My Noble Knight

by Cynthia Breeding

  She lifted the pitcher and the basin. Both were too light to do any damage. Her eye fell on the chamber pot, tucked into a corner. It was of solid brass and would be heavy. Deidre went and picked it up gingerly, glad to find it wasn’t full. Quietly, she moved it near the flap and then lay back on the cot to wait for supper. She wished she could doze, but her body was too tightly wound to relax. This was her only chance. It had to work.

  The shadows deepened into the fading Northern twilight by the time she heard the cook arrive. The stew smelled good and she ignored the rumble in her tummy. There would be no time to eat if her plan worked.

  “Your meal’s here,” Carr called.

  “Would you bring it in, please? Bring yours, too, and eat with me,” Deidre answered, in what she hoped was a beguiling voice. If the young guard had both hands full, so much the better.

  She saw his boot push through, separating the flap, and then he shouldered in, a wooden bowl in either hand.

  “Right there.” She gestured toward the table. As he bent to place the bowls down, she picked up the chamber pot and swung it at the back of his unsuspecting head. The thud it made as he fell forward was sickening, but she forced herself to swing the pot again. He moaned in pain and then lay still.

  Deidre pulled the saexe from its sheath. For a moment, she stared at the side of that youthful face, flattened against the stump. She knew she should finish him, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Goddess help her, she couldn’t slash his throat.

  Quickly, she stepped to the canvas and ripped an opening. It was stronger than it looked and she was in a light sweat by the time she had enlarged it enough to crawl through. She glanced once more at Carr, but he was still unconscious.

  Once outside, she clung to the shadows of the tent. There was another guard making his rounds and she waited until he was past and then she bent and scuttled to the shadow of safety provided by the next tent. She held her breath as she heard footsteps approaching and two men stopped at the front of the tent. Deidre couldn’t understand what they were saying and eventually they moved on. She let out the breath she had been holding.

  Stealthily, she moved to the next tent and cautiously peered around it. Men were seated in a circle around the fire, some drinking mead, others already reclining. She didn’t see Ida. Lord, she hoped he hadn’t gone to her—his—tent yet.

  There was no more cover for her now and the protection of the tree line was a good twenty paces away. The men who had their backs to her were no problem unless she made some noise. She hoped the fire would blind the ones facing her.

  She fought the urge to bolt and run. Sudden movement might be noticed. She got down on her stomach and began to crawl painstakingly toward the security of the forest.

  About halfway across the space, there was movement from the campfire. Deidre froze, her body flat and head pressed to the ground. Amid loud gaffaws, a man stumbled off toward a different set of trees, probably to relieve himself, and Deidre forced herself to move forward. She was shaking so badly, she was sure they would hear her bones rattle.

  The distance seemed to stretch into infinity, but finally her hand touched the rough bark at the base of an oak tree. She forced herself to stay on her belly until she was well within the inky blackness of the tree cover. Still quivering, she pulled herself up and leaned against the solid trunk, trying to quell her ragged breathing.

  She had made it, undetected. She was free. And she thought she knew what direction she needed to head in. She took one final deep breath and straightened. The forest was still and there were no sounds yet of discovery from camp.

  She smiled a little as she turned to slip farther into the darkness. She had taken only two steps before a strong arm circled her waist and a hand clamped over her mouth.

  Chapter Fourteen

  THE RESCUE

  “Shhhh. Don’t make a sound,” Gilead murmured in her ear.

  Deidre’s knees buckled, whether from fright or relief that he was here, she didn’t know. All she wanted was to stay in his arms, safe from the rest of the world. She turned and wrapped around her arms around his neck.

  Gilead’s kiss was insistent as he drew her closer. His hands kneaded and massaged her back as his tongue plunged deep into her mouth and then, abruptly, he stepped back. Deidre moaned.

  “No time—”

  A roar erupted from the camp and brought them both back to reality. The young guard Deidre had hit staggered out of the tent, holding his head and jabbering in the Saxon tongue. Ida rushed past him into the tent.

  “Come on,” Gilead whispered and took Deidre’s hand. “I’ve got Malcolm tethered not far away.”

  She didn’t need to be told twice. They’d both be dead if Ida found them. Even as they crashed through the underbrush, she could hear Ida shouting orders for a search.

  Malcolm nickered a greeting and then stamped an impatient hoof as he caught his master’s tenseness. Gilead lifted Deidre quickly and then mounted behind her. As they set off on the narrow deer trail, they could hear horses behind them.

  The trail was so twisted they had to keep the stallion at a jogging trot. Deidre only prayed that Ida’s men could go no faster, either.

  A damp, grey dawn was breaking when they finally reached something that might be called a road. The clouds hung heavy and low and the air was thick with the mist that was rising off the nearby loch.

  Gilead dismounted and led Malcolm to the water’s edge for a drink. “At least we’re on the other side of the loch, now,” he said. “With luck, they’ll think we went due south to get home.”

  Deidre strained her eyes to see through the rapidly developing fog. They had not heard anything for the past hour and Gilead had chanced this clearing for Malcolm. And then, just as she was about to relax, she saw them.

  “There!” She pointed toward the tree line they had just left. At least ten riders appeared. She heard Gilead mutter something in Gaelic as he led the horse quietly away from the bank. She didn’t really have to guess at what it was.

  “Aren’t you going to ride?” she asked.

  “Shhh. Keep yer voice down,” he whispered. “If they havna spotted us in the fog, I doona want them to hear us.” He had no more than finished that sentence when a shout went up. Gilead cursed again and sprang into the saddle, pulling her up behind him and giving the stallion his head.

  Malcolm thundered along the road that circled the loch, his powerful haunches propelling them forward. They rode at a full gallop for nearly a league until the big horse began to slow. Deidre knew he was a stronger horse than the ones the Saxons rode, but he was also carrying two people.

  Gilead reined him in and turned off the road. Ahead of them stood a copse of oak trees and beyond that, hills broken only with jagged pieces of granite. Gilead stopped behind one of the bigger boulders.

  “I’ve got to let him rest,” he said as he surveyed the road they had come on. It didn’t take long before they could hear their pursuers. Gilead pulled Malcolm’s head down as they came closer and wrapped his arm lightly around the horse’s muzzle. “Steady there, boy. Not a sound.”

  They watched as the Saxons galloped past. A light rain had started, dispelling the fog that had protected them.

  “Come, we’ll walk,” Gilead said as he led Malcolm toward a gap between two hillocks. “We can’t stay here. The road is muddy; they’ll double back when they realize there aren’t any tracks.” He looked up at the ominous sky. “It’s probably going to get worse, too. We’ll need shelter.”

  “They’re too close for us to stop anywhere other than to let Malcolm rest.” Deidre said. “Let’s go. I’ve been wet before.”

  He gave her an admiring look, but all he did was nod. “Aye. Onward, then.”

  By noon they were soaked to the skin and even the horse looked miserable, hanging his head to avoid the stinging lash of the wind-driven rain. They were still walking, since Gilead had chosen to try to stick to rocky terrain to avoid tracks. The shoes that Ida had provided fo
r her were too big and Deidre could feel blisters rubbing.

  “Do ye want my plaid?” Gilead asked when he noticed Deidre shivering. “It’s still dry in the saddle bag.”

  Deidre shook her head. “It would be soaked in minutes. Save it for later.” She hugged her wet arms. “I had no idea it could get so cold here in the summertime.” Not even the mistrals that sometimes came hurtling through the south of Gaul were so bad.

  “Aye. When the wind switches and blows off the Grampians, it happens.” He gave her a sympathetic look and then stripped off his leather jerkin. “Here. Wrap this around. It has no sleeves, but it will keep yer body a wee bit warmer.”

  “But that leaves you with just a thin linen shirt,” Deidre protested, even as she noticed said shirt was plastered to his body, outlining sculpted arms and broad shoulders. Her blood warmed. Maybe if she could just keep looking at him…

  She stumbled and Gilead caught her. “Careful.”

  Deidre felt her cheeks redden. This was not exactly a time for her overly active imagination to take over. They were still being pursued.

  “Do you think we’ve lost them?”

  “Mayhap. I’ve been leading them west. I doona know how far they care to wander from their camp or their ships.”

  “Ida wants the land, Gilead. I—or Elen really, but he thinks I’m her—am his hope. He won’t stop so easily.”

  “That’s the game, isna it?” Gilead asked. “How much is he willing to risk? A war band of ten Saxons can do damage to a small village, but if they come upon my father’s men or Turius’s, they wouldna stand a chance.”

  “Ida will have no reason to think those armies are out there. He’ll be expecting a negotiator, since he thinks I am your mother.” Deidre didn’t know how Elen had survived, but she was glad she had. “Your father certainly has no reason now to barter or to fight.”

  Gilead raised an eyebrow. “Just the thought of giving away his land will be enough. Anyway, Da promised his men would be following me. I just didna wait to break my fast.”

  Deidre felt a lump rise in her throat. He hadn’t even bothered to eat first. As soon as he knew his mother was all right, he’d come for her. Maybe the mad magician—or whomever wrote The Book—had been right in concocting those stories. Maybe she was looking at a really noble knight, after all. “That was sweet of you…willing to go hungry.”

  He stopped abruptly. “Not so hungry.” He looped the reins over Malcolm’s saddle and rummaged through a saddlebag. “I brought this,” he said as he drew out a loaf of barley bread, tore some off, and handed it to her. “I’ve cheese and venison along, too, if ye want to stop for a wee bite.”

  “We’d better keep moving,” Deidre said between mouthfuls of the soft bread. “How did you manage to get this food past Meara?”

  He grinned. “She likes me, remember?”

  Of course Meara did. All women did. Not only could he stir a female’s blood with just a look, he was also unfailingly kind and respectful. The elated feeling that she might have been special just disappeared. Gilead had done no more for her than he would have for any lady who needed help.

  “What is it, Dee? Ye don’t look well.”

  She forced a smile. “I’m fine. I-I’m just tired and my feet hurt, that’s all.”

  Gilead looked down at the big shoes she wore. “Och, lass. I dinna notice. Forgive me.”

  She found herself up in the saddle, still holding her bread. Gilead swung up behind her and settled her against him as he reached around her and picked up the reins.

  “Malcolm can carry us for awhile. Sleep, Sassenach.”

  Mmmm. He felt so good and warm, even though the rain was still splattering them. She reveled in the strong enclosure of his arms and tucked her head under his chin. She could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. And, for the moment, she could pretend that he was hers. She’d just rest her eyes a bit. This certainly was no time to sleep. Certainly…no…time…at…all…

  ◊♦◊

  She woke with a start. Malcolm had stopped and they were in front of an old crofter’s cottage, the torrential rain still pelting them.

  “At least the mud should wash clear any tracks we left,” Gilead said as he swung down and then lifted her from the horse. “Get inside and let me see to Malcolm.”

  Deidre lifted the sagging door on its leather hinges. The warped wood scraped the rock sill and stuck about halfway open, but she managed to squeeze through. The place smelled musty, but at least it was dry. Surprisingly, the roof didn’t leak anywhere. She looked around. A heavy cauldron hung on a spit rail in the hearth. A table and two chairs were nearby. A small trunk stood at the foot of a bed along the far wall. Deidre walked over and touched the pallet that covered the leather and rope webbing. It was surprisingly thick. She stooped over and sniffed. The straw smelled fresh. That was strange. She moved to the trunk and pried open the lid. Empty, save for a couple of well-worn linen towels. She took them out. At least they could dry themselves later.

  Deidre walked back to the cupboard by the hearth. It contained a wooden plate and cup and a ladle, as well a small sack of oat flour and dried beans. Someone had obviously been here, and fairly recently.

  She jumped as the door squeaked open and Gilead pulled himself through. He shook his head, sending droplets of water spewing from his wet hair.

  “I don’t think Malcolm has ever been so glad to see the inside of a stall, broken down as the shanty might be,” Gilead said as he plopped the saddlebags down on the table. “At least he’s out of the rain and there was hay.”

  “Someone is living here?” Deidre asked apprehensively.

  “Not likely,” Gilead answered. “The shepherds keep stores in deserted crofts here and there to take refuge as they move the sheep. Anyone about, in weather like this, would already be here. I doubt we’ll be bothered.”

  Deidre looked longingly at the tinderbox next to the hearth as she tried to contain her shivering. “Do you think we can risk a small fire?”

  “Aye,” Gilead replied. “We’re a good four leagues away from the Saxon camp. I doona think they’d risk coming this far inland, away from their boats.” He pushed open the door again and bent his head to the rain. “I’ll be back.”

  He returned a short time later with a load of small logs. “I took them from the bottom of the woodpile outside. I hope they’re not too wet.” Quickly, he laid the fire and took some of the straw from the pallet to use as kindling. He struck the flint several times to get a spark, and slowly the wood smoldered and caught, sending a dark plume of smoke upward. He fanned the small flames, coaxing them with more straw until they burst into colors of red and yellow and orange. Satisfied, he stood.

  “Take off yer clothes, Dee.”

  Deidre stared at him. Now he wanted to see her naked? She was cold and hungry and tired. Her hair hung in wet strings. For once, her romantic illusions evaded her. She pulled the leather jerkin closer.

  “Ye’ll catch yer death in those wet things,” Gilead said patiently as he went to the saddlebag and pulled out the dry plaid. “Ye can wrap yerself up in this.”

  She hesitated, suddenly shy, and looked around for a place to change. Gilead frowned and held up the plaid as a screen between himself and her. “If ye doona mind hurrying, lass, I’d like to get out of my wet things, too.”

  Of course. He was being mindful of their health. Neither of them needed to catch the lung sickness. She was just being silly when she thought he might be personally interested. Deidre pulled off the tunic that Ida had given her, along with the sodden leggings and wet shoes. She dried herself quickly with one of the linen towels and reached for the plaid, wrapping it around her. The soft wool felt wonderfully warm and carried Gilead’s spicy soap scent. She handed Gilead the dry towel. “You’ll need this.”

  He took it and stripped his shirt off over his head. Deidre mewled involuntarily at the close proximity of that bare chest with its well-defined muscles, but when Gilead loosened the laces
of his trews, she quickly sat down facing the fire and began to dry her hair. Better not to think about—or see—him naked.

  “Ye can look now,” he said in an amused tone.

  Deidre glanced sideways. He had wrapped the towel around his narrow waist, but that only accentuated the sculpted muscles of his thighs and rippling abdominals.

  He seemed unaware of the impact he was making, as he arranged their clothes over the spit and mantle. The fire sizzled as water dripped from the soggy clothing. He pulled the wineskin from the bags and laid it in the cauldron while he took their food out. In a few minutes, he poured the warmed wine into the wooden cup and placed it in Deidre’s hands, his fingers grazing hers. “Drink.”

  Just his touch sent heat radiating through her, but she dutifully drank and was surprised at how the hot drink calmed her shivering. She drained the cup. “More.”

  Gilead poured her a bit more. “Ye need to eat something before ye get stupored.”

  Stupored? Now, there was an idea. Maybe if she got Gilead sotted, he would lower that shielding wall that he kept so carefully around himself. How could a man who looked like he did be so damnably proper? For sure, he was nothing like his father.

  “I’ve been selfish,” Deidre said as she handed back the cup. “Please, have some.”

  He poured a good-sized drink and took several swallows, closing his eyes as the soothing liquid slid down his throat. Then, he opened them and began to eat.

  Deidre turned her attention to the food, too, for she was ravenous. They could get drunk later. In truth, she didn’t think she’d ever tasted anything quite so good as that simple meal of bread and venison and cheese.

  Gilead tended the fire after they had eaten and Deidre was soon drowsing in the warmth of the room and the plaid, not to mention her third cup of mulled wine.