Chapter Seven
…and when they came to the palace, the lady had arisen, and was about to wash before meat. Peredur went forward, and she saluted him joyfully, and placed him by her side. And they took their repast. And whatsoever Peredur said unto her, she laughed loudly, so that all in the palace could hear.
The Mabinogion, an ancient Welsh romance
Katy squinted and, yep, at the dark edge of the woods, roughly two hundred men formed a ragged line. Robert barked orders, and the crossbowmen let loose a volley of bolts. Unfortunately, they thunk-thunk-thunked into the ground, short of their mark by at least fifty yards. A clacking sound bounced along the wall as the crossbowmen cranked back their bolts for the next round.
At a notch where the two defensive walls met, she crouched, armpits slick with fear sweat. Shields in front, the attackers advanced until just shy of where the crossbow bolts had landed. Again, Robert shouted an order, and another flight of bolts twanged from the walls, flying straighter and farther to land several rows deep. From the pained cries, some had found their targets.
The Welsh gave a rousing shout and charged forward, oblivious to the bolts flying from the walls. One attacker fell to the ground, writhing. Another dropped, still in death, but a great many continued their charge. Were they crazy? Some carried ladders, while others hung back and let fly a cloud of arrows, which whizzed over the walls. A flaming arrow streaked past and clattered into the courtyard, the flame extinguishing from lack of fuel. But more flaming arrows sizzle-whined overhead. Soon, the reason for the water buckets became clear as an arrow landed on the stable’s thatched roof, and the villagers doused it with a waiting bucket.
Shit. Where was Robert? There. His dark green surcoat stark against the pale stone walls. A figure leaped over the wall behind him, and she screamed Robert’s name, her warning shout drowned in all the noise. His own senses must have alerted him, for he pivoted and plunged his sword into the guy’s belly. He yanked it out, and the Welshman clasped his stomach, his face a rictus of pain and shock, and tumbled into the outer bailey.
Katy gagged and slumped against the stone. She pulled in panicked gasps, trying to calm her roiling stomach. Oh shit. She stumbled to the courtyard entrance and puked over the side. She spit and breathed through her mouth.
Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. Not good. So not good.
Nausea receding, she fell back against the wall, a shaking, clammy hand on her forehead, the other gripping her stomach. What the hell was she going to do? All around, chaos roared.
She gathered all her resolve, all her strength. She hadn’t asked to be a part of this battle, but here she was. And she’d be damned if she got herself killed because she was busy puking up her guts. She had to help with the defense. If the attackers gained the wall, it didn’t matter where she hid.
Legs shaking, she stumbled back through the tower hallway. Outside the door, a knight and a wounded crossbowman pushed against a ladder top. Okay, she could do this. She sprinted up and, catching her staff’s hook against the top rung of the ladder, helped push it far enough out to topple.
She darted with the others to the next one and pushed, this one harder since it carried someone. Finally they gained momentum and toppled it. And then a third. By this time, they’d reached Robert, who shouted at her, pointing back to the tower hallway.
She nodded and raced back to the hallway where a wounded crossbowman had an arrow in the meat of his left arm. His hand gripped the arrow shaft and, with a shout, he snapped it off. He was losing blood, and his head lolled back from the shock. Katy dashed to his side, pulled out her knife, and ripped a strip of cloth from her ankle-length mantle, tying a quick tourniquet just above his wound. She doubted he’d let her remove his leather armor to properly treat the wound, but he had to be overheated. She pulled off his helmet. He needed cool water. She sprinted down the steps and fetched a bucket. On her return, the crossbowman lifted his head and looked around, frowning. He stared at his helmet.
She bent next to him, dipped another strip from her mantle in the cool water, and swathed his face. He closed his eyes but soon lurched to his feet, donned his helmet, grabbed his crossbow, and ran back through the door onto the walls.
Remembering Robert’s earlier request, she checked the shallow bowl Alfred had mentioned. Not jiggling. Good. Shouts and screams echoed nearby as the fighting continued.
She stayed out of the fighting and pulled the wounded aside. Thankfully, there weren’t many. During lulls, she crouched in the gloomy hallway, listened to the battle waging along the wall, and watched the shallow bowl for indications of tunneling.
A string of nasal-toned words bled into the air to her right. She whipped around in a crouch, and there, feet away, was that knight who’d stared at Robert with such hatred. He had his helmet on, but she recognized him by his bulky frame, the red and gold colors on his surcoat, and the ring of peacock feathers on his helmet. She couldn’t understand him, but she could hear the taunting tone in them. At his feet was a Welshman gripping his stomach, desperately attempting to keep his innards inside.
The nasty knight swiped his sword across both cheeks of his victim, all the while keeping up his nasally monologue. With a chilling and calm indifference, the horrible man continued to take casual swipes at his enemy, slicing an ear, and then his lip, clearly relishing the moment as the battle raged around them. The Welshman lay immobile. Then his hand lifted, and he blocked one of the knight’s thrusts, turning it into a feeble thump against the knight’s head.
Nasty Knight shrieked in outrage, all out of proportion to the harm inflicted. He didn’t like his enemies fighting back, however little--that was clear. He took a mighty swing and lopped off the Welshman’s head.
Katy’s stomach heaved again, and she scrambled back inside the shelter of the hallway. No way did she want to see anything more or get in that guy’s way. Holy crap. Holy crap. Hol-yyyy craaaap. Her whole body shook, and her breaths came in short gasps.
God, God, God, she needed to get back to her time.
Slowly, her body ceased shivering, though her skin was chilled, and a thin sheen of clammy sweat coated her.
Soon though, a shift in the tenor and atmosphere outside signaled a change. Curious, she flattened against the wall and peeked around the doorway. Several knights and twice that in crossbowmen lined the wall, breathing heavy, but not fighting. Some of the crossbowmen were still shooting.
Green, green. Katy’s gaze frantically skipped along the rows of colorful surcoats until she found the right one. Relief flooded her limbs, and she sank against the door frame. Robert leaned against the back of the wall, catching his breath and shouting to those nearby.
She couldn’t see a thing from her wall, just the outer bailey, so she dashed across the door opening, flattened herself, and peered over the outer wall.
The Welsh were in retreat!
“Kay!”
Robert. Seeing him striding toward her unharmed did something funny to her insides. She rushed forward, but slowed as she neared. Running up, throwing her arms around him, and squeezing hard was a need that coursed through her, urging her to step faster, but she resisted. She was supposed to be a man. He and Alfred were her only tenuous tethers to navigate and survive in this world; she couldn’t lose one, much less the most important one.
“Robert told me to give you these.” Alfred thrust a bundle of colored fabrics into Katy’s hands. Proper squire clothes, no doubt. It was now dusk, but the day’s violent events still fired her nerves, made her jumpy. She’d hoped being inside the main hall around a hearth fire would help calm her, but she was still…raw, exposed to the chaos without a defense.
Katy placed a hand on top, brushing a palm along the rough, woolen material. “I will meet you back inside. I’m going to clean up and change.”
Alfred darted off, and she grabbed a bucket and boiled some water. Clean. She literally itched to be clean. Water ready, sliver of soap she’d found in hand, she headed to her hidden alley. She dragged
the barrels to screen off the back end and cleaned herself as best she could, using her discarded peasant’s mantle as her washcloth and towel.
Okay, so, how was each item to be worn? The loose, white shorts were probably her underwear. Honestly, they looked like the underwear shown on depictions of Jesus on the cross. She eyed her boobs—thank God for being small breasted. With these less-baggy clothes, though, she should play it safe. She tore a strip from her old tunic and wrapped it around her chest, tying it tight under her arm. Squished flat, maybe her breasts would just look like she had a nice set of pecs.
She struggled with the folds of the underwear-thing—how to secure it around her waist was a complete mystery. She searched in the pile and found two belt-like things, but there were no belt loops in the underwear. Out of desperation, she donned the belt around her bare waist, tucked the top of the underwear up under it, folded the edge around the belt, and rolled the combo down several times.
She let go and wiggled her hips. Huh. Looked like they’d stay. Smiling, she slipped into the white shirt and ankle-length, earthy-red tunic. Next, her hose, shoes, and belt. She finished by tucking her knife into the belt. She stood a moment, eyes closed, reveling in the feeling of being clean, in clean, period-approved clothes, even if rough against her skin. Odd that basically a shapeless, ankle-length tunic “dress” identified her as male. She climbed to the roof. Whew, no fire had ravaged up here. She stuffed her panties with the rest of her clothes next to her purse.
Back on the ground, she gathered up the other clothes and supplies and headed back to the main hall—the south tower, she’d heard it called. She fingered her wet hair and shivered in the chilly air. Oh, for a hair dryer. She tugged the hood over her head.
In the main courtyard, she joined the flow of people threading through the middle tower, across the bridge, and into the hall. Their spirits seemed high, and several smiled and spoke gibberish to her. She nodded politely, smiled, and hoped like hell that was the right response.
Because surely the response she wanted to make—the response urged on and fueled by the adrenaline pumping through her—jumping up and down, flapping her hands, and shouting, “What the hell have I gotten myself into?” wasn’t the thing. Neither was stopping someone and saying, “Do you know how weird this is for me?”
Maybe not even a calm, “Am I fooling you?”
Alfred charged up, jabbering away.
“Slow down, Alfred.”
A blush suffused his fair skin. He took a deep breath, the slow rise and fall of his chest like he was reminding himself of the weight of his responsibility, and spoke each word carefully. “We are to eat what rations we can inside. No serving milord as squires.”
She followed Alfred into the main room, where they found Robert. She expected him, but still, her heart gave a little kick at the sight of him. An ankle-length forest-green tunic graced his tall, muscular frame, cut similar to hers, but embroidered in silver along its edges. No chainmail. It was the first time she’d seen him without his armor. Well, except for last night when he was almost naked. Her traitorous body flushed hot at the memory. At his throat, a bright red stone held the tunic together.
He caught her eye and slowly nodded, like an adversary facing off. Did he ever smile? Breaking eye contact, he motioned to the bench beside him, about midway up the side of the hall. All around were men, including the servants. Hesitating slightly, she settled next to him, and the warmth of his presence enveloped her. She peeked up. Only the tips of his curls were completely dry. So he’d bathed too. Alfred plopped down on her other side.
A servant placed a flat piece of bread in front of her and Alfred. Starving, she reached to tear off a piece, but Alfred shook his head and mouthed, “No.”
Katy stilled, neck flushing hot with embarrassment. Nothing was as simple as it seemed. Observe, or you’ll give yourself away.
Robert dunked his hands in a bowl of water, droplets trickling from his strong, blunt fingers. He wiped them on a cloth and passed the bowl to her. She wet her hands and rubbed them briskly. Alfred did the same and took clumps of food from the table’s center, piling them on their flat piece of bread. So, it was a plate.
Stalling with an extra hand rubbing, Katy observed Robert’s and Alfred’s movements. No silverware to be found. Did they eat with their fingers like some medieval stereotype? Alfred pulled a knife from his belt and, combined with his fingers, ate with neat, deft movements. So did Robert and the others. Tentatively, she pulled her knife from her waist, wiped it under the table with the cloth, speared what she could, and nibbled from it, careful of the sharp edge. Mostly meats were on her “plate,” along with spicy and sugared fruits, but no vegetables. Oddly, servants passed with platters containing nothing but vegetables, destined for the lower end of the hall—the poorer classes? She signaled to one of the servants, who, while obeying her wish, looked extremely shocked.
Robert shot her a funny look, and Alfred, like any kid she knew, shunned them, so she put them on her end of their communal plate. For drink, they had watered down wine. Unlike her picture of the Middle Ages, they were quite neat—no gnawing on huge turkey legs, picking teeth, spitting, burping. They were presumably more subdued than normal, due to the unusual circumstances, but still. Everyone ate with efficiency and left when done, no lingering, no carousing.
Nasty Knight glared their way several times though. Katy nudged Alfred. “Who is that knight?” she whispered.
“That is Sir Ralph de Buche, newly arrived with Sir Hugh.”
She shivered. She’d steer clear of that guy. De Buche…de douche. Yeah, that fits.
Robert’s voice rumbled near her ear, and she started. “Fromage?” He offered a hard chunk of cheese, eyebrow lifted in the universal signal of a query.
Though his accent was strange, a thrill shot through her. Finally a word in French she could pick out from his speech. She took the cheese, and his hand brushed hers. Her awareness of him bloomed as the world narrowed to the surrounding few feet, and his every movement filled with significance.
She shook her head. Shit. He only offered food, for Pete’s sake. But she couldn’t shed the feeling.
He peered down at her under his lashes. The nearby torchlight added a touch of mystery to his otherwise flat, tawny eyes. The mystery seemed to seep from that look and coil between them, into her, igniting some latent need within.
She took a deep breath. Crap. She couldn’t get involved with him—with anyone—here. But her lady parts weren’t listening, and a warm flush of desire spread over her. Crap, crap, crap.
A flush of guilt followed—her first reason for remaining uninvolved was because of the traveling back in time thing, not because of her engagement.
Preston.
A jolt tightened her muscles—this was the first time he’d popped into her brain since she’d hurdled back to the friggin’ Middle Ages, and what did that say about her? About them?
She was stressed and freaked out. That was all. Once she returned home, everything would be fine.
Chapter Eight
And when he came there, he saw a great fire kindled, and two youths with beautiful curling auburn hair, were leading the maiden to cast her into the fire. And Owain asked them what charge they had against her.
The Mabinogion, an ancient Welsh romance
Robert’s hurried supper now weighing his gut, he sought Staundon. He wished to discuss his assessment of the siege and their chances of a successful defense. Christ, what had possessed him at supper? First, wearing his best tunic and then allowing his touch to linger on her skin. A futile test that had been. Yes, he’d verified a certain attraction existed between them, but what did that serve? Naught.
Robert found Staundon in deep conference, standing around a table with Sir Hugh, de Buche, and several other knights. Hugh waved him into their circle.
Robert nodded to each, and Hugh said, “I was recounting how we fared. Whilst this castle is nigh on impregnable, we’re vulnerable to fire and to starvat
ion if relief does not arrive soon.”
“I agree.” Robert set his feet further apart and clasped his wrist behind his back. “And we cannot send out foraging parties. Every able-bodied fighter must be on those walls come the morrow.”
“Injured?” Staundon asked Hugh, his mouth set in a hard line.
“Two villagers dead from stray arrows. Two crossbowmen injured, but they assure me they can still set their weapons and fire. One knight injured but able to fight.”
“What of your new squire, Beucol?” de Buche asked with a sneer, leaning into the circle. Behind Staundon, his greyhound cracked a bone and licked his chops. “I realize you could hope for no more than a bare-legged peasant for a squire, but surely he can fight.”
Robert straightened. Why had he so hastily given her that role? “Too raw, untrained. Besides, he has no armor.” He wouldn’t force her to fight. Though her steadfastness in tending the wounded was admirable and invaluable.
“A fresh-faced youth, for certes, and rather old to begin training as a squire,” Staundon added.
“Must needs and all that,” was Robert’s weak rejoinder. “I took the opportunity presented by an able-bodied villager without connections.”
“Mayhap,” said Sir Hugh. “Though none would be preferable over an untried youth. It won’t reflect well on your image.” He nodded subtly toward de Buche.
“The devil take my image.” Robert’s words surprised even himself. “The lad was willing, and we are at war, and my need was great.”
Sir Hugh had the right of it, though, as his actions reinforced de Buche’s aim to portray Robert as uncouth. Image was paramount in the noble spheres Robert wished to tread. Once she was safe, he’d rid himself of her.
Wait. Safe? No. He shook his head. Once he located her kin and claimed his reward, he’d rid himself of her. Protecting her, keeping her safe, had naught to do with it. Naught. Indeed, nothing and no one took precedence over his goal.
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