The escort’s strong hands wrapped around her waist as he lifted her as though she weighed nothing. After helping her settle into the velvet-padded saddle, Mathieu fastened a wide leather strap loosely across Eva’s lap.
“We will travel slowly, as I’ve been told your experience on horseback is scarce. There is no need to hurry. We shall make the Chateau Alst well before nightfall.” He patted the spotted gray neck of her mount. “Besides, I believe Germaine would prefer the slower pace. She’s seen many winters, and for her, this is a very long distance to travel.”
At that moment, cold drops of rain began to pelt Eva’s cloak. Mathieu scowled and looked skyward. “We may, of course, want to step up the pace to avoid arriving like drowned rats.”
Behind them, the ill-tempered chaperone, Blanche, mumbled under her breath. Seated aboard a furry, brown pony, the matron’s weathered face was lined in a permanent scowl. Her wispy white hair was contained at her nape in a bun, which she now fumbled to cover with her hood.
Eva nodded, still afraid her tongue would not respond if she tried to speak. She simply lifted her own hood and gathered the palfrey’s reins in one hand, gripping the front of the saddle with the other.
With a strap tethered to Germaine’s headgear wound in one of his gloved hands, Mathieu mounted his horse. Gray overcast skies hung low over their heads as Eva’s palfrey plodded patiently behind Mathieu’s much taller mount. Trailed by the handmaiden, the three were halfway across the Market Square when Eva spotted the tall, black palfrey emerging from a street on the opposite side.
It was Stefano, she was certain. He had said he would return to see her before her departure, but the escort arrived earlier than expected. Hoping he would not recognize her, Eva pulled her hood down farther over her face and kept her gaze trained to the hindquarters of her escort’s horse.
As they wound their way through the cobbled streets of Ghent toward the road south, the rain continued to fall intermittently. Eva wasn’t sure if the source of her chattering teeth was the cold and wet, or the fear that pressed insistently up against the armor encasing her heart.
*
All the way up from Coudenburg, Mathieu had grumbled under his breath. This was a trip he didn’t want to make, a responsibility he didn’t want to shoulder. The task was robbing him of time he desperately needed to prepare for the festival. The weather had decided to turn against him as well, and a cold, damp-ridden wind whipped him in the face. They’d left late morning the day before, stopping for only a short respite during the witching hour. There had been no choice—the aged mare, Germaine, simply wasn’t up to traveling any faster or any farther that night.
Blanche’s constant, barely audible grumbling didn’t make the trip any more pleasant.
Now, having retrieved his charge and heading back south, the heavy gray skies commenced leaking their load. Muttering an oath under his breath, Mathieu tugged his hood down over his face and hunched his shoulders against the rain.
The girl behind him, on the struggling palfrey, hadn’t said a single word since he’d retrieved her from Ghent. Mathieu couldn’t help wondering if, in addition to being creple, she was mute as well. Not that he minded much. His duty was to deliver the girl safely to the castle, not to converse with her.
Strangely though, the minute he’d laid eyes on Eva of Utrecht, that was exactly what he’d wanted to do.
She wasn’t very tall, and not slight of frame by any means. Mathieu couldn’t help but notice how the lacings on the front of her kirtle strained to contain the lush curve of her breasts, although her skin remained hidden beneath the chemise underneath. He also hadn’t been able to ignore how his hands fit comfortably around a narrow waist when he’d lifted her into the saddle.
Her face was comely, with full cheeks tinged with color, and huge eyes the color of meadow grass. It was her lips that drew his eye most. Full, lush, and ripened-peach pink, he wondered if they were as soft as they looked.
Not the kind of thoughts I should be having about this young woman, this Eva of Utrecht. She is my charge for the next two days, nothing more.
But there was more, and Mathieu reminded himself of the fact—Eva of Utrecht was also the bastard daughter of Philip the Good. Off-limits for certain, even if he had any ideas as to a romantic liaison with the girl. There would be plenty of other maidens coming to the castle for May Day should he decide he needed to slake the lust he fought to deny on a daily basis.
Once free from the city walls, the road widened. Mathieu gathered the tether to Germaine’s head, so the palfrey plodded along beside, rather than behind, him. He glanced over at his passenger, but her voluminous hood hid her face.
“Are you well, milady?” he asked. He could see how her knuckles, peeking out from beneath the cloak, were as white as granite stone.
She turned toward him then, her grass-green eyes wide. But all he got for a reply was a curt nod.
“Are you cold? I have an extra blanket in my pack—”
“No, my lord. I am fine,” she snapped.
So, she did have a voice, but one that took Mathieu by surprise. Soft, sweet, and lilting, it appealed, even though her tone was curt. She was very young, and he’d expected her to sound like a child. But a deeper huskiness struck him as more mature, womanlier. Like her lushly curved body.
Stop it. Not of your concern. There are plenty of womenfolk flocking to the castle in less than a fortnight. Keep your wits about you, man.
Mathieu decided, for the rest of the journey, he would refrain from trying to make conversation with Eva of Utrecht.
The noon hour had long passed, and the wind and rain abated, leaving in its wake air that was still, but even colder. Mathieu drew his hood back and shook his cloak to free it from some of the drenching they’d received. Eva and Blanche did the same. After passing through expanses of open meadow for quite some time, they were approaching a copse of pine.
“I need to relieve myself, my lord. There appears to be an opportunity just ahead,” the maiden murmured.
Jolting him from inside his own head, Mathieu snapped his gaze to hers. Fool. He should have made the offer a good ways before now, when they’d passed through the last wooded area. Why hadn’t the old handmaiden spoken up?
“Of course, milady. We need to rest our mounts as well. I have noticed Germaine has been dragging her feet this past hour.”
An ostler whose concern for the horses ran deep, Mathieu worried for Germaine. She would never have been his choice for such a long journey. As Simon’s squire, however, he dared not defy the admiral’s choice.
After tying the horses to a low-slung branch, Mathieu lifted Eva down from the saddle. Noticing her unsteady sway as her feet hit the ground, he did not immediately release her. A tense beat passed before she glared up at him.
“I have no need of assistance, my lord. I can navigate on my own quite well.”
He snatched his hands away as though she were on fire, holding them in the air beside his head. “My apologies. Your mother advised—”
“I am perfectly capable of walking unassisted,” she retorted. Lifting her skirts, Eva limped carefully through the brush toward a large-barreled oak tree. Blanche followed in silence.
Shrugging, Mathieu dug in his pack for the loaf of bread and wedge of cheese he’d packed for the trip. She wasn’t the friendliest maiden, for certain. He would refrain from attempting to assist her henceforth.
When Eva returned, he turned and offered her his skin of mead.
“Did you bring rations, milady? You’re welcome to share mine.”
She shook her head. “No. Only my clothing. I’m sorry. I should have planned better—”
But she didn’t sound sorry. Her tone was almost . . . annoyed.
“’Tis my duty to deliver you, and care for your needs on the way. I brought enough to share. Blanche brought her own rations.”
The girl studied him through narrowed eyes, her chin tipped up in an expression of undeniable arrogance. Haughty little w
ench, he thought. I’ll be glad when this mission is over.
They sat on a fallen log after Mathieu cast his extra blanket over the soaked bark. He noticed she sat at the very edge of the covering, tucking her skirts around her and keeping her chin down.
She doesn’t want me too close. Mayhap she is afraid.
Eva of Utrecht did very much remind Mathieu of a young falcon, freshly caught and cowering at the nearness of a man. He’d gentled many of these birds, gaining their trust. He couldn’t help but wonder if he would be able to do the same with this young maiden.
But why should I care?
“I think the worst of the weather has passed,” he began, breaking off a chunk of the coarse oaten bread and handing it to her. “If the winds don’t pick up, we should travel the rest of the way without much discomfort.”
To his surprise, Eva lifted her chin as she took the bread and met his gaze. “’Tis true, I am not an experienced traveler, my lord. But I am not a delicate flower either. I shall not wilt, rest assured.”
Ah, so not such a timid fledgling after all. Mathieu raised an eyebrow.
“I did not mean to offend, milady.” He couldn’t help the corner of his mouth quirking. He liked a woman with a bit of spark. This one might keep hers well hidden, but it was there, nonetheless. “Cheese? It’s quite a nice Edam.”
Chapter Four
As the day wore on, Mathieu worried more and more about Eva’s mount. The old mare’s gait not only slowed with each step, but she appeared listless and unsteady at times. Eva was not a heavy load, nor was the day too warm for easy travel. They arrived at the inn, Chateau Alst, later than Mathieu had hoped, but thankfully before full darkness fell.
When they arrived, he asked the stable hand to offer the mare an extra measure of oats. He had warned Simon of his concern in taking the elderly palfrey on a distance this great. Germaine had been stabled at Coudenburg since he’d first became an apprentice there, and her speckled gray coat and sagging backbone spoke even then of her advanced years. That was many winters past.
The inn was a plain-fronted brick building packed tightly between others on Duvers Street in the small village of Alst. A sign beside the heavy oak door labelled it, and an open archway beside the entrance led, Mathieu guessed, to the stables. Passing through the short tunnel, they emerged into a dirt enclosure. A young lad dressed in peasant’s clothes dashed out to greet them.
“Good evening, my lord. Miladies.” The youth dipped his head in greeting. “Are you needing lodging for your mounts this evening? Or just passing through?”
“We’ll be staying, lad. If you could, please, offer the mare an extra measure of oats. She is old and the journey has taxed her strength.”
The boy glanced back at the livery. “Sorry to say, sir, but we don’t have room indoors for all three horses. We’re about filled up this evening.” He winced, expecting a scolding. “We have an outdoor pen though, over there.” He pointed to a fenced cubicle in the corner of the lot. “I’d be happy to bed the two mares down with straw there.”
“That would be fine.” Mathieu dug a coin out of the satchel hanging from his belt. “Here’s something extra for your trouble.”
The boy’s face beamed as he caught the coin tossed to him. “I’ll rub them down very well, sir.”
From the stable yard, Mathieu led Eva to the three stone steps at the rear entrance of the inn. As Blanche hobbled stiffly to the door, he hesitated, noticing there was no handrail. After a silent moment, he heard his young charge sigh heavily. Reluctantly, Eva tucked her hand into the crook of Mathieu’s elbow.
Mathieu had only visited this establishment once before. The ground level housed a tavern and common room, where now a fire blazed in the blackened stone hearth. The warmth was welcome, as his clothing had not completely dried. He guessed Eva’s trembling was due to the same cause.
“I will speak to the innkeeper and get you settled in your room, milady. You may want to change into dry clothing before taking the evening meal.”
The keeper directed them to rooms on the second level, though he made no move to accompany them. Mathieu stressed he and the ladies needed separate quarters. The older man, his wrinkles extending beyond his brow and up onto his bald head, scowled.
“There are two rooms remaining, but they are joined by a door. It’s all that is left.”
Mathieu watched Eva gaze at the narrow staircase along the far wall. “I will escort you, milady.”
Eyeing the stair’s rail, Eva straightened and glared at him. “There is no need. I can make it on my own.”
Mathieu sighed and watched her climb tentatively up the steps, her knuckles white from gripping the wobbly handrail. Blanche, as quiet and ghostly as her name, followed her. Shaking his head, he ordered a pitcher of ale and made his way to a small table in a corner by the fire.
This maiden—young woman, really—was a conundrum. He knew she’d been sheltered, having grown up in a decent enough tailor shop, but ’twas not lavish by any means. Simon had told him little about her except for her heritage and her age. Sixteen winters. Yes, still very young, but on the brink of womanhood. This was probably why her father, the duke, had decided to bring her out at the May Day festival. Unmarried young women flocked to this festival, which was a celebration of spring and fertility. Mathieu was well aware that many lords, and knights as well, came to the festival in search of a wife.
Not in Mathieu’s plans, for certain. Before any such thoughts entered his head, he had much to decide about his life. Although he did plan for a wife and children somewhere in his distant future, he could not house them in a small room off the back of a stable.
He took a deep draught from his tankard and leaned back in his chair. His back ached from the long, slow journey in the rain and then the cold. The fire warmed his bones, as did the ale. He’d almost drifted off when his charge appeared before him. She was alone.
Her hair, which had been bound in a fat braid when he first set eyes on her, was now flowing free over her shoulders. It shone in the firelight like polished gold. Her eyes were wide upon him, and he wasn’t sure if what he saw there was fear or curiosity. He’d experienced enough of her thorny side to proceed cautiously around her.
“Milady,” he said, rising to pull out her chair, “are you more comfortable?”
He noticed she had changed from the dull grey woolen kirtle she’d traveled in to one in a deep forest green. The shade brought out the color of her eyes.
“Yes, my lord.” Bobbing a curtsey, she settled into the chair and watched him as he returned to his own. “Blanche has asked for her meal to be sent up to our room.”
Mathieu nodded and relayed the message to the innkeeper. Then he motioned toward the empty tankard before her and lifted the pitcher. “Ale?” She nodded.
An uncomfortable silence fell between them until a kitchen maid brought them two trenchers filled with steaming stew. Rabbit, Mathieu thought, catching the scent. He waited until his companion had broken off a crust of the bread and began scooping the stew into her mouth before doing the same. The girl ate as though she hadn’t been fed in a fortnight.
It wasn’t until she’d wiped the serving board clean with the last bit of bread that she finally looked up and spoke.
“A fine meal. Many thanks, my lord.”
To his surprise, for the first time, her full mouth curved into a smile.
Eva of Utrecht was not an extravagant beauty. But there was something about her smile, the way it brought a sparkle to those intensely green eyes. It lit up her entire face and shot warmth straight through his chest.
At a loss for words and struggling with emotions he knew were inappropriate, Mathieu hardly noticed the slamming of the tavern’s back door. Moments later, a wide-eyed youth appeared tableside. The stable boy. He was wringing his hands and visibly shaking.
“My lord, your mare. Please come. I don’t know what might have happened—”
Mathieu leapt to his feet and followed the lad outside and
across the stable yard. Full dark had draped itself over the town, the only light guiding their way from a torch the boy carried. When they arrived at the corner pen where Germaine and Blanche’s pony had been secured, the lad lifted his light.
“I thought she was just lying down to rest, m’lord. But then I noticed she hadn’t touched her oats.”
Blanche’s stout, furry pony still had its muzzle buried in the wooden trough, munching her dinner. She paid them no mind as Mathieu opened the enclosure and knelt next to the prone palfrey. She lay curled on her side, her muzzle resting on the thick mat of straw beneath her. Her eyes were closed, and she did not open them when Mathieu called her name.
Cautiously, he lowered his head to her chest. No movement, no whooshing of breath, no heartbeat.
Mathieu clenched his teeth and muttered a curse. He’d warned the admiral the mare was too old for such a journey. Being right, however, wasn’t nearly as comforting as it would normally have been.
Germaine had died in her sleep.
*
Eva was standing just inside the door, wringing her hands, when Mathieu returned.
“What’s happened? Is something amiss?” she asked, raising wide eyes to his. He hesitated—a bit too long, Eva thought—before responding.
Mathieu shook his head. “All is well. We must retire now, milady. We have an even longer distance to travel tomorrow than we did today.”
This time, Eva allowed her escort to accompany her to her room. It was full dark now, and the flaming wall sconces cast dancing shadows on the steep staircase. Eva swayed on their base.
The steps were too narrow, however, to allow them to be climbed two abreast. Stepping around her, Mathieu reached out his hand. Eva blinked rapidly and hesitated.
This was entirely improper. But the stairs, in the wavering light, appeared to Eva to be moving. Terrified she would lose her balance and stumble, she meekly laid her hand into Mathieu’s. It was warm and rough, but firm.
The Warrior and the Wildflower Page 4