Knight Dreams

by C. C. Wiley

  As she moved, the tip of a small dull metal knife caught her attention.

  The tent flap snapped open. “Hold,” Sir William ordered. “One move and I will cleave your head from your shoulders.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Terrwyn kept the small blade cupped in her palm as she followed Sir William in silence. Aided by the additional length of the tunic sleeves, she had kept the knife’s existence hidden while he glared at her. His initial surprise at finding her in the tent quickly shifted to irritation. Try as she might, she could not blame him. Why would he expect to find her standing somewhere other than where he left her? He, himself, had secured the manacle around her ankle. She prayed his anger would not storm against James.

  The leather journal rubbed against her flesh as she half-skipped to keep up with Sir William’s long strides. Luckily, she had tucked it in the band of her leggings, barely discernable under the folds of her loose tunic.

  When she quickened her pace to a trot, she felt the journal shift. Her breath caught as she searched for a way to keep if from sliding any further. The journal simply could not fall into sight. Its presence would be hard to explain.

  If she had the use of both hands it would have been an easy thing to fold her arms over her middle, propping James’s drawings while they walked. However, that was not the case. As soon as Sir William gathered his wits, he had that damn rope back in hand, jerking her to follow.

  There was no reason to fight him. Where would she go? Two steps out of camp and one of the soldiers would have her strung up like a suckling pig at Michaelmas. Instead she waited until the commander reeled in the rope, pulling her to him. It took but one look to know she had best take care while his ire was up. Unfortunately, meekness was not her strong trait.

  Terrwyn stumbled over a tree root hidden by the evening shadows. Her palm now itched where the metal blade bit into her skin. Perspiration made it slippery, hard to keep out of sight. Her fingers ached as she kept her hand cupped. She thanked the fates for the small consolation that she held it in the hand farthest from Sir William. ’Twas certain he would have noticed. Her thoughts raced as she searched for a tale that would sway him from his own determined course.

  Stumbling once again, she dropped to one knee. “A moment, if you please.”

  Sir William turned. Even under the cover of night, she saw his impatience glinting from his eyes. She must make haste. Pressing up from the ground, she began to rise. Her free hand stole near the neck of her boot. With the slightest movement, she slipped her fingers inside and prayed he did not notice.

  She looked up, her gaze softened in hopes of diminishing his ire with her entreaty. “I didn’t intend for my absence to cause concern. I meant to be gone for only a wee moment or two.”

  “Did you not?” Sir William grunted. His glare bore into her very soul. “Pray tell. What am I to think, finding you where you should not be?”

  A twitch began to build under her skin. No one but Mam in a temper could make her nerves jump like a river trout. To make matters worse, the leather-bound journal felt like it was inching its way down again. A corner dug into the crease between her hip and abdomen.

  Hugging her stomach with one arm, Terrwyn moved quickly to Sir William’s side. She hesitated, her hand suspended near his sleeve. The heat from his body filled the space between them. She licked her lips. Caution rang in her ears.

  Ignoring the bell of caution’s peal, she lightly pressed his sleeve. A tick, a slight jerk, drew one corner of his mouth down. She ignored the need to shut her eyes and quieted the brush of faerie wings against the walls inside her stomach.

  Sir William trapped her hand and held it a moment too long. One by one, he pried her fingers off his arm. Terrwyn felt her cheeks flush with fire.

  He stepped back, putting space between them. “You know not what you are about, Archer. I forswore your ilk long ago.”

  Turning on his heels, he jerked the rope tethered between them and did not question whether she would keep up with his steps. The pace he set to reach the tent gave her no time to voice her discomfort.

  Breathless and aided by Sir William’s impatient shove, Terrwyn stumbled into the tent.

  James lifted his head. The bruise on his cheekbone stood out against the pallor of his skin. The corner of his mouth, swollen and split, created a crooked smile. His head dropped, his chin resting on his chest as if its weight were too great to bear.

  Her heart lurched at the sight. “James,” Terrwyn whispered.

  She flinched when Sir William whipped the end of the rope around the tent pole. She ached to reach out and trace James’s face, the tendons running down his neck. Her chest tightened, fighting the draw of air. If only he would turn his anger on her, let her know he had not given up. If only she could catch his eye and let her thoughts feed into his. She would remind him they would find a way out as they had promised each other.

  “Look what I’ve brought back to you, James Frost.” He kicked at James’s outstretched legs.

  “Stop it.” Her anger fed on fear. It rose, driving through her blood. “You cannot do this! He is Henry’s man.”

  “Henry’s man?” The rope tightened, singing as it spun around the post. Sir William pulled it tighter. “Kneel,” he ordered.

  She dropped to her knees and bent forward, trying to keep the journal from showing. It dug into her stomach. The idea of producing it to save James jabbed into her thoughts. She quickly squashed it. What if Sir William destroyed the drawings out of spite? She could not release them. Not until she had the opportunity to look at the sketches. James would understand her decision. Someday.

  Sir William yanked her arms behind her back. “Many a king has had a confidant turn on him. Commit acts of treason. Spy for the enemy,” he said as he tied her wrists together.

  “Though there are some who are charged unjustly,” Terrwyn said through gritted teeth.

  He lifted her arms and looped the rope under the binding. With a grunt of satisfaction, he finished by tying it around the peg above her head. He flicked the taut piece of hemp with his finger, testing the area where it pressed against the tender side of her wrists.

  He stepped back to admire he work. “Unfortunately for James, his accuser Edgar Poole has disappeared. And you he hid from me. Let you infiltrate my command. And now I see ’tis obvious that you have corrupted my brother against me.”

  Terrwyn kept her mind off the slow ache in her arms. James’s journal threatened to slide further down her chausses. She flexed her fingers, willing the pins and needles away. “James would never turn from his king. He loves King Henry over Wales. He chooses devotion for his king over family. He’s been with him since he was a young man.”

  Sir William bent forward. “And you know this, how?

  “He—he was with Henry when they rode through Wales, stealing Welshmen to serve as archers for England’s army.”

  “And he stole you to shoot pretty arrows into the air for the king’s entertainment? I think not.”

  “My pretty arrows will hit their mark every time. Will yours?”

  “You still maintain your pride?” A sudden jolt of surprise struck his face.

  It gave her some small bit of satisfaction. Yet she would have given it all away to know she had won a few more moments for James to gather his strength.

  Sir William pressed her shoulder against the post. His weight bore down, grinding into her skin. “I think you lie.”

  “You are right,” she conceded hotly. “I fight because I must. You Englishmen care not for my country—my village—my family. But I do! When those lives I care for are threatened I cannot turn away. I must do all within my power to protect them.”

  “Anything?”

  “If it returns my brother and brings peace to my family, aye.”

  “That comes near to an admission of guilt. I wonder if you speak only for yourself.”

  Sir William pulled a chair close. Sitting down, he leaned forward and grabbed a handful of James’s
hair. He pulled back, lifting James’s head. “Have you nothing to say?”

  James groaned from the movement.

  “You and your fauna,” Sir William said. “You would rather let a woman speak for you instead of find your tongue? Though if I were you, I’d sleep with one eye open. She’d flay you as easy as she would the rest of England’s men.

  “See here, Archer, I am in a quandary. His journal is gone. This king’s man has no proof he draws something more than flowers and the beasts of the forest. I didn’t even see a simple map.”

  “The woman—”

  “By his own admission he saw her when he frequented a popular meeting place for traitors.” He held up his hand for silence. “He has been accused by someone in whom I entrusted the care of my young brother. What am I to do?”

  “If Edgar Poole is a fine example of good character, then ’tis your opinion that should be in question. That swine is not fit to lick James’s boots.”

  She felt a slight poke on her hip. Then another. Saints’ lovely bones, James would recover. She prayed he did so quickly.

  Sir William rose to tower over her. “Mind your tongue. ’Tis within my power to judge James Frost. Give him a traitor’s death. His friendship with the king is what keeps him alive. Until we reach Southampton. If I find the charges are accurate, he will indeed die. Otherwise, if he survives the trip, he will be set free. You,” he added, “I have yet to decide. I hear your father sympathized with Owain Glyndwr for Wales’s throne. He backs a toothless mongrel.”

  “Better an old mongrel than a braying donkey.” Terrwyn bit down her next words when James renewed his incessant poking.

  “Fool woman. I should turn you out, let you fend for yourself. Stripped naked. Bound, blindfolded and alone. That will silence that serpent’s tongue of yours.”

  “Nay,” James said.

  “Ah,” Sir William said. “At last he responds.”

  “She’d never survive. Nor would you,” James said.

  “Don’t tax yourself, James,” Terrwyn entreated. “Rest.”

  “Your burden, Sir William, would be in the knowing that you lent a hand in an innocent’s death. It would weigh you down, adding to the memory of the woman you loved and lost. Nay,” James pushed. “You cannot turn her out into her death. For that would be your death as well.”

  Sir William held his face rigid, revealing no expression of his thoughts. He bent to leave the tent. Without another word he was gone, their fate undecided.

  Exhausted, Terrwyn closed her eyes. She tried to lean the back of her head against the post. The simple action drew her arms taut. Her shoulders burned. She flexed her fingers again, nearly crying out with the movement.

  The guilt of keeping his drawings a secret ate at her insides. But how would telling him now serve her needs? Once she had a good look at Drem and his surroundings, she would return them. Until then, she would have to hope James’s joy in recovering them would overshadow her deception. Still, it did not stop the gnawing in her stomach.

  “Well,” Terrwyn said. “That went well.”

  “Aye.” James sighed deeply, a groan mixing with his breath. “I missed you, little one.”

  “Aye?” she asked, before conceding, “From time to time, I found myself missing you too.”

  James’s words were slow and stiff. “From. Time. To. Time.”

  “Perhaps a bit more.” Terrwyn tried moving to a more comfortable position and found it made little difference. She turned her concerns to James. “Did you happen to figure out a way to free ourselves from this spot of trouble?”

  He did not speak for some time. He drew his breath in short shallow pulls before answering. “’Fraid not. Busy regaling our hosts with tales from Henry’s court.”

  Terrwyn shut her eyes, trying not to see the vision of his assault as the soldiers entertained themselves. Nor did she need the night visions to come over her, foretelling what would happen if they did not find a way to free themselves.

  “Never meant to cause you or your family harm,” he said.

  “Aye, well, we cannot always know what our actions will bring. Wicked Lady Fate sometimes steps in and leads us on a merry jig or two. Or shoves us down a well of pity and condemnation.”

  “Do you hate all with English blood flowing through their veins? Or only me?”

  Did she hate him as much as when she first realized he’d ridden with the men who abducted Drem? She had vowed to bring each and every one of them down, but how far had that brought her? She remembered how he had argued with the Prince of Wales. Flashes of memory danced before her. His kindness after Mam’s death. He had offered his protection, even when he knew it was unwanted. Indeed, at times, unwarranted.

  “I despise the power that constantly wields its hammer over our heads,” she finally said.

  “Ah, then, there’s still hope for me.”

  Terrwyn heard the gentle plea in his jest. “Very little.”

  “Better a little hope than no hope at all.”

  Terrwyn shook her head and smothered the smile that began to form. She would not allow the ember to grow. “’Tis not the time to make foolish vows.”

  He leaned his head back, turning so that his breath brushed against her neck. “Later, when we are free, I’ll turn all that is in my power to finding ways to gain your affections.”

  “James, I need you to listen well.” Very carefully, Terrwyn slid her knees to one side. The shift in weight pulled on her shoulders, stretching her arms tight overhead. She swallowed a gasp as the rope bit into her flesh and sinew, burning where it creased her skin. Gritting her teeth, she made one last move. The heel of her boot scraped across the worn dirt and settled close to James’s hands. The chain links rattled, the metal loops hitting together as he dragged it out of her way with his fingertips.

  She blew out soft breaths to ease the pain and wiggled her boots closer. “Try to reach my leg. Can you feel it?” She listened for the soft stir of cloth, his sleeve moving against his body. Warmth shot through the woolen leggings where he touched her calf.

  “Aye,” he said.

  She ignored the coarse sound of his voice as he choked out the single word. It would do them little good to cry over his injuries. “Good then. You’ll need to reach a bit more. Tell me what you feel.”

  “Do you wish to torture me? What good would my feeling your leg bring?”

  “’Tis to a wee knife I’m directing you. In the boot.”

  She listened to him breathe in and exhale. His fingers moved over her calf again. They inched up to the crease of her knee, in between her legs.

  “Not that one,” she said. “The one on top.”

  “My apologies.” The movement of his touch stilled, pausing over the curve of her knee.

  “Please hurry, James.” She winced, the need to shift and ease the throbbing in her arms growing with each breath. “Oh,” she cried out, “’tis madness. How am I to direct you if I cannot see where your hand is?”

  “Close your eyes. Pretend you are blindfolded. We’ll feel together.”

  The heat of his hand left her leg. The weight of their troubles bore down on her shoulders. It caught her fears, swirling her thoughts until she could hardly breathe. “Please James,” she whispered.

  “Hush, Terrwyn. Listen to my voice. Take a steady breath. Like when you prepare to shoot your arrow.” The sound of air drawn in and blown out whispered between them. “When I touch you again, I want you to feel me.”

  The tips of his fingers graced the folds of her chausses. The woolen material brushed against her flesh. He pressed his fingers to her knee. Warmth flowed over her, soothing her soul. The grace of his movements slid over her leg. He paused where the boot cuffed her calf. His fingers dipped inside, testing the area between leather and wool.

  “See me. Think of the blade as our prey. Where is my hand? Where do I go from here? Am I close?”

  “No good. The little blade has slipped. ’Tis too far for you to reach.”

  She knew t
he moment he withdrew his hand. She felt his absence again and wished for another try, if only to feel the comfort of his touch for a while longer. Her thoughts scattered, searching for an answer to their freedom.

  “Can you scoot your foot closer?” he asked.

  “James, ’tis no use. You cannot reach it.”

  “Steady, little one. Let’s try again. But this time, I’m going to remove your boot.”

  When he finished giving his instructions, she nodded, though more to assure herself since he could not see anyway. Her teeth clamped tight, she gripped the rope overhead with both hands and pulled with all her might. The weight of her body lifted. She could hear James as he strained against his ropes. Her arms trembled as she held her body as still as she could. The tug of her boot jerked against the rope, against her wrists. She kept the cry trapped inside and focused on dragging a breath. Just when she thought she could bear no more, she felt the leather slip from her foot.

  “I have it.”

  Her grip lost, she slid down to the ground. The burning returned to her arms. Her wrists stung where the rope had rubbed the skin raw.

  Slowly, the sharp blade scraped against the bindings and the strands began to fray.

  James groaned from the release. Still bound by the manacle around their ankles, he moved with measured steps. The rope above Terrwyn’s head shuddered.

  She gasped as James gently drew her arms down and blood rushed to her fingertips. He squatted in front of her and cradled her unbound wrists.

  Terrwyn scanned his cuts and bruises and cringed with empathy. “Your poor face.” She leaned forward to kiss his pain away and James met her.

  He covered her mouth with his, draining her anguish. He hovered over her lips, letting her taste his tears. A crooked smile lifted the corner of his bruised mouth. Her hands still in his, he turned them over, exposing the reddened flesh. Streaks of blue and purple formed over the swollen skin. He brushed a kiss ever so gently beside the wound. Placing a finger to his lips, he motioned for her to rise.

  Terrwyn caught his hand and accepted his help. Her legs, deadened by their position, took a moment or two for the feeling to return.