One Knight in the Forest: A Medieval Romance Novella

by Catherine Kean

“All right, milord.” The steward’s voice urged patience. “’Tis almost done.”

  “Almost done?” Magdalen’s voice hitched. “W-what—?”

  “He has great skill with herbs. He is making you a drink. ’Twill help with your pain while I stitch your wound.”

  Stitches. That meant he was going to push a needle and thread through her ripped and bleeding flesh, time and again, until the injury was sewn closed. Oh, God.

  The bitter taste of bile touched the back of her throat. “Do you have to s-stitch the wound?”

  “I am afraid so.”

  “Oh…” She clapped a hand over her mouth and drew several breaths through her nose. Her head spun, but now was not a wise moment to faint again.

  The sheriff touched her arm. “Magdalen. Trust me, all right?”

  Part of her wanted to trust him, but surely, she was far wiser to be cautious. Forcing herself to take slow, calming breaths, she lowered her hand back down to the bedding. “Cynric—”

  “Cyn. ’Tis what most folk call me.” His smile softened the harshness in his features, and her stomach fluttered in a most peculiar manner.

  “Cyn,” she repeated. His name sounded just like the word sin. “I was wondering—”

  “Before you ask, as I am certain ’tis of concern to you, I did not remove your wet garments. Dyane, a local woman who was visiting earlier, did that before she left.”

  Relief wove through Magdalen. She was most grateful that he hadn’t undressed her. Imagining his strong, callused hands moving upon her body when she was senseless made her tremble inside.

  “Even your chemise was soaked,” he added, busy adjusting the blanket, “so she dressed you in one of my long shirts.”

  A renewed blush warmed Magdalen’s cheeks. That explained why the garment was so very soft; ’twas made for a lord, and therefore was of the finest quality linen. She’d like to examine it more thoroughly, but ’twould mean lifting the edge of the blanket tucked securely under her armpits and she had no wish to do that with Cyn watching.

  More importantly, she must find out what had happened to her clothes, especially her gown. “My—”

  “Also, in case you were wondering,” he cut in, a flush darkening his cheekbones. “I was not present when you were undressed. Borden and I waited in the other room until Dyane finished, so you need not fret that either of us have seen more than your legs.”

  He seemed most concerned that she understood naught improper had happened while she was unconscious. How curious and…undeniably charming. Magdalen nodded, and was rewarded by Cyn’s relieved nod in return.

  “My clothes,” she said, determined to finally have an answer. “Where—?”

  “By the fire,” Cyn said. “They are drying.”

  She turned her head on the pillow to see the hearth. Three wolfhounds were dozing with their paws stretched onto the glazed tiles, one of them the dog Magdalen had encountered in the forest. In Magdalen’s quick glance earlier, she’d seen the rope tied between two large chairs, but had thought the garments were someone else’s. Her gown was draped there, along with her chemise. Her shoes and leather bag were tied to the rope as well.

  Was the missive still concealed in her sleeve? What of the ruby she’d stowed in her bag? Without it, she had no way to pay for a new start—

  “Here we are.” A thin, gray-haired man with a cheerful smile walked into the room. He carried an earthenware mug in his gnarled hands.

  “At last,” Cyn muttered.

  “I had to be sure the herbal mixture was right.” The man’s intelligent, blue-eyed gaze met Magdalen’s. “Good day, milady.”

  “You must be Borden.”

  “Indeed, I am.” He set the mug on the side table and bowed, his movements spry despite his advanced age. “How are you feeling? I was sorry to hear you have a nasty wound—”

  “Please,” Cyn cut in. “Give her the drink.”

  “Of course, milord. We are merely getting acquainted first. A bit of courtly civility—”

  “Borden,” the sheriff growled.

  Concern touched the older man’s eyes as he glanced from the injury to his scowling lord. Borden nodded briskly and then offered the mug to Magdalen.

  Her hands closed around it, and she inhaled the earthy scent of the greenish brew; it had the crushed-plant smell of the forest.

  “’Tis an excellent blend, if I do say so myself.” Borden grinned. “I started with some Poppy, then added Chamomile, Valerian, and—”

  “Later, we can discuss such matters,” Cyn said, clearly impatient. “Milady, we need you to drink.”

  Magdalen didn’t know much about herbs, but was familiar with the medicinal properties of Poppies. She’d helped her mother down a strong Poppy infusion before…

  “Please,” Cyn said, more gently, but his tone was still earnest. “You will not come to harm in my home, I promise. You must drink now. I cannot wait any longer to tend to your wound.”

  Beside Cyn, Borden smiled at her, his expression kind.

  She studied the drink again, her conscience telling her to resist. Yet, she did need to have her wound cleaned and sewn, especially if she planned to flee as soon as she was able. And, truth be told, she’d rather not be awake to watch the stitching.

  Moreover, she was exhausted, more tired than when she’d spent the whole day and half of the night caring for Timothy, when Edwina had been ill with an upset stomach.

  If she rested now, her clothes also might be dry when she woke.

  Encouraged by that thought, she raised the mug to her lips and drank. The brew was sweetened with honey, but had a bitter aftertaste.

  “Drink it all down, now,” Borden coaxed. When she handed him the empty mug, he winked. “See? Not so unpleasant.”

  Cyn’s fingers pressed upon her leg again. Flinching, Magdalen tilted her head to better see what he was doing, but soon, her eyelids grew heavy. She tried to lift her hand from the bedding, but her arm was leaden.

  Her eyes slipped closed, and then she knew only darkness.

  Chapter Four

  “She is asleep,” Borden said. As he tucked the blankets more securely around Magdalen, the pounding of tiny paws echoed in the room, and then a fluffy ginger kitten leaped up onto the cot near Magdalen’s face.

  “Perceval,” Cyn snapped. “Get down.”

  The kitten crouched, as if ready to jump again, and mewled.

  “Nay. Down,” Cyn said firmly, pointing to the floor.

  “He was fast asleep in his bed in the kitchen a moment ago,” Borden said, picking up the kitten and setting him on the planks. After spinning in a circle, the feline bounded over to the dogs by the hearth and pounced on Lancelot’s shaggy tail.

  Cyn returned his attention to the wound. The bleeding had slowed, but there were still splinters of wood to extract. Guilt weighed upon him that his pursuit had caused her to be injured, but he couldn’t change the past, as much as he might want to. He could only do what must be done to set things right.

  Picking up the small knife he’d hidden under the towel, so as not to frighten Magdalen further, he bent over the wound.

  “She is exceptionally lovely,” Borden murmured. “Do you not agree?”

  A dull pain squeezed Cyn’s heart; he struggled to ignore the unwelcome sensation. “She is indeed. Right now, though—”

  “Such an elegant nose. Refined cheekbones. She has distinguished noble blood in her veins.”

  “Noble blood that she is losing.” Cyn glanced pointedly at the older man, but Borden wasn’t looking in his direction. His admiring gaze was still fixed on Magdalen, her jaw slack, her hair, drying to a rich chestnut brown, shimmering against the whiteness of the linen pillowcase.

  An ache born of anguish and regret spread through Cyn as he returned to his delicate work. Magdalen was as beautiful as his former betrothed, Francine, had been. Beauty, as he’d learned upon returning to England from Crusade nine years ago, was no indication of the trueness of a woman’s heart. Life had taug
ht him a most bitter lesson: that the more beautiful a woman was, the more deceitful she’d be.

  Whatever secret Magdalen kept must be wicked indeed, for William to send out so many men in a bad storm to capture her. Was it her secret, though? Or was it William’s? Cyn would find out. He had to, for by taking her into his care, he’d become caught up in it.

  Magdalen’s brow creased, and she made a small sound, as though she was dreaming.

  After checking one last time to make sure he’d removed all of the splinters, Cyn rinsed the knife in the fresh bowl of herbal water Borden had brought. After drying the dagger and setting it aside, he thoroughly washed the wound one more time then picked up a threaded needle. “Watch her. If she seems to be suffering pain—”

  “I will warn you right away.” The older man patted Magdalen’s shoulder. “Do not worry,” he said softly, even though she obviously couldn’t hear, being asleep. “Cyn knows what he is doing. He might sound awfully gruff, but he is really very kind.”

  “Borden,” Cyn muttered.

  The older man ignored him. “He rescued all of the animals living in this home. He made sure they got the love and care they needed to become strong and hale again. He also helped stitch the wounds of injured men while on Crusade.”

  Crusade. More memories stirred in Cyn’s mind. The darkness of those thoughts left a ghastly chill in the pit of his stomach. He couldn’t fix what had happened years ago—God above, if only ’twere possible—but he could save Magdalen. His mouth flattening, he drew together the edges of her torn flesh and made his first stitch.

  ***

  Magdalen woke to a rumbling sound very close by and something soft batting her nose. Waking slowly, her eyes still shut, she sighed. A furry object swatted her mouth.

  Fighting the grogginess of her mind, she cracked open her eyes, to find a fluffy orange kitten sitting on her chest. The feline purred, and as she blinked, batted at her eyelashes.

  She smiled at the kitten. “Who are you?”

  The little cat nuzzled its tiny nose against her cheek, and she chuckled and scratched its back, to be rewarded with even louder purring.

  Footfalls carried: Cyn, coming to check on her wound? Dread and anticipation knotted inside her.

  She glanced across the room to see Borden approaching. When he saw the kitten, his eyes widened.

  “Oh, milady, I am sorry.” The steward hurried to the bedside and scooped up the feline. “Perceval is like a naughty child. He is far too mischievous for his own good.”

  As the older man set the kitten down, Magdalen stifled a gasp. The feline had no tail, only a stump where its tail should have been.

  As if attuned to her thoughts, Borden said, “Cyn found him caught in a poacher’s trap in the woods. Perceval lost his tail, but that has not slowed him down.”

  “Perceval,” she echoed. “Like Lancelot, ’tis a name taken from the old tales about the ancient King named Arthur and his loyal knights.”

  “Guinevere and Galahad also were mentioned in those tales.” Borden gestured to the two wolfhounds lying side by side at the hearth. “Cyn—just like his late father—always enjoyed those gallant stories. They used to read them together, when Cyn was a boy.” The older man chuckled fondly. “I remember how impatient Cyn used to get; he could hardly wait for the evening meal to finish so he could coax his sire over to the hearth to read another tale.”

  “You knew Cyn’s father?” Magdalen asked.

  “Oh, aye. I was honored to serve as his steward for many years.” Sadness crept into Borden’s features. “What tremendous changes I have witnessed since those days that Cyn and his sire lingered by the fire, reading those stories time and again, and talking about what made the men worthy of their quests. At least here in this forest home, Cyn can be king of his own court—as he deserves.”

  So much went unsaid in the older man’s words. Magdalen wished he’d elaborate, for she found herself longing to know more about the sheriff, but Borden brushed off his hands, while the kitten savaged the laces of his shoes. “Enough talk about long ago. You must be hungry, milady. How about some pottage? ’Twould be good to get some food in your belly.”

  She was indeed hungry, and she needed to build up her strength if she intended to flee when the opportunity arose. “I will eat. Thank you.”

  He left the room with Perceval scampering after him, and returned moments later with a steaming earthenware bowl. He adjusted her pillows so she could sit up. Grimacing, she shifted on the cot, keeping the blankets close to her bosom.

  “How is that leg?” Borden asked.

  “’Tis hurting,” Magdalen admitted, settling back against the pillows and taking the bowl of pottage that smelled of thyme and rosemary.

  “Cyn told me you might need another herbal drink when you woke. I promised I would have one ready.”

  “He is not here?” How ridiculous that she experienced a pang of disappointment.

  “He went to check the forest roads. He wanted to ensure they were not blocked by fallen branches or trees from the storm.”

  “I see.” Magdalen spooned up a mouthful of the broth laden with cabbage, herbs, onions, and lentils. ’Twas delicious, and she quickly downed several more bites. Borden left her to eat and when he returned, was carrying another mug of his special herbal brew.

  With a pleased grin, he took the empty bowl from her and handed over the drink.

  Curiosity welled inside her, for there was so much she didn’t know about the man who’d brought her to his home. ’Twould be good to determine if she could trust Cyn. She hoped to flee from here as soon as she was able, to get the missive into the hands of an official who could stop the murder. Yet, if circumstances made fleeing impossible, she might have to confide in Cyn.

  A yawn tugged at her lips. Oh, mercy, but she was tired, and her leg throbbed. Any future plans would have to wait until she had more strength. For now, she was glad to have a means to take away the pain. “Have you been Cyn’s steward for long?” she asked, as she sipped the herbal brew.

  “Nine years,” Borden said, “but not all of those in this home. Some I spent with him in London, after he returned from fighting in the East. He has been very good to me.”

  Again, she sensed there was a great deal that Borden didn’t mention. It seemed both he and Cyn had endured difficult, life-changing experiences. She didn’t wish to pry—prying was most indelicate and unladylike, she’d been informed by a tutor years ago—but her curiosity deepened.

  As she swallowed more herbal drink, Borden said, “Do not be afraid of Cyn. He has faced great challenges that would have destroyed lesser men. I have no right to share what happened to him with you. I can only hope that one day, he will tell you himself.”

  Surprise rippled through her. She didn’t intend to stay long enough for Cyn to want to share his darkest secrets. “He will not divulge any such details to me.”

  The older man winked. “We shall see, milady.”

  Once she’d finished the drink, he took the empty mug from her and then helped her lie back down. He left with Perceval running at his heels like a puppy.

  As the silence of the room settled around her, she stared up at the rough-hewn beams overhead. A gentle rain pattered on the roof, the sound blending into the lulling crackle of the fire.

  How she hoped Edwina wasn’t upset with her. Before leaving Glemstow, Magdalen had penned a quick note and had given it to a servant to deliver to the sewing room; she’d written only that she had an unexpected and urgent matter to attend. To protect Edwina, Magdalen hadn’t dared to say more. Still, knowing she’d likely hurt her dear friend by not meeting her in the sewing chamber as promised brought tears to Magdalen’s eyes. She hated to think that Edwina would feel betrayed—and yet, even if she wanted to, Magdalen couldn’t tell her the truth.

  How was precious little Timothy? She missed his giggle, his adorable toothless grin, and the sweet baby smell that clung to his skin.

  She also hadn’t yet sent a reply to t
he recent, newsy letter from Aislinn—a friend who was as close to her as Edwina. There was no telling when Magdalen would have a chance to respond, especially when she didn’t have any parchment or a quill.

  Tears slipped from the corners of her eyes. Drying her cheeks with the sheet, Magdalen fought not to give in to despair. What she’d done today was difficult, but ’twas right.

  She could only hope that one day, her friends would understand.

  ***

  “All went well, milord?” Borden took Cyn’s damp cloak and draped it on a wooden rack by the fire in the kitchen, alongside Cyn’s other cloak from earlier that day. Lancelot gobbled the scraps left in a bowl on the floor and then wandered away into the main part of the house.

  “There were many branches down, and I had to help some travelers whose wagon was stuck in the mud close to the town,” Cyn said quietly. “How is Magdalen?” He’d thought of her every moment that he’d been away. No matter how hard he’d tried to focus on his duties, memories of her lingered, along with endless questions. Mayhap later today she’d be well enough, trusting enough, to answer some of those questions that plagued him.

  “She ate some pottage, and I gave her more of the herbal drink. She has slept soundly since.”

  “Good. She needs the rest.”

  “Any word on why William was pursuing her?”

  “Nay. However, I expect he will arrive here on the morrow with his men-at-arms in tow. I intend to get answers from him then.”

  Borden’s lips flattened. “Do you mean to hand her over to him?”

  “Of course not!”

  A smile brightened the older man’s face. “As I had hoped.” He gestured to Cyn’s mud-splattered garments and boots. “I will pour out some hot water for you to wash, and heat you some pottage.”

  “Thank you.” Cyn pulled off his boots, took the heated water from Borden, and then padded into the small room off the kitchen where he normally slept—except that Magdalen was using his bed. He stripped off his dirty clothes, scrubbed clean with herbal soap, and then dressed.

  As he strode back into the kitchen, Borden looked up from the pot hanging over the fire. “The fare is ready.”