Reclaimed by the Knight

by Nicole Locke

  She felt a yank on her arm, and she laughed at Agnes’s restless feet. ‘I’m not skipping today!’

  ‘You never skip.’

  ‘I always skip, but the baby hasn’t learned how to yet.’

  Agnes immediately stilled. ‘Can I teach her?’

  ‘When she can use her own two legs.’

  Agnes’s grin grew, and Matilda’s heart eased. Agnes’s enthusiasm for everything was infectious. At eight years old, and with four older brothers, Agnes often sought Matilda for play.

  ‘If you’re settled, I’m getting back to my own home,’ Bess said.

  Matilda nodded. Bess gave her a warning look before waving them off. Matilda knew she’d have to tell Bess something about her conversation with Nicholas. She just didn’t know what.

  Nicholas’s vehement response to the subject of her letter? His lack of apology? How he hadn’t wanted to know of Roger’s death, but only of how many burdens she’d bred in the time since he went away...and had they been by multiple men?

  Six years... She’d imagined their first conversation as something polite, from a distance. After all, he’d broken their betrothal because he hadn’t wanted it any more, and she’d married Roger.

  Nothing between them last night had been polite. Instead they’d shouted their emotions at each other. She felt every jab. Six years... And in one night he had made her feel exposed, vulnerable.

  She stumbled, grabbed at her skirts with her free hand and nodded to Agnes, who forged ahead again so that Matilda felt every tug of the child’s exuberance.

  And that was what she’d seen when she’d turned. Before he had been able to hide his thoughts. Nicholas had been vulnerable. It seemed impossible, but it was absolutely unmistakable even in the broad light of day.

  No discourse, only emotions. They’d been themselves to each other. But how could she tell any of that to Bess? It had all been too personal. Even the night and the wind’s swirling belonged to no one else.

  There was a clench to her heart, a bend to the path, and she slowed her steps. Nothing belonged to them.

  Afraid her suddenly weak legs would crash beneath her, Matilda begged Agnes to stop.

  ‘Did I hurt her?’ Agnes studied Matilda’s belly.

  Matilda patted her stomach. ‘Not possible. She’s hardy enough.’

  ‘I wish I was stronger.’

  Ah. This was familiar ground. ‘What did your brothers do today?’

  Agnes’s lip stuck out briefly. ‘Peter hid my stockings, which were hanging near the fire.’

  Matilda gave a quick glance to the child’s legs. ‘It looks like you found them.’

  ‘They were hanging outside.’

  Oh. Damp instead of dry and warm.

  ‘Some time today, find every pair of braies Peter has and get them to me as soon as possible.’

  Agnes’s eyes widened. ‘Ooh, what’ll you do?’

  Matilda winked. ‘You’ll see.’

  Something of Agnes’s predicament in having four brothers always brought out Matilda’s more mischievous side. Maybe it was the fact that her closest friends were boys which made her a kindred spirit with the child. Oh, she’d never do anything cruel—just teach Peter a lesson, as she’d used to do with—

  A heaviness sank her heart. She had only one friend now. Not everything was the same as in the past. Nicholas and Louve wouldn’t have been out walking together earlier. Not after Nicholas had struck Louve in front of everyone.

  Louve was still her friend, and she was grateful for the sacrifices he made last night, but she knew he’d paid the price.

  Too handsome for his own good, and too talented at everything he started, there had always been a part of Louve that felt he didn’t deserve his good fortune. Why he should feel like that, she didn’t know, and in order to keep their friendship she’d never asked, but Nicholas striking him in front of all his friends had been a great insult.

  And Louve, by saying he’d deserved it, had made it worse for himself. However, he’d done it to keep the peace. To ensure everyone ate the food Cook had so painstakingly made. He was truly her friend, and Matilda meant to keep that friendship. That wouldn’t be happening if she did anything the way the old Matilda had. The old Matilda and her pranks had driven everyone away.

  Resigned to this, she said, ‘Agnes, maybe you shouldn’t hand me Peter’s braies. Maybe Peter only did that to your stockings to gain your attention. Hasn’t he ever pulled your plait only to laugh and hug you?’

  ‘Maybe...’ the child said hesitantly, and Matilda knew she had it right. Roger would have wanted Agnes to treat vindictiveness with kindness.

  ‘Maybe Peter was simply showing you affection. Maybe he doesn’t understand how uncomfortable it is to put on damp clothes. You should try and forgive him.’

  ‘How am I to do that?’

  The boy was older, bigger, and far too rough. His antics were often cruel. Stealing his sister’s stockings was almost nice in comparison to his past actions. ‘Perhaps play with him?’

  Agnes scrunched her nose.

  It was a terrible idea. The boy truly needed to be taught a lesson. But it shouldn’t be coming from Matilda and her own foolish sense fairness.

  ‘It’s worth a try,’ she said weakly.

  The light in Agnes’s eyes dimmed, but she shrugged.

  Matilda wanted to offer better words of wisdom, but having an even temperament and doing the right thing still didn’t come easily to her, no matter what lessons she’d learned or how badly she wanted to change. All she could do was squeeze Agnes’s hand and feel her matching response. Matilda feared she took more comfort than she gave, but the child didn’t seem to mind.

  Another turn in the road brought new sights and sounds of the village. There was Rohesia, the healer, waving a spoon and shouting at Matilda’s father for standing too close to the fire.

  Matilda hurried her steps and her legs protested at the extra stretch. It was worse today. She felt a hitch that wouldn’t allow her to move. She’d need to hide it or someone would confine her earlier than she wanted. Simply the thought of staying within four walls made her heart stutter.

  Eyeing her father’s bewildered expression, and Rohesia’s belligerent one, she slowed her steps. ‘Agnes, you can return to your home. I’ll see you in a bit.’

  ‘Are we building today?’

  Agnes always wanted to build and create. Why she continually asked her, she didn’t know, but at some point Agnes had started asking her to draw in the dirt and build with her. The day was early, but Matilda knew there would be no spare time later.

  But Agnes was a child, with a child’s understanding of the passing of the day. ‘Maybe tomorrow.’

  Agnes frowned.

  Matilda stopped walking until the little girl looked at her. Out of the corner of her eye she saw her father’s growing agitation. ‘I’ll truly try tomorrow. I promise.’

  Agnes, her focus now on Rohesia and Matilda’s father, seemed to make a decision, and then she quickly turned and ran.

  Exhaling, Matilda walked closer to the familiar crisis taking place. Neither party acknowledged her. Rohesia’s confrontations with her father were never easy, but her father’s agitation made matters much worse.

  ‘Father.’ No response. ‘Holgar.’

  There was a turning of his head, even as his fingers fumbled with his breeches’ laces. No doubt he was about to urinate upon the embers and put out the fire. Since Roger’s death he’d started doing this. No one knew why, or how to stop him. She didn’t want to see him hurt, but it seemed inevitable. It would happen either by Rohesia’s ladle, or by the fire’s flames licking at his ballocks.

  She put her hand on his arm, which stilled him. ‘Rohesia’s cooking. See—that’s her food, and she needs the fire to cook it.’

  ‘He’ll be ruining my bread again!’ s
aid Rohesia.

  Matilda winced. The bread was nestled in the flames. If her father kept his aim it would be ruined.

  Rohesia was just as old as her father. Yet where her father had always been a gentle soul, Rohesia was as short-tempered as a snake and just as quick to strike. No matter how fragile her father was, the old healer would use the ladle.

  She should know. Rohesia’s ladles had been used on her for as long as she could remember.

  ‘He won’t ruin your bread.’ She addressed her father. ‘You won’t, will you?’

  ‘I like bread,’ he said, his eyes on her.

  ‘I know you do. So, all you have to do is step back and wait a bit.’

  ‘There’s a fire,’ he said.

  ‘That’s because of the bread. Just a few moments more, then you can eat.’

  Though Rohesia didn’t lower her ladle, Matilda exhaled in relief as her father secured the last lace and sat where she indicated. She’d take her victories where she could.

  ‘He’ll be fine now,’ she told Rohesia.

  ‘Your father is getting worse.’

  ‘He’s not,’ she said, though she had her doubts.

  Many people cared for her father at Mei Solis, and she and Roger had shared their grain with different families in payment for such help. Since her father’s home was next to Rohesia’s, Matilda gave not grain, but the finest of flours to the old healer.

  Nevertheless, Rohesia couldn’t watch him every moment. And neither could she. It had been easier when Roger was around, but—Matilda put her hand to her belly. It was inevitable. At some point her father would truly hurt himself and no one would be able to help him.

  ‘I can make him more tea,’ Rohesia groused. ‘It seems to help.’

  ‘Thank you.’ The offer of help was merely temporary, but she’d take it. Rohesia cared—even if her manner was gruff.

  Rohesia pointed her ladle at Matilda. ‘You’ve done too much today.’

  ‘And there’s more to do.’

  ‘I suspect because the Lord’s returned?’

  Matilda nodded, not about to confess that most of her work was in trying to comprehend her muddled and twisted thoughts about Nicholas in the graveyard. ‘I’m having trouble moving my legs today. They’re hitching.’

  Glancing at Holgar, who was still staring at the fire, Rohesia hobbled over to Matilda and grabbed her hips with gnarled hands. ‘It’s too early for this.’

  ‘For what?’

  Lowering her voice, Rohesia said, ‘Your hips get loose before you birth.’ She frowned. ‘You’ve weeks to go.’

  ‘Will the baby be all right?’

  ‘Baby’s fine. You...not so good.’

  Suddenly unsteady, Matilda sat down next to her father. She’d wanted a child for as long as she could remember. She and Roger had expected one from the first year of their marriage. Three years on and they’d almost lost hope. With Roger gone, this baby was her only hope. Was Rohesia now saying that her baby would be without any parent?

  Her vision blurring with tears, she gasped out, ‘What’s wrong with me?’

  Rohesia scoffed, returned to her bread and flipped it. ‘You’ll live, but you need rest. Go slower.’

  Blinking, she stated, ‘I’m already slow.’

  ‘Slower. If you don’t, you’ll lose the babe.’ Rohesia’s shrug belied her serious tone. ‘You won’t have much choice. If your hips hitch you’ll barely be walking.’

  She was worried for herself and her baby, but she had other worries too. ‘How will I go to the fields, the home and manor?’

  ‘Worry about that when the time comes. You have other more prominent worries, no?’

  ‘Other than dinner—’

  ‘There’s the man who has returned as well.’

  This argument again. One she didn’t want to hear or for others to overhear. ‘I made my decision.’

  Rohesia had a calculating look in her eye as she looked pointedly at Holgar. ‘Or was it made for you?’

  Her father was clasping and unclasping his hands. She had thought him lost to his thoughts, but now she wondered how much he understood. He hadn’t liked Nicholas’s leaving. His grief when her mother had died had been immense, and then he’d pleaded with her to accept Roger’s offer.

  His wishes had been emotional, nonetheless his reasoning had been sound, since she had known Roger long before Nicholas had left Mei Solis or her mother had died. It had seemed rational for her to marry Roger.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ she asked.

  Rohesia turned her attention to the pot of soup on the fire. ‘Not my place—never has been.’

  The old healer hadn’t a humble bone in her twisted back.

  Matilda stood. ‘I’ve rested enough. I need to check on the evening meal.’

  ‘You’ll be going slow?’

  ‘I will.’

  Without this baby... She didn’t want to think of what she had already lost.

  * * *

  ‘Where the hell are we walking to?’ Nicholas asked after they’d made their way through the village and were more than halfway through his demesne fields.

  ‘Just to the fields,’ Louve replied.

  Louve walked on Nicholas’s left, and couldn’t see the bruising on Louve’s face, but the tenants could, and they eyed the two men, most likely expecting another confrontation. It had been down to their watchful gaze, rather than Louve’s request or his battered face, that Nicholas had agreed to follow him. However, they were beyond the tenants’ stares now, and he expected answers.

  ‘We’re in the fields,’ he pointed out.

  ‘The outer ones,’ Louve said, just as quickly.

  The ones he’d ridden through yesterday. Fallow fields that were full of rocks. Nothing else.

  Louve continued to stare ahead. His gait was comfortable, at ease. He hadn’t demanded an apology, and he didn’t act as if he expected Nicholas to offer him one. This had all the makings of an aimless jaunt, but Louve wasn’t talking. And he always talked.

  This wasn’t what Nicholas had expected when he’d woken that morning. Woken? He’d never gone to sleep. Lying in a bed, in a part of his home he’d never before slept in, he had found no answers to his questions.

  There wasn’t a solution. Roger was dead and his thoughts had simply swung back and forth like a dangling dagger. And he’d waited all night for it to drop.

  He didn’t know how to repair the past when revenge and demands for honour had been his only plan. Now, with Roger’s death, even that was impossible. His raw anger at Matilda last night showed how futile any conversation with her would be. He couldn’t maintain his reasoning around her. Not with the way he felt...not with her carrying a child that wasn’t his.

  So what was left for him?

  No sleep, no solution... But he could at least find distraction, and that was why he had welcomed Louve’s approach in the courtyard. The man’s easy expression had been marred by a swollen lip and a bruised eye, but he had recommended a trip to the fields.

  It was as good as distraction as any, and yet... ‘There’s nothing in those fields.’

  ‘That’s the point.’

  There was no point—unless Louve wanted a true fight. Maybe one part of his past could be repaired. Maybe he could still demand satisfaction.

  ‘I didn’t bring my sword.’

  There was a huff from Louve, as if he wanted to laugh. ‘I’ve prepared what we need.’

  This was familiar ground. To train, to fight—all the things he’d done for the last six years. ‘You think to even the score? You deserved my fist.’

  ‘If you believe so.’ Louve pointed to the largest unmarked field, which now held two sets of oxen and ploughs. ‘Nevertheless, you deserve this.’

  They were almost an apparition. They’d had two oxen when Nicholas had lef
t, and that had been after years of back-breaking work. Now there was two sets of four, and ploughs and blades substantial enough to withstand their strength.

  He should be pleased by the difference, but there was nothing here except two men and two teams of oxen. Was it his years as a mercenary that had made him believe that matters could only be settled by the clashing of blades?

  Or was this Louve’s way of showing his displeasure at his return, at that thrown punch? Did Louve remember how much he hated this land and everything it represented? Of course he did.

  ‘No swords, then.’

  Louve shrugged. ‘The ploughs have blades.’

  This was no settling of differences. This was creating more.

  ‘I never worked the farm before I left.’

  He’d done carpentry on the manor and in the village houses. He’d dug ditches for the tanners and for waste. He’d trained and done his sums. The fields, the land—that was something he had left to Roger even then, and it made him less likely to touch them now. He’d wanted distraction from Roger, and how he’d cheated him of a wife and a future.

  ‘What makes you think I’d do it now?’

  Louve turned so his battered jaw was on full display. ‘No reason.’

  Nicholas refused to feel guilt, though striking Louve hadn’t been his usual way. He never struck in anger—never killed without purpose. His fist cracking Louve’s jaw had been senseless. His training as a knight, as a mercenary, had been abandoned in one blinding strike.

  And Louve hadn’t been his target. It had been a strike at Fate and just as useless. Last night he’d been blinded more than when he’d lost his eye. He’d been blinded by Roger’s death, by Mei Solis, with its repairs shining brighter than ever, by Matilda’s pregnancy, by being thwarted in his vengeance. In his quest for peace. He had no purpose here at all.

  He turned to leave.

  Louve exhaled roughly. ‘I know why you struck me and so do you. Because you can’t strike out at a man who’s dead and you can’t do anything to a pregnant woman.’

  Nicholas stopped, looked to the ground and then answered. ‘So you bring me here to do something I hate, which won’t solve the question of why your jaw is prettier than it’s ever been? To till a fallow field that won’t feed anyone for years?’