Vegetation whispered behind him as she approached. Her warm presence drew alongside his, her fragile hands twisting the water from her short hair.
“We leave now.” His voice had emerged rougher than intended, but damn it, how much could a man take? Seeking distraction, he said, “We’re too long delayed to catch up to the others, so we shall head for their destination—Harlech Castle.” He thought her suggestion from last night a wise one: the more they talked, the sooner they’d understand each other’s dialect.
At their camp, he retrieved the rest of their belongings and confiscated two hides—they’d need them.
While he’d waited out her fever, in between his awkward ministrations and checking traps, he’d collected green branches, extracted their supple fibers, and braided several lengths of rope. He used these now to lash his trunk more securely to the back of his rouncey. Her woolen sack, he attached again to his baggage.
Curse it. He’d been so focused on ensuring her health, and their safety, he’d left inspecting its contents until last eve.
The hardened campaigner within had argued it was within his rights, for his own protection, to inspect her sack and mayhap discover her mysterious origins. Was she a threat to his king? But as he’d looked at her, he found it difficult to believe he, or his king, needed protection from her. And then her awakening had forestalled him. He would unravel her mystery.
Chapter Twelve
When I arose on the morrow, I found ready saddled a dark-bay palfrey, with nostrils as red as scarlet. And after putting on my armour, and leaving there my blessing, I returned to my own Court. And that horse I still possess, and he is in the stable yonder. And I declare that I would not part with him for the best palfrey in the Island of Britain.
The Mabinogion, an ancient Welsh romance
Robert cleared his throat, unused to talking when no need existed. “This is my horse, Perceval. I’ve had him for nigh on ten years now, ever since I won him at a tournament.” He motioned for Kaytee to approach and handed her one of the hides.
She stepped forward, her fresh, clean scent firing his blood. Ignoring temptation, he swung onto the saddle, took the hide and bunched it over the pommel, lifted and settled her atop the hide. Reins in hand, he urged his mount downslope to the river. “We will follow this north to the pass.”
As the horse picked his way downward, their bodies, by necessity, swayed and touched, and Robert grit his teeth while his mind sought distraction. “Perceval. My horse. I won him, you know. Oh yes, I’ve said as much.”
“Yes?” though it seemed as if she expressed a wish to tell her more.
“It was my last tournament, the famous Round Table in Nefyn held by our king to celebrate his victory over Wales. Some victory, it seems.”
“Round Table?” She repeated the phrase as if trying out the sounds. With a slight intake of breath, she pronounced it in her strange way of speaking the French tongue. She shifted and peeked up at him, her face puzzled. “Round Table? King Arthur?”
“Yes. Smart King Edward was to appropriate a native Welsh hero, who was no Norman.” A pang of nostalgia gripped him as he thought of the tales and legends he’d read as a youth, and his former blind faith in its ideals. “You’ve not heard of this tournament?”
Taking her silence as indication she still didn’t fully understand him, he continued, “It was held at Nefyn in Gwynedd, the heart of northern Wales. Quite a statement, and quite audacious.” Peculiar it was, to be explaining the obvious. However, even if she understood his speech, he must make allowances, for her origins were still a mystery. Besides, he needed to keep talking, and this was as good a topic as any. By now they’d reached the river, and he turned northward.
“Welsh legends say King Arthur was a Welsh king who fought and expelled the invading Saxons, so for King Edward—a foreigner—to wear the mantle of a Welsh folk hero who fought an invading force…”
Robert trailed off as his own words registered. He’d never thought of the king’s actions in such a light. “In any event, I entered the lists against another knight, kept my seat, and broke my three lances and unseated my opponent. Won his armor and this horse. Sold the armor, but kept Perceval.”
This was met with silence, and at first he was discomfited, but then he realized he was only talking for talking’s sake in hopes she’d learn his tongue. He couldn’t expect a reaction. Finding this oddly freeing, he continued as if she’d asked him to elaborate.
“Of course, I wish this hadn’t been my last tournament. Whilst Edward has brought them back into favor, the Church still frowns on them. I have no doubt he will resume them once this rebellion ends. A skilled knight may expect to gain much in the way of prize money despite the risks.”
Ever since he’d been made a knight in his eighteenth year, he’d participated in any tournament he could afford, legal or not. He’d performed well in each, always trading out his equipment for any better that he’d won.
What he’d earned, along with his shillings as a vassal knight, he kept stored with the Templar bankers in Keele. He anticipated needing the funds to grease the wheels of justice in his suit.
Conversing proved difficult without accompanying responses, without the other taking up the conversation with their own anecdote. Mayhap he should imagine her responses. For instance, she might inquire as to the nature of the risks.
“There’s the expense of the journey and fitting out, which might all be for naught if you lose your armor and horse. Also, it’s still not unknown for entrants to lose their life or be severely injured, no matter how much the kings and the Church have worked to civilize it. In my father’s day…”
His voice caught on a hitch. How easily he spoke of one whom he’d forsworn. He sat straighter in the saddle and avoided the specifics his mother had told of his father’s exploits. “In those times, tournaments were held not in a contained field, but ranged over a countryside and were very much like pitched battles. Sometimes with many left dead on the field.”
He halted Perceval and listened sharply. Up ahead was the pass, and another well-worn path joined theirs from the east. With the rocky terrain, it provided a perfect position for an ambush. He silently drew his sword and felt Kaytee take a sharp breath.
“Shhh.” He wished he could scout ahead, but he dared not leave her behind. He urged Perceval into an easy walk and watched the path and the curve ahead.
Muscles relaxed and mind clear, ready to react, he passed the bend and witnessed naught but a small coney dart into the scrub, its gray fur but a blur. He sheathed his sword and continued along their trail. At the summit, Kaytee gasped. His muscles tensed, alert, but her foreign words sounded reverent, and her gaze was fixed on the view below. He looked out as well, trying to see the Abergwynant valley through her eyes. But he saw naught but unrelenting hills and valleys they must traverse. He led them down to the zigzagging path into the valley.
By late morning, they’d reached the shores of Afon Mawddach. Their journey had been easier this day as they traversed the valley instead of the mountain paths. They stopped and ate what little food they had. He refilled their flasks of water and resumed their journey northward, crossing the river at a man-made ford near Penmaenpool. He continued talking as he steered them north through a valley toward Diffwys mountain.
When he tired of hearing his own voice, she seemed to sense this, and took up the burden, likely telling stories of her life with awkward pauses and a sense of self-consciousness in the beginning, as it had been for him. She possessed an interesting voice, lower-pitched than most ladies, but oddly comforting.
In the early afternoon, he brought them to a halt. A hafod perched on the eastern slopes of Diffwys, and a nearby stream fed into Lake Llyn Cwm-mynach to the east. They were unlikely to find another ideally placed shelter, and he could use the remaining daylight to set traps for such wildlife that roamed these parts, like the coneys. Besides, he could tell she grew weary of the saddle, and he worried about her weakened condition.
> Robert hobbled his horses near some good grazing and shifted their burdens to the hafod’s interior.
“We need to set traps as well as hunt tonight, for we ate what little I was able to gather during your illness. In the morning, we will check the traps.”
It still felt peculiar speaking of his intentions, but the effort was worth it, for already it appeared she understood more words. He collected the last of the rope and motioned for her to follow.
“Collect sticks like such.” He lifted a straight piece and made a show of looking in all directions.
She nodded and fell in beside him, eyes on the ground. He did likewise, remaining alert to their surroundings. After they’d collected a handful each, he inspected the ground until he found a favorable spot, a low-hanging berry bush.
He set to work crafting and bending the sticks and rope in such a way to ensnare any passing coneys. “Collect berries from here and upward only.” He directed her with his hand, indicating his wishes by plucking some himself. He sprinkled them on the ground leading to the trap, and the rest he dumped in the hood of her mantle.
She giggled, and he tipped his head. What was so amusing?
She shrugged, made exaggerated marching movements, and motioned to her hood. Still unsure why that was amusing, he nonetheless smiled, glad she could find humor in the situation. Lucky they were that it was still early October, not late winter, or their prospects would indeed be grim.
She stopped her antics and stared, her gaze seeming to penetrate some place deep within. What had he done? She pointed to her mouth and smiled.
Huh. So he’d smiled. What of it? He frowned and left her to collect more berries, whilst he did likewise, their hands, at times, accidentally colliding when dropping berries into her hood.
Hood full of fall berries, they constructed two more traps and worked their way back to the hafod, collecting more berries on their way. He stooped when he saw a longish branch that, if shaped, would have a good weight and length for a spear. They were in the middle of a drought, so he didn’t hold out hope for bigger game, but it was worth pursuing. And, in truth, he had no wish to dull his sword when a makeshift spear would do.
At the hafod, he whittled it with his eating knife and, when satisfied, he stood and made several practice throws. He made some adjustments and turned to Kaytee, who was sitting on a rock overlooking the valley below.
“I wish I could leave you here, but it’s not safe.” He lifted his spear. “We must hunt.”
Katy turned at the sound of Robert’s voice. She replayed his words, studying the tones and lilts. When he spoke directly to her—as opposed to his monologues—the gist came across more and more. Coupled with what he now held, it wasn’t difficult to parse.
He was hunting with that spear? A reply sat ready on her tongue, using the shifted vowels and consonants she thought she’d gotten a handle on, but she pressed her lips flat. As always, she understood a new dialect before she could speak it.
She nodded and rose to her feet. “Oh, man, I’m sore,” she said absentmindedly in English.
Her muscles screamed from riding so long in the saddle. The most she’d ever ridden a horse before was in one-hour stretches on horse trails back home. Plus, riding crammed on top of that saddle—yeah, she’d been grateful for the fur Robert had placed. That saddle was the weirdest she’d ever seen—high curved “walls” in both the front and back, and it was the front wall—the pommel—that she rode astride. Ouch.
He frowned and cocked his head.
She switched to French, but her own dialect. “Sore muscles from riding.” She pointed to the horse and stretched her arms wide.
He shook his head and hefted the spear again, gesturing behind, down the mountain slope.
She took a deep breath. “Right-o.”
They crept through the brush and around trees until they reached a screen of bushes overlooking a clearing. She couldn’t get enough of the view. Below lay a lake nestled amongst the dips and crests of wherever the heck they were in Wales. Robert crouched, motioned for her to do the same, and put his fingers to his lips, which only drew her attention to them. They were fine lips—sculpted and full and berry red nestled in the dark hairs of his beard—no mean, skimpy lips for this knight.
And when he smiled? Her breath had caught, for it had reshaped his stark features into a carefree, almost boyish face. His face didn’t appear to smile often, which was a shame. Could she make him smile again? It was obvious he needed more levity in his harsh life.
Gah, what was she doing thinking of his damn lips, his damn smile? She settled beside him and nodded her understanding. Barely visible through the branches, the clearing wasn’t much bigger than a family swimming pool, strewn with rocks and browning grasses. On the far side, the forest swallowed the light as it marched down the mountain slope. Would they sit here all afternoon? Would an animal really stroll by for the taking?
No matter, she had waiting-quietly in her skill set from all the hours she spent sitting for long stretches at meetings in case she was called in to interpret. She touched the bump under her mantle, where her bandage hid. She’d need to change it again. She shuddered. So far, she’d been damn lucky. But she also felt like a ball ricocheting inside a pinball machine, battered and flung by others. How much more could she take? She wasn’t used to not being in control.
Freed from needing to listen to his speech, she analyzed her options. Stay here in medieval Wales—uh, no. Too chaotic, too…too…raw. Follow along with Robert until they reached Harlech—no choice there, really. But then what? Hopefully the villagers remained there, and she could find the lady possessing her case.
She reviewed the moment when the villager stumbled and dropped her small trunk. Katy used the wait to list every detail about the woman and her clothes, repeating it several times to commit it to memory. The details might be her only chance out of here.
Several hours later, still in their hidden area by the clearing, Katy shifted position again to give her left butt cheek a break and clasped the mantle tighter against the late afternoon chill. Robert shifted too and then froze.
She froze as well, attuned to his movements. She followed the direction of his intent stare. There, near a tree on the opposite side, a hare rooted in the grass.
Slowly, silently, Robert rose, deadly purpose etched in his taut features, taut muscles. He braced his feet and aimed. She held her breath.
The hare must’ve heard the spear whisking through the air, for it glanced up, muscles bunched. It started forward, but the spear thunked into its hindquarters.
It cried out in pain. Robert drew his knife and broke through the brush. She squeezed her eyes shut. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.
Robert returned, holding the hare by its hind legs, blood draining from a slash at its neck.
Good God. She quickly looked away. Nothing like having to hunt for their food to drive her situation home. Death and life were so inextricably bound in this time. But strangely, this primal action arrowed her down into this moment, with life as it happened, a strange feeling. She trailed mutely behind Robert as they descended to their camp.
Back at the hut, she searched for a distraction—anything—while he did what was required. Because watching that? Not an option. “We need water.”
He frowned, and she pronounced it slowly, the way he might inflect it. He nodded, and she grabbed the bucket someone had left. He pulled a hide from the shelter and, with the hare, followed.
They worked their way down the slope, every pebble and stick knuckling her feet through her thin leather soles. Feeling the ground’s contours, while initially strange, actually gave her better balance, made her more connected to her surroundings. After about twenty minutes, they reached the swift-flowing stream. She filled the bucket and got to her feet, ready to return.
However, he settled near a rock, laid the hare on its side, and drew his knife.
So he was going to do that here? Made sense to keep the mess away from their camp, but still, sh
e couldn’t watch.
The berries. She removed her mantle and poured the berries into her lap. Should she wash them?
She spread the mantle out, dumped the berries on top, and searched the bank for large, container-shaped leaves. She selected several and washed them and the berries, collecting them onto the leaves propped nearby on her mantle.
“What are you doing?”
She looked up at Robert’s voice. “Washing them.”
He frowned and shook his head. Yeah, it probably was silly out here, but she wasn’t ready to rough it that much. She perched on another rock still receiving the late afternoon sun, closed her eyes, and soaked in the sun’s warmth, desperate to ignore the sounds he made dressing the hare.
“Katy.”
She startled awake. He had a hide bundled, presumably with the meat. She scrambled off the rock and followed him back up the slope, her already aching muscles protesting the climb.
She was embarrassingly short of breath when they reached their camp, and she gratefully collapsed against a rock near their hut.
“I’m going to collect wood for a fire. I will not be far.”
Her pulse sped up—she’d understood that.
She nodded and shooed him away with a listless hand, grateful for the privacy to regain her breath. She put a hand to her forehead—it had to be beet red from the exertion.
He returned shortly and made a fire, his movements efficient, practiced. She tore a strip from her tunic for a bandage, boiled it, and hung it to dry near the fire.
He stuck several pieces of meat onto sticks propped over the fire. Soon the air filled with the enticing smell of cooking meat. Her stomach rumbled. Yeah, she'd not be turning that away.
Robert shook his head. Kaytee was agreeable enough to do as she was bid and remain admirably quiet while they awaited game, but her habits were odd, and some bespoke of not only coming from a different culture, but also that she was high-born. Her smooth hands testified as much, but her studious avoidance while he butchered and dressed the hare confirmed his suspicions. Here was someone who had servants to do for her, who lived not in close proximity to such happenings.
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