by Rue Allyn
“Aye. Ye’re right at that, sir.”
He heard the knife slide home in its sheath. What was wrong with him? He had not heard the nurse enter the tent and barely noticed when she drew her blade. He had even let that blade remain drawn at his exposed back, rather than tear his gaze from the widow. Never before had his reaction to a woman’s body made him stupid. So this could not be simple lust—but it had to be. No other explanation was possible.
What was it about the widow that dulled his brain and made him lose all good sense? Was she a witch? Was that how she led Roger astray? Did she now work her wiles on him? He shifted sideways, pulling the nurse into his line of vision, but he kept his focus on the widow. “You will explain.’
She gave him gaze for gaze. ‘I have already told you of the stoning. Besides, you have no authority to demand explanations.”
“I have the king’s authority over your person and all you own. That alone gives me the right. And stones do not cause thinness such as yours.”
He could see defiance build in her narrowed eyes and tightened jaw.
If the widow wanted a battle, so be it. He set his hands on his hips and leaned forward in challenge.
A figure in brown wool filled his vision. “Go break your fast, sir. Milady will fight with you soon enough,” Marie interrupted with all the bluster of a sergeant-at-arms.
Haven allowed the nurse to place her hands on his shoulders and turned him about. She gave his back a shove, propelling him out of the tent.
Behind him he heard the nurse mutter, “Good, milady. If you must butt heads with a mailed knight, do it after you are dressed.”
His lips formed a smile. Laughter grew in his chest and then cut off abruptly when he saw young Thomas barreling toward him.
“What…?”
The boy ignored the question. He stopped half a stride short of impact with Haven. A rapid series of blows to his knees and lower thighs followed, accompanied by several kicks to his shins.
“Do not hurt Mama. Je vais te tuer!”
Haven ignored the threat of death at five-year-old hands and looked down at his assailant. He grabbed the boy, pinning his flailing arms to his sides, then raised the child to eye level.
“Would you kill your king’s loyal servant, boy?”
“Vraiment que tu et bete.”
“Perhaps, but Edward Plantagenet does not share your opinion. Thus stupidity alone is not cause for murder of one of his knights.”
The child’s lip trembled, and Haven saw fear widen the boy’s eyes.
“Ne t’approche pas de ma mere, ou je te tue,” the boy muttered.
“So you will kill me if I come near your mother?” Haven admired the boy’s courage, a trait shared by both the child’s parents, as well as a tendency to take on more than he could handle. At least the widow had not made a coward of her son. But like his mother, the boy lacked discretion. “Will you now? And what makes you think you’ve need to kill me?”
The boy glared silent hatred at Haven.
“Answer me, young sir.” He stood the boy back on the ground. Haven loosened his hold and squatted to maintain eye contact. Still the boy had to look upward.
“The bad men, they hurt Mama when we went to live outside. I heard her scream at them. I wanted to kill them, Mama said I should not, and the men went away. Mama screamed at you. You are a bad man.”
“No. I am not a bad man.”
The child shrugged out of Haven’s grip, doubt drawn in the boy’s raised eyebrows and the mouth that had ceased trembling.
Despite the rage that poured through Haven at the thought of the woman’s pain, he kept his voice calm. He did not want to frighten the boy.
“What did these bad men do?”
“They stole our food. When Mama tried to chase them away, they threw stones at us and kicked her.”
“Did I throw stones or kick your mama?”
The boy crinkled his brow. “No. But she screamed at you.”
“Women scream for many reasons.”
“Not Mama.” Thomas’s expression twisted into a determined pout.
“Mayhap not. But you have my word that I did not harm your mama.”
“I do not believe you.” Thomas thrust his arms out and shoved with surprising strength for one so young.
Unprepared for this new assault, Haven swayed before bracing himself with his hands, then rose to his full height.
The boy ran in the opposite direction. “Stay away from Mama,” trailed behind him.
Haven stood, amazed that anyone, even a child of Thomas’s inexperience, would question his word.
Footsteps approached from the direction of the tent.
“Do you now bully children as well as defenseless women, Sir Haven?”
Haven felt anger tighten his neck and shoulders. Who was this sultry-voiced witch to think she could call him a bully? In one swift movement, he turned to face her.
“No, madame, I do not threaten children, or defenseless women. By all rights I should have killed your nurse for drawing a weapon on me. But I tolerate even that out of concern for your person.”
Incredibly she gave a snort of disbelief.
He had to put her in her place. “Do not imagine, madame, that your meager charms bewitch me.” Haven leaned forward and spoke softly, his face a quill’s breadth from hers. “I do not like you, Madame Genvieve Elise des Jardins Dreyford. I do not like your manners. I despise the treason you inspired in my good friend, your husband.”
He grabbed his gloves from his belt and saw her cringe. Did she imagine he would strike her?
“You are entirely too independent for your own good and will bring disaster on us all unless you learn how to take orders. Had I the choice, I would see you burn at the stake like the witch you are. But I do not have that choice. King Edward orders that I bring you to him. Bring you to him I will, and no one will be able to say you suffered harm in my charge.”
“How dare you, sir.”
He ignored her outrage. “Even more important to me, I swore an oath to your husband to guard his family. I will perform my duty to the king, and I will keep you safe until I bring you to him, with or without your cooperation. Even if I must protect you from yourself. Do you understand me?”
Genvieve tucked her chin in toward her neck and nodded, too furious to speak.
“Good. Now wait here. We will leave as soon as I am mounted.” He strode away casually, slapping his gloves against his thigh.
Gennie goggled at his retreating backside. Her hands fisted at her sides. Her feelings seethed in rank confusion and boiled unchecked out of her mouth. “You bullheaded ox. How dare you accuse me of fostering treason, when you yourself betrayed your best friend to the hangman’s noose.”
She saw de Sessions’s shoulders tighten and his stride hesitate, but he walked on, ignoring her verbal stab.
Just who did the high-and-mighty Haven de Sessions think he was to say she was too independent? If what he claimed was true, she wanted the same thing he did, safety for Thomas and his family. Of course, men rarely meant what they said. Roger and his broken marriage vows were proof of that.
Gennie shook her head slowly. She had no intention of learning how to take orders from a lout like Sir Haven de Sessions. Imagine calling her a witch and insulting her manners, as if his own unmannered display did not prove how little he knew of courtesy.
How could he claim that she inspired Roger to treason? If anyone had betrayed her husband, it was Sir Haven de Sessions, Roger’s supposed best friend. de Sessions, and none other, had brought Roger to the king and certain death. If she had any alternative, she would be damned before she trusted herself and her family to his protection. Hah! Roger’s good friend indeed.
Yet the men seemed to respect de Sessions, and some had been with the knight for years. Behind her, she heard the sounds of men dismantling the shelter. Soames’s orders rose above the general noise. It might be worth her while to know what de Sessions’s own man thought of him. She t
urned to Soames, determined to discover all that she could about Haven de Sessions.
“Sir Haven is a man of strong opinions.”
“Aye.” Soames eyed her suspiciously but did not move away.
“I am surprised a man with such strong opinions remains in favor with the king.”
“Mayhap you are, milady.”
Soames’s reticence was less than encouraging. Nonetheless, Gennie pressed on. “I gather the knight is a man of some repute.”
“Aye, true and perfect is what many say of him.”
“My experience of him would not lead me to say so.”
“Begging your pardon, milady, but I will risk saying that your experience of Sir Haven is limited.”
“True,” Gennie conceded to the gentle censure. “Still, ’tis my belief the man is misnamed.”
“How so, milady?”
“Sir Haven is not my idea of any sort of haven.”
“Is he not?” Soames chuckled.
“Non.”
“Maybe you would prefer to be scrabbling and starving in the rain as you were yesterday instead of warm and safe, with a full belly, as you are today.”
“I would have managed.” Gennie sniffed, unprepared to admit that she hadn’t known how to feed or care for herself and her family.
“As you say, milady. But is that what you want for your son?”
Gennie looked up at the older man’s face and saw the understanding there. “Non,” she said quietly and looked away.
When she looked at Soames again, she found his kind gaze still on her. “You give me much to think on, Soames.”
“You don’t seem to me to be an unreasonable woman, milady, so here’s somewhat more to think on. Sir Haven suffered greatly because of Roger Dreyford’s death.”
Gennie’s brows rose. “Really?” She shifted to watch the men disassembling the tent.
Soames moved with her.
“Indeed, milady. Sir Haven and your husband were squires on Edward’s journey to Acre. They were blooded in battle together and became fast friends. When the king ordered Sir Haven to bring Dreyford to court, my master struggled mightily with his conscience.”
“He seems lacking in conscience to me.”
“That comment is unworthy, milady. You do not know Sir Haven as I do.”
She flushed. “You are right. I do not know de Sessions as well as you. Please tell me more of this struggle.”
“As I said, he and Dreyford were fast friends. They would joke about the marriage of their children, when neither had a child. Often they spoke of Sir Haven acquiring lands near the Dreyford holdings, when Sir Haven’s service to the king was done. There was troth between them, as only could be for men who saved each other’s lives. So much so that they felt no need for the vows that usually bind men in friendship.”
“Given such a friendship, Sir Haven’s course should have been clear when the king gave his orders about Roger.”
“Sir Haven’s course was clear. That was the problem.”
“Soames, you speak in riddles.”
“It is no riddle to honor a vow of fealty, even at the cost of friendship. You know as well as I, milady, that to break a vow is to risk the loss of one’s soul to eternal damnation.”
“I also know that one may be released from any vow by the church.”
“Perhaps, but breaking one’s oath to a king, especially a king like Longshanks, warrants the axman’s blade. Unlike your husband, Sir Haven has no death wish.”
“My husband did not want to die.”
“No? Perhaps he was only foolish.”
Roger had been foolish in the extreme, but Gennie was not about to share that with de Sessions’s loyal warrior, If Soames wanted absolution for his lord’s foul acts, let him seek it elsewhere. “My husband is not at issue here. He has already suffered for his misdeeds.”
“And you still think that Sir Haven has not?”
“I know not what to think, Soames.”
“I am more than willing to be at your service, should you wish to pursue this matter further.”
“And what matter is that, Soames?” Sir Haven’s stem voice issued from behind.
Gennie jumped. She turned to him with Soames. She felt very small with de Sessions glaring at her from the back of his horse.
“Lady Genvieve only wished to reassure herself of her son’s safety, sir.”
Gennie wondered at Soames’s vague, if true, response.
Stone-faced, Sir Haven looked at her. “You may come to me with your questions, madame. You need not bother my men.” He put his hand out to help her mount.
Faced with the choice of taking his hand or blistering his ears, Gennie spoke. “Sir, you…”
“Please you, madame, mount the horse.”
She shivered at the coldness in his expression; now was not the time to chastise him for his rudeness. She took his hand and mounted, wondering just how much more she would take from de Sessions before she killed him in a fit of temper.
Unfortunately, at the moment, he was all that stood between herself and a fate similar to her careless husband’s. She would find a way out of this, she just did not know when or how.
Chapter Six
Haven frowned. They should have arrived in York yesterday. Now another dawn would pass before they saw the outskirts of that city.
The delay was the widow’s fault entirely. A league back, he had paused so that she might eat. He had heard her stomach rumbling. And since the stubborn woman would not ask, he had kindly offered her some dried meat from his pouch. Of course the first thing she had done was pass the simple fare to her son. He would have let her go hungry, but the nearly constant sounds from her stomach annoyed him. So they had stopped and eaten.
He watched her tend her son and see her sister-in-law and servants fed. When she turned to serve his men, he had had enough. He took her by the arm, marched her to a fallen tree and, with a hand on her shoulder, forced her to sit. Grabbing the bread and cheese from her hands, he gave her a portion, then called Bergen to distribute the remainder. He ordered her to eat and watched to make sure she did not once more give her food away to Thomas, who came scampering up to his mother with a plea for sweets.
The display of hugs and teasing words between mother and son nearly turned Haven’s stomach, but the boy was obviously hungry for her attention.
The widow sent the boy off to her cook. Haven waited as patiently as he could for her to finish eating. When the last crumb vanished, he ordered the party to mount. Too much time had been wasted in coddling this woman.
Now, because the boy had a bellyache, they were stopped for the fourth time since morning. Shortly after midday, Thomas had begun to whine. Whimpering from the child had prompted Soames to request a halt. The severity of the boy’s condition concerned the older man.
Before they had reached an appropriate clearing, the whimpers had become cries. Haven had ground his teeth at the interruption, swallowed his curses and, at the first clearing, ordered the party to stop. And while the widow and her women tended the child, the cries had turned to howls.
Haven had left. A cowardly action, but one he excused because he knew nothing of childish bellies and how to fix one that ached. He had grabbed the water skins and stomped off to fill them at the nearby creek.
Now he had returned and found the boy sleeping in the sun with the nurse and Rebecca watching over him. Haven surveyed the edge of the clearing. Not a guard in sight.
He looked for the widow and found her, accompanied by her maid and surrounded by his men. What does she do, he wondered, that turns my men to mindless dolts? Whatever it is, it will cease now.
From now on he would brook no further delays. Edward wanted them in Chester. By all that was holy, he would perform the task his king set for him, even if he must take the widow ahead by himself. His men could keep Thomas and his aunt safe and come on to Chester at a slower pace. The plan was good. Yes, if they did not cover more than forty leagues beyond York in the next thre
e days, that was what he would do.
Determined, he strode from the tree line into camp. He heard laughter rumble from the men circled about the widow.
“Soames! Get these people mounted and ready to ride.”
His lieutenant gave him a startled look, then snapped to attention. “Yes, sir.” He bellowed orders at the men.
The knot of men surrounding the widow scattered. She glared up at Haven, as if an ill wind had tattered her carefully spun web.
No doubt she tried to plant seeds of insurrection among the warriors. Too bad she did not know his men as well as he did. Some were inexperienced, but all were blooded. She would find poor soil for her schemes among loyalties forged in battle. Satisfaction turned up the corners of Haven’s mouth, and he was able to bank the anger the widow ignited in him.
He grasped her elbow and urged her toward his horse. “Do not think to charm my men into foolishness as you did your husband.”
She shook off his hand.
He heard her outraged gasp at the same time that he felt pain shoot up his leg from where she kicked his shin. Grasping the injured limb, he hopped toward his horse. “I curse the day I ordered Watley to give you those boots. What ails you, woman, that you must kick me?’
“What ails you, Sir Numbskull, that you accuse me of such a loathsome action as leading my husband to treason?’ She crossed her arms over her chest.
Haven opened his mouth, then closed it, for she had thrust her face within a hand’s span of his. The scent of lavender filled his head. He lost track of his words.
“You threaten me with death,” she spoke with surprising calm. “I have no choice but to come with you. Then you insult my servants and me at every turn. I refuse to suffer your rudeness any longer.”
Even uttered in her houri’s voice, her tirade raised his hackles. Haven narrowed his glance and lowered his mal-treated leg, wincing as the abused limb took his weight. “Tell me, madame, how you will end this so called suffering?”
“Simple, Sir Bully; I will pray.” With that, she turned abruptly and walked to his horse where she waited for him to assist her.
Haven eyed her suspiciously, uncertain how prayer would relieve her suffering. He mounted his horse, then lifted her up behind him. Pray as she might, he would show her no more courtesy than any other suspected traitor.