.
Two laundresses stood by barrel vats of steaming wash water. One of them was busy wringing out some freshly rinsed linen while the other stirred a wad of boiling soapy bedsheets with a huge wooden laundry paddle.
"They were talking about him again at supper."
"About who?"
"Him."
"Warbrooke?"
"Aye." Edith wrung out a corner of a tunic, then added, "He might come to Ardenwood before the month is out."
Morda dropped her paddle and crossed herself, then said in a half-prayer, half-moan, "For the poor Lady Linnet."
"Tch-tch. I know." Edith gave a huge sigh.
Morda shook her head. "Can ye imagine being wedded to such a brute? 'Tis said the king rewarded him because he'd killed a thousand men, and a few women too."
"No!" Edith said in a gasp, then leaned closer, her eyes wide. "Truly? Women?"
"Aye. He killed the women with his bare hands. Huge hands. Hairy hands. Hands the size of boar's haunches. ‘Tis said he crushed the very air from their very breasts." She paused, then said in a loud whisper, "He has cloven feet."
"Like the devil himself?"
"Aye. The very same."
" ‘Tis a good thing Lady Linnet knows naught of this agreement. Poor wee thing, wedded to such. How can the old earl do this to his granddaughter?"
Morda shrugged. "He had no choice. My lord pleaded his case to the king, but the king favors Warbrooke. He forced the earl and baron to meet. The earl claims he couldn't refuse Warbrooke once the king was involved. ‘Twas a matter of loyalty."
"If I were her, I'd run away," Edith said firmly.
"To where?"
"The convent at Saint Lawrence of the Martyrs. Her great-aunt is the abbess. It's the perfect place for succor."
"Lud, that husband of yers has slapped ye in the head once too often."
"He has never hit me," Edith said indignantly. "He knows I'm stronger than he is."
"Then yer wits have gone walking to Wales. No woman can travel so far a distance alone."
"But if I were Lady Linnet, I'd hire my own protector to escort me."
"And just who would that be?" Morda raised her chin and asked in a challenge.
"William de Ros."
Morda's mouth dropped open. "The mercenary?"
"Aye," Edith said smugly. "He devours men like Warbrooke for supper. Then he picks his teeth clean with their bones."
"Ye'd have to travel to Spain to find him. He returned from the last crusade and went off to war with the heathens there."
Edith shook her head. "He's in England." She paused for effect, then said, "At Falcon House Tavern in Watersdowne."
"And just how would she get away even if she could persuade him to be an escort? The earl would come after her."
"My lord's leaving for London again tomorrow. He'll be gone for a week. Surely that's enough time to be safely away."
An odd sound echoed around the stone laundry room.
"Oh!" Morda jumped, then spun around suddenly, her sharp gaze searching. "What was that?"
“It came from there.” Edith pointed at the stone wall. After a moment she shrugged, then went back to stirring her paddle. "Most likely just one of Lady Linnet's cats mousing. I wonder what will happen to all those animals after Warbrooke comes?"
Morda looked at Edith as she lifted a linen shirt from the rinse barrel. With a sharp and fierce twist, she wrung it dry. "That's what will happen."
Linnet slid back the peep slot and tiptoed up the narrow stone steps of the hidden passageway. She felt in the dark for the door handle and slowly pulled it open, before she slipped out into a back castle corridor and pressed her back against the stone walls. Her heart hammered high in her throat and she felt ill and fearful at the thought of the man— the monster among men—her grandfather would force her to wed. The man must be horrid if Grandpapa had not yet even told her of him. She moved toward her chambers in the defeated manner one of the condemned walks toward the block, head down, shoulders sagging, and her hands folded tightly in front of her.
Within a few minutes four cats trailed behind her, and one, still little more than a kitten, nipped at her heels, then bit down on a scrap of her hem; Linnet dragged him as she walked, stopped and turned. "Swithun! You must stop that." She bent and picked up the kitten, stroking his gray fur.
She looked down at the growing group of cats gathered so trustingly at her feet. They stared back at her with eyes full of devotion. She almost burst into tears. She hugged Swithun closer to her chest, unconsciously protecting his small neck with her hand, and she raised her chin. "No one will harm you. No one."
She spun around and ran up the stairs toward her chamber, Swithun clutched to her and the other cats trotted along behind her. She opened her chamber door, then cast a quick glance up and down the corridor. When no one appeared, she leaned down close to the cats and whispered, "Come, sweetings. Crispin, Elmo, Vitus, Ambrose. Come inside. I have a plan."
Chapter Two
As plans went, this looked to have all the makings of a poor one. Lady Linnet pulled the hood of her dark mantle forward and glanced around the dim tavern. It was loud, and smelly, and almost unbearably stuffy, made so by the downdraft of a blazing fire in a sooty stone hearth, and what appeared to be a verita
ble sea of medieval manhood raising tankards of dark yeasty ale.
For strength she took a deep breath, blanched at the stink, then stepped into the lantern light, slowly and purposefully moving toward a large table in the corner. Hearty male laughter grew louder for only a brief instant before the crowd began to part, slowly, man by man, in front of her.
From behind she could hear the suddenness of stunned silence, until the last rowdy warrior quieted and moved out of her way. Linnet faced the one man she sought. And she had her first true taste of fear.
William de Ros sat sprawled in a chair, his long legs outstretched, his worn leather boots crossed at the ankle and propped on the table edge. It was a relaxed stance, yet instinct told her he wasn't as unaware of her as he appeared.
She glanced down, only to see his battle-scarred hand slide to the jeweled hilt of a deadly dagger that was slung almost too casually from a studded belt at his waist. He wore a dark leather tunic spotted with spilled ale and his free hand gripped a frothy metal tankard. He had thighs as big around as her waist and they were taut, his black chausses showing the rippled power in his leg muscles, muscles that could hold in check the most deadly of warhorses.
She looked into his face again. And almost ran.
No emotion showed in his expression. Nothing but time-weathered experience and the scores of battles he was rumored to have fought, and won.
His hair was black as the loam in the forest, and too long, almost barbaric in length. His gold earring was barbaric, in spite of the small cross that dangled from it. She wondered what God thought of it, and of him.
But it was his face that she would never forget. It was sharp, chiseled in raw angles, and his skin was bronzed from the harsh rays of the desert sun, where legend claimed he'd spent years as a hired warrior, a battle- scarred mercenary who sold his finely honed skills to the highest bidder.
Rumored was de Ros had no crusade but avarice. No fealty to anyone, except he who held the heaviest purse. Once enough money crossed his calloused palm, the greatest fighting sword in all of England was sold to whoever had paid the high price.