Loving the Knight: Book 2: Eryndal & Andrew (The Hansen Series: Rydar & Grier and Eryndal & Andrew)

by Kris Tualla

  And she was gone.

  Shite.

  Chapter Seven

  Geoffrey waited in the manor’s kitchen. When Eryn tried to slip in unnoticed, he jumped to his feet and trailed after her.

  “Geoff, please, I’m near an icicle. The weather today is particularly brutal!” she complained.

  “Eryn, I need to speak with ye,” he insisted. He took her hands in his, stopping her escape, and pressed his warmth into them. “What transpired today?”

  “Drew wanted to see the crofts and talk to the crofters.”

  Geoffrey stepped back and the gray in his eyes darkened. “Ye call him Drew?”

  Eryn rolled her eyes. “Don’t place any weight on that!”

  “What does he call ye?”

  She pulled her hands from his grip. He let her. She walked into the Hall and used the fire to finish thawing her fingers. Geoffrey followed, nearly tromping on her heels.

  “What does he call ye?” he repeated.

  She shrugged. “Eryn. When he’s not chastising me, that is.”

  He folded his arms across his chest. “Chastising? Eryn, what’s happening?”

  “He knows about my offer to the tenants. He isn’t pleased. It seems he wanted to see their state for himself.”

  “And what did he see? What did he say?”

  “He didn’t say anything. Perhaps at supper.” A shiver shook through her. “I need to order baths and get into dry clothes.”

  Geoffrey slid his warm fingers into her hair and covered her cold ears with his hot palms. His heat was soothing and Eryn got gooseflesh down her arms. His mouth took hers in a slow, gentle kiss.

  She kissed him back, though after a moment her mind wandered longingly to her bath.

  Geoffrey ended the kiss and leaned his forehead against hers. “I love ye Eryndal Smythe. I want to marry ye.”

  She shivered again, though whether with cold or reluctance, she wasn’t certain. “I have to go afore I catch an ague.”

  “Am I interrupting?”

  Eryn closed her eyes and ground her teeth. She turned slowly to face Drew in the doorway, her hands fisted at her sides. “No. Is there something you are needing?”

  Drew’s gaze shifted to Geoffrey. “Is this the ‘cob constable’?”

  Irritating ass. She waved one hand in Geoff’s direction. “Lord Andrew Drummond, may I present Geoffrey MacDougal, Constable of Castleton.”

  Drew walked into the Hall and stopped in front of Geoff. He looked down at the constable, a hand’s width shorter than he. Eryn wondered if the knight was standing taller on purpose. She glanced at his boots, but the heel wasn’t built up. He simply was that much taller.

  Geoffrey gave a small bow. “I’m honored, Lord Drummond.”

  Drew slapped his black leather gloves against his palm. “Someday soon I would like to discuss the state of Castleton. Perhaps ye could give me insight as to the peculiarities of this town.”

  “I’m at yer service, Sir.” Geoff turned to Eryn with an intense expression. He lifted her hand and kissed it soundly. “Good afternoon, my lady.”

  As Geoff exited the Hall, Eryn glanced at the knight. “I’ll see to your bath.”

  She stalked out of the Hall, her heart pounding.

    

  Drew soaked in the warm water long enough for it to grow cold, but it did not lighten his mood. He hated to be proved wrong and what the Lady Bell had arranged with her tenants was doing just that.

  The youngest and most able-bodied of them were repairing the crofts, obviously taking pride in the structures they were contracted to own. Ten years felt a lifetime to him; but to a man who never owned land—and worked all his days for the benefit of another—this must seem a dream come to life. And not only for the man himself, but for his sons who would never be serfs.

  What would happen to their society if everyone followed the same path?

  Drew stood suddenly, splashing water over the rim of the wooden tub. He scrubbed his skin with the linen towels to regain the warmth he lost to the cooled bathwater. Then he walked barefooted to his bed where Ian had laid out his cleaned clothes.

  He stepped into his linen braies. He pulled on his woolen hose. He slipped his shirt over his head and his tunic over his shirt. And still he refused to acknowledge what really had him riled.

  But after he sat and stuffed his feet into the cuffed boots, there was no more activity to distract his thoughts. The fact was simple; the sight of the Cob Constable kissing Eryn felt like a dagger to his heart.

  Why in God’s name was that so?

  Answering directly to their king was a demanding bit of business. Drew had never entertained the thoughts of wife or family since the day he left his father’s home at the age of fourteen and entered training at Stirling Castle. For fifteen years he lived with men—and took comfort with women—without feeling the loss. So what changed?

  He hated to admit it, but a fiery-haired healer tucked away in a tiny keep on the northernmost coast of Scotland had done it. For the first time in his life, he considered marriage. So he asked.

  But she turned him down. At first he was devastated; until he realized she had bruised his pride more than his heart. But now that the door was opened, he was finding it too stubborn to stay closed.

  But Eryn?

  “Sure and she’s intelligent. And educated. And seemingly capable, if this estate could be taken as evidence. But she’s too impudent. Too independent. Too outspoken,” he complained to the fire. “And too tall.”

  The fire waved back at him.

  “So ye say she’s pretty?” he asked it.

  The flames seemed to wink.

  Drew closed his eyes. Eryn’s light brown hair was streaked with gold, linen, brass, butter, flax, and honey. In candlelight it came alive. Her braid hung below her waist in a column that he ached to wrap around his hand. He would use it to pull her close and inhale the lavender scent of her soap.

  But it was her eyes that had him off kilter. Their impossibly pale, pure, green. Every time he looked at her, they brought to mind a laborer in that same northern keep where the healer lived. That was in no way a pleasant memory.

  “I banish ye!” Drew said aloud. “From now on, I shall call that color Eryn green.” He waved his hand as if to toss the memory into the fire. The flames leapt and danced along with his game and he chuckled at his folly.

  His belly rumbled reminding him that supper was imminent. Pushing to his feet, he strode to the chamber door, his mood much improved.

  December 6, 1354

  Eryn sat astride Rory. The sun would be setting soon even though they wouldn’t see it behind the low-slung clouds. Snow was beginning to drift down in flighty flakes that tried to avoid contact with the earth. If they didn’t act now, they would lose the opportunity.

  Jamie rode beside her, Hugh Scott beside him. Half-a-dozen of her tenants followed behind. She nodded to Jamie. He waved a white kerchief and they all urged their mounts to a smooth canter. Splitting into two small groups, they surrounded the little herd of cattle and began driving them from behind.

  They succeeded breaking eight or nine from the group. Disturbed by the silent but frenzied kerchief-waving riders, they began to trot, then to run. Eryn knew they needed to get over the rise before they were caught or the re-taking of their livestock would fail.

  They almost made it.

  A holler of alarm echoed after them as the last rider topped the rise.

  “Go!” Eryn shouted. “GO!”

  Driving the confused and angry animals was a difficult task, but it was one they had succeeded at before. Lead them to the creek and follow it through the woods. Stay hidden until they reached the edge of the estate, then cut around the ruins of Liddel Strength.

  Once the animals were in her pasture, Eryn knew it would be nigh impossible to say which of the beasts had just arrived; especially since her own herd was currently being driven to the new pasture.

  They were a good distance ahead of their pu
rsuers. If they could but lose them in the woods…

    

  Drew and Kennan were poking around the ruins of the earthwork castle. It wasn’t too long ago that Liddel Strength had stood.

  ‘Stood’ being a relative term, Drew mused.

  On the edge of a wooded escarpment the motte rose about twenty feet high. There was an inner bailey on the east side of the motte, and an outer bailey beyond that, all made of piled dirt. A massive ditch around the south side created a half-circle enclosing the structure. A pile of stones was all that remained of the tower.

  Kennan shoved a quarried stone with one booted foot. The grass beneath it had long died, but there was still evidence of its existence.

  “Eight years past, was it?” he asked, his brow pinched in consideration.

  “Aye, just over that. Summer of 1346.” Drew turned and pointed. “David Bruce stood right there and pulled this tower down his own self, do ye recall?”

  “And landed in the Tower soon after.”

  “Well—this was English land, then,” Drew conceded. “But it was a glorious day, to be sure.”

  The victory was swift, and the destruction of the tower satisfying. Drew was only one-and-twenty then, not yet a courtier, but a knight for almost four years. His size—a quarter foot over six feet, broad in shoulder and chest, long-limbed and muscular—sped both his training and his ascension. He dominated his opponents time and again.

  Drew looked to the sky. The clouds were lowering and releasing snowy flakes, a few at a time but steadily increasing in number. “Let’s go back. It grows dark.”

  Drew and Kennan climbed the baileys toward their destriers. The horses were dozing head to tail outside the farthest wall, tails swishing the falling snow from their faces.

  The pair had only gone about a quarter mile when Drew halted. He turned his head. “Do you hear that?”

  “Aye.” Kennan turned his mount around. The men waited as the pounding of approaching hooves grew louder. Through the dusky haze of fog and fitful snow, shapes appeared—big, brown, shaggy, and horned—and charging toward them.

  Cattle raid.

  And heading toward the Bell lands.

  Eryn’s words they steal our cattle; we steal them back ran through his mind. As if to prove his inkling the cattle were followed by a small herd of riders. They were swathed in muted shades of brown and gray—faces, too—with cloth tied to their horses’ tack to prevent it from clanking.

  Their steeds were struggling, winded. The riders kicked them forward, urging the animals to the east and north. In the path they were heading, they would pass less than fifty yards from the knight and his vassal.

  “What do we do?” Kennan asked. The glint in his eye betrayed his eagerness to join the raiders.

  “It’s no’ our fight. We’re here as emissaries only,” Drew reminded him. Another sound turned their attention beyond the Liddel ruins. He squinted to see through the gathering dark. “On the other hand…”

  Three undisguised riders appeared, hard into the chase. They brandished bows, battle axes and swords. The Scots raiders were not so armed.

  The knight drew his sword. “I think it just became our fight.”

  Drew and Kennan kicked their horses forward and caught the three pursuers within sight of the exhausted herd.

  “I am a knight of King David!” he bellowed. “I’ll no’ allow ye to attack these unarmed men!”

  “Bugger off! I’m English!” one man shouted back.

  Drew reined his stallion around. “Aye? But yer in Scotland now!”

  His mount knew what to do. With one tap of Drew’s boot he charged the outspoken Englishman. Kennan engaged another. Three of the Scots raiders turned back and joined the ruckus; the others drove the cattle onward, disappearing into the thickening night.

  It wasn’t their intent to kill, merely dissuade. Drew knocked the Englishman from his mount. He rolled on the ground, howling.

  “Ye weak English pup,” Drew snarled. “Get on yer pony and take yer tail home afore I do real damage!”

  The man reached for his fallen axe. Drew nicked his arm with the tip of his sword, drawing blood and a yelp. “I said go home! Ye’ll no’ be needing that!”

  The man scrambled toward a horse that stood head down and blowing streaks of steam. He mounted and turned the reluctant animal in the direction of the ruins, kicking it frantically. Another rider trotted past him, blood running from his scalp.

  Kennan appeared at Drew’s side. “They’re off.”

  “Where’s the third?”

  A man jogged past, following his companions on foot.

  “I guess they kept the horse,” Kennan snickered.

  Drew’s blood raced with the exhilaration of the chase and fight, brief as it was. He wanted more. He needed more.

  “Come on!” he shouted to the three strangers who joined with Kennan and himself. “Let’s catch up the herd!”

  They found the cattle more by sound than sight. They slowed their approach so their intent would not be mistaken. When the three accomplices were recognized, relieved cries arose, muffled by fog, snow and disguises.

  But when Drew and Kennan were recognized, the hazy night was plunged back into the mere shuffling of horse hooves.

  “Do no’ worry! They helped!” one man exclaimed.

  “Aye! That one”—another pointed at Drew—“knocked one on his arse and sent him back without his axe!”

  Drew recognized Jamie as he pulled off his scarf. “We are safe then?”

  Kennan’s “Aye!” prompted a round of cheers.

  Drew jumped from his horse, still holding his sword, and grabbed every one of the raiders’ forearms and pounded every one of their backs. He hadn’t felt this alive in months—maybe years. He laughed as he moved from man to man, recognizing some from the manor and some from the crofts.

  One, however, stood aside and was still wrapped in a scarf.

  “It’s no’ that cold yet!” he chuckled and reached for the scarf. “Show yourself so I can congratulate ye proper!”

  A gloved hand slapped his away.

  Drew spread his palms wide. “Shy, are ye? I mean no harm. Come on. Let’s have a look.”

  The man backed away and shook his head.

  Drew paused. This man’s behavior was odd. Was he a spy? Drew tightened his grip on his sword. His tone was no longer friendly. “Unmask yourself now. Or face my blade.”

  At first, he didn’t move. Then his hands floated up to the scarf and slowly pulled it away. Drew frowned and leaned closer.

  “Eryn?”

  Even in the dim light he could see her pale eyes.

  “Eryn!” he barked. “What in God’s name were ye thinking?”

  She threw the scarf in his face. He grabbed it with his free hand.

  “I’m thinking that is the third successful raid I have led!” she snapped. She yanked the scarf back from his hand and leaned closer as well. “This year!”

  Drew gaped at the tall woman dressed as a man. Her hair was a mess and rage lit her eyes. Then he did the only thing he could do. He kissed her.

  His sword made no sound when he let it go.

  She made no sound when he palmed her jaw.

  Their kiss made no sound but the brisk exhalations of breath against cheeks.

  The slap that followed, however, rang clear in the night.

  “How dare you?” she growled.

  Drew refused to touch his stinging skin and let on that she had a powerful swing. Instead, he grabbed her shoulders and pulled her to him. This kiss was more urgent, more demanding. One hand moved behind her head and tilted it so he could kiss her more deeply. She didn’t push him away, but neither did she melt into him.

  He took the second slap like a man. Like a knight.

  It hurt like hell; but that kiss was worth it.

  Chapter Eight

  December 7, 1354

  What could I have been thinking?

  Eryn sat in her room and only picked at
her supper even though her stomach rumbled. After the strenuous raid she would expect to be starving, but humiliation over her kisses with Drew had robbed her of an appetite. That was why she asked that her food be sent up to her—she couldn’t face the knight until she had her reactions analyzed and her thoughts cleared.

  She broke a roll into tiny pieces as she stared at the fire. Going on the raid today had been a risk, that much was sure. Geoffrey told her that to do so while the knight resided under her roof was folly in the highest degree, even though the possibility of getting caught stealing across the border always loomed over their actions. But there were times in the constant English abuse when enough was simply enough.

  And the cattle remaining in her pastures were simply not enough.

  When Eryn promised to give the tenants livestock to breed, she was not certain how many would accept the offer. Truly, taking on animals as winter began wasn’t the best timing for the struggling serfs; but she needed to go into the year 1355 with a plan. Without one, she and William would waste away the next winter—of that there was no doubt.

  But the possibilities had sparked imaginations and roused the younger men from the lethargy of the Death. The signed agreements locked in her safe were proof of that. And now they wanted breeding sheep and cattle, so many that she was forced to limit each tenant to one pair of each. And that left her own stockyard decimated.

  There was no choice but to take back what was rightfully hers.

  When she realized that Drew and Kennan had found them out, she thought her life was forfeit. She could hardly see to ride past the tears that froze on her cheeks. She believed that all her struggles, her schemes, and her stubborn grip on life had come to naught. Lost on a December evening in the midst of a thickening snowfall.

  But when she wiped her eyes and looked back, she saw the knight challenge her pursuers. She had no assurance whose cause he would champion, but he slowed the Englishmen’s pursuit enough that she and her band could fade into the foggy dusk.

  Then he appeared in their midst, ruddy with excitement, grinning wildly, sword in hand. Eryn knew they were safe; at least as far as the raid was concerned. As soon as her men began to pull away their disguises, all of her fears reignited and nearly consumed her on the spot. She felt their terrifying flames prickling her skin as she tried to disappear in the darkening night.