What in all the saints? He stepped forward to pull off the hood, for no peasant should know aught beyond his native tongue, much less a halting Latin. His fingers, tense with suspicion, closed on the rough wool of the oddly damp cloak and pulled. Too late, the rogue realized Robert’s intentions and jumped back, hand batting against Robert’s arm.
He growled. “You!” For it was the wench he’d rescued, then in some foreign garb, now in peasants.
His narrowed gaze swept down her form, which she now tried to hide by wrapping her cloak around those womanly curves that had been pressed against his body scant hours earlier. At the memory, his cock stirred, and he told it to bugger off. A quick tumble in the dark of night was the only use he had for such lush, feminine curves, but something about her mien told him she would not entertain such a fleeting encounter. Besides, no room had he in his life, in his schemes, for aught else. No room? Ha, he had not the means.
Bare toes peeked from underneath her cloak, and he leaned over to peer closer. Her toes… She’d lacquered them in some permanent manner, a deep pink. He cocked his head and looked back up at her. Never had he heard of any foreign cultures that engaged in such a ritual. A deep blush crept up her neck and face. Interesting.
Who was this woman? Definitely not the English settler he’d assumed. Nor was she Welsh, as he was familiar with their customs and speech. How had she fetched up here on the edge of civilization? He peered closer at her face. Clear skin, bright eyes. Healthy. He grasped her hand, ignoring the tension sizzling between them, and she tugged. Oh, but he would have his answers, so he held firm. He turned her hand, palm up, and pried open her fingers, skimming up the insides of her knuckles and over the pads. She shivered.
Not calloused. Highborn, whomever she was. Without protection.
A shout sounded from behind, and he glanced back. Sir Hugh beckoned.
Reluctantly, he dropped her hand and arranged his visage in the harsh, impartial lines he’d learned cut an easier path through life. He yanked her hood back up and spoke in a commanding tone, slowly, in halting English, “Come with me.”
One of her phrases sounded like a badly accented version of English, so mayhap she’d learned a smattering in her land.
Her eyes widened, and another string of English-sounding babble emerged from her lush lips, but his English, while halting and spotty, was nothing like this. No time now to puzzle out her actions, but he could not allow her to wander.
He grabbed her wrist and pulled her forward. She yanked, but didn’t break his grip. She kept pulling. Ha. She thought him a weakling? He leveled her with a stare, and she stilled. Better. He marched toward the round tower, her steps stumbling behind him.
“What cause for delay?” Sir Hugh asked. “Who is this?” The past ten years had added lines to his former lord’s face, but he still looked as formidable as ever, despite his shorter stature. Many a young squire had underestimated this man’s strength as well as his strength of will and was the sorer for it. By Gad, it was good to see him.
“My new squire,” he answered, surprised as soon as the words left his lips. He nevertheless, retracted them not. Why, he had no idea, but his instincts had always kept him alive. Mayhap she’d serve some useful purpose.
“You found a noble family willing to foster their son with you?”
He stiffened at the disbelief. Besides Staundon and de Buche, Hugh was the only other knight present who knew of his dishonorable background.
“No offense meant. I hear you are now Lord Chirkland’s most able household knight. Your reputation in the lists is becoming legendary. Mayhap that was enough.”
Robert bowed his head. “What task have you for me? How goes the preparation?”
“Oversee the villagers to fill bowls with water, distribute them around the walls, and assign someone of nimble foot to watch those bowls as soon as the besiegers arrive. No catching us unawares with tunnels.”
“Understood. Anything else?”
“Afterward, take your turn manning the walls. How far out are they, do you think?”
“They’ll be here by Vespers.”
Sir Hugh located the sun’s position in the cloudy sky. “Not much time.” His lips thinned. “And, Robert? Distinguish yourself in this fight, gain the notice of our king, and your future will be yours to dictate. The king might see fit to grant your suit.”
So Hugh had heard. “That is my hope as well.”
He gripped Robert’s upper arm and squeezed. “ ‘Tis glad I am to see you. You’ve fared well. I’ve heard your fighting skills have only increased. But beware of de Buche. Sacrifice not your personal honor, no matter how he provokes you. It’s his aim to portray you as uncouth, as no different than the rebellious Welsh. Brawling with him will not forward your suit with our king. Keep calm, and you shall prevail. I’m certain of it.”
“Meeting him across lances in a tourney is too tame. My fists ache for a more blunt and brutish encounter. What do I care for personal honor?” Given a choice between personal honor and attaining his goal, personal honor could go beggaring. Regaining his family’s honor, and that of his king, was all that mattered.
“You used to care.”
Bitterness coated his tongue. “When but a misguided lad, drunk on milksop Arthurian tales. Such scruples have no place in this modern, changing world. All the honor I desire is what I can regain for my family’s sake.” Mayhap then, this aching hollowness that seemed to define him would be filled, the bitterness blunted.
Sir Hugh’s green eyes held his, grim and determined. “In all your boyhood encounters, he never bested you on his own. Your father could best any man in the Montfortian or Edwardian army, and you could best your father. But I knew what kind of man de Buche was from his father’s boasts. Bragged he did about how his only son killed his mother in his determination to arrive thrashing into this world. Told that story to anyone who would listen, whether his son was present or not--that his son was a killer, and damn proud he was of it too.”
For the second time, shame burned his gut at the mention of his own father, for it brought to mind the stain he could not shed. The stain on his family’s honor. But he stifled the useless emotion before it could gain a foothold, for none of that mattered if he was successful in his plan. Once he gained back his land and titles, all would be well.
Sir Hugh gripped Robert’s shoulder. “Just be vigilant, lad.”
Katy shuffled behind the knight, while her stomach alternated in a panicky dance between feeling leaden and threatening to choke up her throat in a scream.
Breathe. Breathe. Long and deep. She clutched her stomach, nails digging into the rough woolen cloth. Remain calm unless he threatens me. Like a spider’s victim, she was well and truly caught in a web. If she struggled, she’d draw unwanted, and deadly, attention.
Survive. Lay low and observe. And then break for outside.
Near the wooden water trough by the stables, he scooped up some mud. With a shushing motion and a scowl on his brutally handsome features, he squatted, chainmail links clinking against chainmail. His blunt fingers, hesitant at first, smeared cool mud over her toes. She swayed, stunned by the incongruent gentleness, but also for his foresight and understanding. Somehow, he’d not only known she was a stranger, but also her need to keep that fact a secret.
His flat, honey-brown eyes locked with hers while he crouched at her feet, and again heat rushed up her neck and face, remembering his stare earlier when he’d noticed her painted toes. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why hadn’t she found a way—like this—of hiding her otherness?
Her toenails disguised, he stood, not breaking eye contact, and signaled to follow, his head cocked in question. Will you obey?
She nodded, and he marched to a section of the large enclosure she’d not seen. Cluttering the surface was a makeshift tent city. Colorfully garbed people swarmed the area, erecting lean-tos against carts, bundling straw, and basically making themselves comfortable.
A commanding shout came from the wa
lls, and the interior gate swung open. She edged away from Robert and eyed the gate. A group of five haggard villagers staggered in through the widening gap.
Her case was through that gap. Adrenaline pumped through her, whispering, Run, run, run! A quick glance confirmed her knight was deep in conversation with a villager.
She broke into a sprint, arms and legs pumping. In five minutes this nightmare would be over. Bare feet splashed through God knew what. Who cared when a nice hot shower and a cocktail with friends beckoned?
The doors began to swing slowly shut.
No.
She pushed harder, lungs straining. Come on, legs, need more strength, more speed. Then a strong arm clamped around her waist, and she was momentarily in the air before being hauled up hard against an unyielding body.
She panted in stuttering gasps as her captor’s breath fluttered near her ear. She glanced up, the back of her head sliding across his tunic. Her scary knight dude’s face—what she could see anyway—was drawn in tight lines of fury. Fury and suspicion.
He set her down, spun her around, and gripped her arms. A torrent of harsh words followed, none of which she understood, but she could guess the meaning. He was a bit peeved. Eyes flat, his gaze bored into hers. Did that face ever smile?
She shifted her feet and stared back, uncomprehending. Finally, he looked away and barked more harsh words. She’d bet her favorite organizational stickers he’d just sworn. She peeked over her shoulder and watched with dread as the doors clunked shut.
Oh God. He was her only ally, and she’d just pissed him off. She dropped her head in submission, while it surprised her that despite his harsh words, and hard features, she felt no fear. No fear, at least, that he would harm her.
He crossed his arms, his biceps under the chainmail bunching impossibly further, and when she looked back up, his fierce eyes pinned her in place. She swallowed around a hard lump and tapped his shoulder. He arched a brow.
She pointed to herself. “Katy.” And then pointed at him. Shit. She might have given her gender away with her name, if he hadn’t already guessed. Who was she kidding—he knew.
Tension crackling between them, he nodded and jabbed his thumb against his tunic-clad chest. “Robert,” but pronounced with a French accent.
She stifled a giggle. Such a normal-sounding name amongst so much that was just…you know…not normal.
He tilted his head, indicating for her to follow, and she relaxed at not having his full attention. He stopped at one of the wealthier-looking refugees, whose sprawling family made themselves comfortable between two carts. The wife had a small fire going. Robert talked to the husband, who shook his head, but pointed to another family several lean-tos down. At that lean-to, Robert handed a couple of coins from a belt pouch to the man, who studied her feet, rummaged through several trunks, and returned with a pair of shoes.
Oh, sweet. “Thank you. Merci.”
Robert cocked his head and narrowed his eyes, a slight interest stirring in the flat depths. Did he speak French?
She shoved her feet inside the supple, brown leather shoes and secured the flap by her ankles with a button. The shoes narrowed to an extreme point at the toe, adding a strange clunkiness to her sense of balance, but, hey, better than nothing.
Robert returned to the first man and spoke to him at length. The more she listened, the more the cadence sounded like a French dialect. The man faced the rest of the refugees and clapped his hands together for attention. Robert put his fingers to his lips and let out a shrill whistle.
Her knees shook. Surely he wasn’t calling her to their attention. What the heck was going on? But no, he spoke to them, gesturing to different parts of the castle, never once referring to her. When he was done, all the able-bodied people strode with purpose to whatever task he’d assigned—at least that’s what it looked like.
An auburn-haired, lanky boy of around ten stood by Robert’s side. He spoke to the kid, who gaped at her with big eyes. Robert appeared to urge the boy on. Finally, the boy stepped forward and said something to her. Robert barked out a word, which must have been the word “slower” because the boy nodded and said what sounded vaguely like, “My name is Alfred. He said you are called Kay and are his new squire?”
It took her a moment—initially the sentences hit her as some form of Swedish with their lilting cadence—but then the sounds coalesced into words, and a fraction of her tension eased. Robert had found someone who spoke a form of English. For the first time, she could grab on and make some sense of the world, like a key had been handed to her, a key that could grant a measure of control.
Squire? Wasn’t one of Arthur’s knights named Kay? She lowered her voice. “Hello.”
Alfred frowned and exchanged a few words with Robert. Hopefully saying she spoke weird English, and not that she didn’t seem like a guy. If she could make out a fraction of what Alfred said, it was better than nothing.
She looked to Robert. “Merci.”
He replied with more French-sounding phrases and waved them toward the round tower. On the way, he stopped by the blacksmith’s, and after some bargaining, shoved a wooden staff with a wicked metal barb on the end into her hands. He spoke to Alfred, who related something like, it was for her, a weapon.
As they walked, no one paid them much attention. Except for one knight who stood by the well, his sword stuck in the ground, his arms resting on the crossguards. His helmet, dangling from its chain at his waist, had a ring of peacock feathers around the crest. He wasn’t as tall as Robert, but he was built along football-player lines. And the hate that poured from his eyes as he watched Robert pass raised the hairs on her arm. Then his gaze swung to hers, and she hastily turned away.
“Alfred, can you keep talking?”
It took him a while to understand what she wanted, but soon he was narrating what was happening. “I’m walking behind Sir Robert—I’m waving to Mistress Maude,” and the like, and she studied him closely and listened to his sing-song version of English, in which some words sounded Germanic, and others French. What a hodge-podgey-sounding language.
At the round tower, Alfred switched to relate what Robert was doing. She didn’t catch half of it, and reminded him to speak slower. After a few minutes, one thing was clear—what she’d feared was true: they expected an attack.
And it was soon. As soon as the morning.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Her chances of getting outside, finding her case, and getting the hell out of here had just narrowed to—oh, let’s make it zip. Oh God, she was stuck here.
The attackers might find it.
The attackers would churn up the ground.
The attackers could obscure the landmarks she’d need.
The attackers could…
Her gaze swung to her weapon, and her stomach dropped down to her feet—
The attackers could, well…attack her.
And she might be expected to fight? Fight for her life? Oh God.
Chapter Six
“Lady,” said Gwydion, “there is none other counsel than to close the castle upon us, and to defend it as best we may.” “Truly,” said she, “may Heaven reward you. And do you defend it. And here you may have plenty of arms.”
The Mabinogion, an ancient Welsh romance
That evening, Robert strode into the south tower they used as a keep. As predicted, the Welsh had arrived at Vespers and set up camp. They would not attack at night, but just the same, he and his fellow chevaliers stayed alert with a contingent of men-at-arms and crossbowmen. Sir Hugh wanted them fresh for the morning, so he rotated the watch in three-hour shifts, and Robert’s had just ended. Kaytee followed silently behind, her presence a physical weight, a presence that queried—what now?
Damned if he knew. He beckoned to a castle servant. “Fetch more hay. My squire requires a pallet.”
Robert had claimed a bench in the corner, and he strode there now and opened his trunk. He pulled out four wool blankets and handed her two. He looked at th
e bench—latent instincts screamed he forfeit the bench to her, but if she were to maintain her ruse as male and squire, giving her the superior spot would raise unwanted attention.
The servant returned with the straw, and Robert arranged the bundles beside his bench. A new…feeling…flickered within him, indeed was like an incessant moth fluttering within. Annoying. He must pinpoint and root the feeling out. His fingers reached for his sword belt, but he glanced toward Kaytee. Eyes wide, she stared around the great hall.
The hearth’s fire played across her face’s lovely shape, partly dispelling the shadows cast by her hood. Had she ever experienced hardship? Her hands and demeanor could be evidence enough that she had not, but it was her eyes which definitively told him no. Too innocent, those eyes—they’d not gazed on death or experienced real fear. A simpleton’s wouldn’t either, but she was no simpleton. Besides the fact she knew fragments of Latin and other languages, intelligence glittered in those eyes. From where did she hail? And why had she come here of all places in Christendom?
As soon as they could converse, he would find out, for certes.
And then the source of the unexplained feeling hit him, as he gazed upon her profile, the soft hairs by her temple. He felt a surge of protectiveness. Of blasted chivalry.
God’s left testicle.
What had befallen him? They were on the eve of battle. His life was a harsh one. He had no room—none—for the softer, weaker emotions. Ruthlessness was required in his machinations against de Buche. He must react swiftly to circumstances, turn them to his advantage. Surely this feeling wasn’t responsible for his impulse to make her his squire?
Chivalry existed only in the tales of bards, not on the Marches of Wales.
No. He shook his head and gripped the curves of his sword’s quillon, the dull points of the crossguard biting into the flesh of his palm. She possessed secrets. That, he knew. And secrets had value. The highborn had value.
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