A KNIGHT IN TARNISHED ARMOR Read online

  She said nothing, just wiggled under her covers. He wished she would go to sleep. Then he could watch her freely, watch her sleep. Her scent drifted to him in the midsummer air, making him aware of her in ways he'd just as soon forget. He took a deep breath and found her scent as soul cleansing as fresh sea air. He stared up into the night sky, before he took one last look at her.

  She was watching him.

  He would kiss her, at any moment. He knew he would. He started to move toward her.

  "William?" She spoke his name gently, as if it were natural to her.

  He froze.

  "Thank you," she whispered sleepily, and closed her eyes.

  Chapter Six

  Humming a bright tune, Linnet wormed her way through some bushes, Quintus, Neot, and Vitus following behind while Swithun tugged on her hem. There was a small copse of gooseberry bushes here somewhere, she thought. She had spotted the bushes while trying to walk out the stiffness from being too long atop a horse.

  They had traveled for most of the next day, until William had finally stopped to rest at a river bend where marsh marigolds bloomed brightly, and the trees and bushes were thick, lush, and flanked by a meadow filled with buttercups.

  A little distance away she found the gooseberries, then held out her tunic and began to pick them. Within a few minutes, she had several handfuls of plump berries cupped in her skirt. She stopped humming and glanced down at her cats. "Shall we taste them, sweetings?" They looked up at her and she grinned. "Yes, I think we should too." She popped one into her mouth, and shuddered. They were as sour as old wine.

  "Now what would you do with sour gooseberries?"

  They meowed.

  "Me too," she said, then she began to sing a silly little song she made up as she danced to the tune.

  Hey fiddle diddle dee!

  Hey fiddle fee.

  I'd rather be a fairy,

  than a gooseber-ry . . .

  A handful at a time, she tossed the berries over her shoulder, and the cats scampered after them, batting them with their fluffy paws. She made a game of flinging the berries skyward and listening to them patter onto the ground and bushes behind her, humming and skipping to the merry tune of the falling berries. She looked at the cats and laughed. "Those berries ought to be good for something since they surely are not good for eating."

  After a few more minutes she glanced down, just as a flash of gray fur trotted off toward the trees edging the river where a meadowlark had perched on low elm branch.

  "Swithun!" she called. "Come back here!" As usual, he ignored her. She tossed away the last handful of berries and dusted off her tunic, then spun around.

  William de Ros stood there, looking as tall as an ancient elm. And just as rigid.

  She stared at him for a second. He had gooseberries in his hair.

  She grinned.

  He didn't.

  Laughter just bubbled up and she tried to stop, but couldn't. He had a plump gooseberry wedged in his earring. She covered her mouth with a hand.

  He shook his head and berries flew everywhere. The cats raced anxiously around his boots, thinking he was another something for them to play with.

  Now she was giggling aloud. He glared at her, but it did no good. The gooseberry was still stuck in his earring, which didn't look barbaric now. It looked rather silly.

  She dropped her hand and took a breath, smiling. "Your face is as sour as those berries." She gave him her sincerest look. "I'm sorry. Truly. I did not know you were there." She walked toward him and stopped. He stared at her for a long moment. She reached up and plucked the berry from his earring and held it up. "You missed one."

  He was silent and she cocked her head and watched him, trying to read his thoughts." ‘Twas then that she saw the flowers. Clutched in his battle scarred hand was a small posy of marigolds, maidenhair fern, and bright buttercups. He stiffened and looked at the bouquet. She wondered what he was thinking. He looked so strange—a warrior standing before her, tall and fierce, until one noticed the flowers. ‘Twas rather like watching the devil pet a kitten. Certainly not a scene one would imagine for a mercenary like William de Ros.

  Very softly, she asked, "Are they for me?"

  He looked as if he wanted to say something but couldn't speak. He seemed to be waging some kind of mental battle. He glanced up at the late sun and muttered, "There is no time for this foolishness."

  Her heart fell a little. That he had picked flowers for her was not foolish at all; she thought it was touching. Part of her wished to put him at ease, yet she wasn't certain what she could say so she said nothing. She only gave the flowers a wistful look.

  He seemed to make a decision and he turned around, then stopped and turned back. "Here," he barked and held out the flowers just a few inches from her nose.

  She took the posy and in a moment of sheer whimsy she held her hand out to him. He stared at it for the longest time before he played the courtier and with a very intense look he raised her hand slowly to his lips, turned it over, and lightly and reverently kissed her palm.

  To hide her smile, she brought the bouquet to her nose. The buttercups smelled fresh and clean— sweet as the midsummer air, which suddenly crackled with a vicious curse.

  Stunned, she snapped her head up, then followed his angry stare.

  At the edge of the meadow was another armored knight. From his helm, a blue plume nodded in the breeze and his shield was a plain field of the same color. He anchored his shield, raised his free hand. With accomplished precision, he began to swing a mace.

  William slowly moved toward his sword, lying forgotten in the marsh marigolds where his horse was drinking from the river's edge. The knight charged, his mace arcing around and around, his horse eating up the distance and sending tufts of grass flying under the power of his wide hooves.

  Linnet watched, horrified as William raced like the wind toward his sword. She could see that the knight was closer and faster, his horse pounding furiously toward William, past the stream, past the bushes, under the wide branches of the river elms.

  A sudden flash of gray dropped from a tree and landed on the mighty warhorse.

  "Swithun!" Linnet called out, horrified.

  The warhorse reared suddenly and shrieked, its hooves pawing the air. Swithun screeched and clawed the horse's hindquarters. The mace flung around and snagged on a tree limb, jerking the mace hilt from the knight's hand. Momentum wrapped the mace around the tree limb with a snap, the spiked mace ball now hopelessly tangled in its own chain.

  The knight struggled to control his horse, the mace hilt forgotten and hanging uselessly from the low branches of the tree, her cat clinging to the horse’s hind end.

  William grabbed his sword and leapt onto his mount.

  The knight hauled on the reins and spun the warhorse around so swiftly that Swithun flew off. Linnet screamed and ran. But the cat hit the water with a loud shriek.

  The knight rode off and William turned to ride after him.

  Linnet ran straight into the river. "Swithun! Swithun!" She struggled through the current to the spot where he'd hit the water. She slipped and grabbed at a rock. "Swithun!"

  Clinging to the rock she straightened and spotted his tiny head bobbing away from her. She screamed, "Swithun!" and splashed toward him, her tunic catching on some river rocks.

  William's horse thundered past her, splashing water in all directions. He bent down and grabbed the half-drowned cat. A second later he was in front of her, his horse blocking her from drifting downriver.

  His hand shot out and gripped her arm. With a snap he hauled her up and plopped her down between his legs. He was cursing the air blue. Linnet made the mistake of looking over her shoulder at him.

  He was furious.

  Linnet stared up at the night sky, clear and filled with bright twinkling stars. She sighed, and looked about her. There was nothing around but dark forest and her mounds of pillows. William had said little to her since his lecture on the stupidity of leaping
in the river, especially when she admitted to him she did not care and she would do the same thing again.

  So it was in warring silence they had traveled until darkness made going on too risky. They had made camp and eaten in that same silence.

  But she had felt him watching every motion she made, and it made her nervous when he watched her so intently, as if he had to do so. She tossed and turned on the pillows she used as a pallet, then angrily jerked her covers higher. She tried counting stars. She still could not sleep. But then William was not beside her.

  He had waited until she was still before he crossed the small clearing. He stood above her for a moment. Finally he lay down and locked his hands behind his head. He had been thinking of the day he'd had, when he heard something—just a small noise. It could have been nothing but a squirrel in the trees. Still he lay listening.

  "I think I see a wolf," Linnet said.

  William snapped upright, his dagger drawn. "Where?"

  She stared at him with a startled expression, then pointed at the sky. "Up there. In the starry sky."

  He sagged back down on his pallet to keep from shaking her. Star shapes in the sky, he thought with disgust.

  "I'm sorry. I was counting stars and spotted it. I didn't mean to frighten you."

  "I wasn't frightened."

  She was quiet. William closed his eyes.

  "Do you suppose the stars are different in different places. I mean do people see different stars in different places?"

  Certain stars were used as guides, but the others, well, he never had thought about them.

  "I see a dragon right up there. Can you not see it?"

  He looked at the night sky. It looked as it always did. Dark, powerful, and filled with small specks of light. Finally he said, "Where?"

  She shifted closer so that their heads were right next to each other. He could have cared less about the stars at that moment. As she showed him the shape, her cheek so close to his that all he had to do was turn his head, just turn it and his mouth would touch hers.

  She shifted away. "I find it is pleasant, sleeping under the sky. Unless it rains. That wouldn't be pleasant I imagine."

  He took a deep breath. "It's not going to rain."

  "How do you know that?"

  "The sun did not rise red."

  "Oh." She paused, then asked, "Does that mean it will rain, when the sun rises red?"

  "Aye."

  "I see." She rustled underneath her mound of blankets and turned on her side toward him.

  He could feel her stare and glanced at her.

  "How do you know that a red sunrise means rain?"

  He sighed. "Experience."

  She was blessedly quiet. He closed his eyes and relaxed. His breath was even and he was almost asleep.

  "I've been thinking . . ."

  He stifled the urge to groan.

  "What does it mean if the sun sets red?"

  "Nothing."

  "But if the sun rises red and that means it will rain, it stands to reason that the sun setting red must mean something also." She paused, then added, "But the sun always sets red so it would not change anything or mean anything. And if the sun always sets red, then doesn't it always rise red too?"

  "Goodnight."

  "Oh. Yes, I suppose you are tired, riding all this way, rescuing Swithun, fighting knights, barking orders ..."

  He lifted his head and turned back to see her smiling. Exasperated, he dropped his head back on the pillow and said, "And listening to cats screech. Ducks quack."

  "And me talk?" He could hear the laughter in her voice.

  "Aye, and listening to you talk."

  "Goodnight, William," she said so sweetly if he could hear that every night for the rest of his life he would die a happy man. He closed his eyes.

  A few moments later she sighed. "I'll say a prayer that it doesn't rain."

  "Go to sleep without a care, my lady. It is not going to rain."

  "Well." She sighed again. "If you're certain."

  "I am more than certain. I'll lay my life on it."

  "I'd say your life is fairly worthless about now," Linnet said to William with a slight smile. The comment earned her a rather pointed glare.

  It had been raining for over two hours. After the first five minutes, the cats had started screeching and the ducks quacking. William and Linnet sat huddled beneath the dripping blankets he'd spread over some tree branches while he muttered something about bed hangings after all. Linnet had questioned him but he had not answered.

  ‘Twas a soggy shelter to say the least, as soggy as her velvet pillows which were floating a few feet away in muddy puddles. "I certainly wish I had brought those tent sticks," Linnet said, thoughtfully.

  The cats screeched again and the ducks kept quacking.

  William glanced at the cages. "I certainly wish you had brought just rabbits."

  "It is a dreadful lot of noise, isn't it? I'm terribly sorry. I feel so sorry for them." Dismas chose that moment to screech so loudly the sound rang through her teeth.

  William cursed almost as loudly and stood, scowling.

  She grabbed his leg. "Don't hurt him. Please. He's only frightened."

  He gave her a puzzled look, then stiffened as if she besmirched his honor. "I do not kill animals," he said through a tight jaw. "Tempting though it may be this night." With that he stalked out of the shelter into the driving rain.

  Linnet watched, stunned, as William brought the cages two at a time over to the shelter of the trees. He stacked them, one atop another in neat rows, then trudged back out into the rain to get the tent and drape it over the cages. She was stunned to move. This gruff and oft times angry man, a hardened warrior, was doing something she was certain no other man would do for her. He was giving comfort and protection to her pets.

  He strode back through the rain and the mud to their shelter. He must have read her thoughts because he stopped suddenly, his expression as chagrined as if she had just seen him naked. Head down, he busied himself by retying the halter leads to the tree branches and adjusting the blankets which didn't need adjusting.

  She bit back a smile, then walked over to him and gently touched his arm. "William?"

  He stared down at her. His black hair was plastered to his head and neck. Rainwater dripped from his brows, nose, and chin and from his clothing, even from that earring.

  "Thank you."

  He looked away.

  She just stood there.

  He jerked the corner of the blanket tightly over the limb of a tree, then stopped and said gruffly, "I couldn't take the racket any longer."

  "I understand." She gave his arm a pat and turned around. She could feel his stare, yet she walked back and sat down, repaying him by leaving him alone with his embarrassment. But she felt her heart beat a little faster and a small smile of satisfaction tickled the corners of her mouth. His actions told her more about him than all the bard's tales and servants' rumors ever could. Beneath his barbaric looks, beneath the gruff and hard mercenary edges he showed the rest of the world, was truly a kind and gallant man.

  Chapter Seven

  The road had turned to mud that was thick as oat porridge and slowed their progress. The pack mules balked and brayed when the mud became deep and the cats didn't like being jostled. William was on his own crusade, determined to rectify his past mistakes and reach the town of Wakefair by nightfall. Eventually the dirt road became rocky and drier, the mud only in ravines that dropped down from the highway.

  They had been traveling for most of the day when the red knight appeared. Like the black knight he sat upon a heavy warhorse with plain trappings and both his shield and plume were red. The visor of his helm was already down, in challenging position. He had no lance, only a sword, and he was blocking the narrow road.

  William turned in his saddle. "Ride back to the center of the caravan! And woman!"

  "Aye?"

  "Do as I say this time!" He drew his sword and turned back.

  T
he red knight charged.

  William spurred his mount forward.

  Seconds later they met on the narrow section of highway, met with a clash of sword blades, the power of which sent a familiar ringing up William's sword arm. He fought hard, but the knight's warhorse was hands higher than his smaller mount. His arm was fast tiring for trying to outmaneuver.

  The red knight sliced his sword downward. William kicked his foot out and knocked the knight from his horse. The man landed on the edge of the roadway. William leapt from his own mount, then smacked its hindquarter and sent it charging up the road. Sword raised, he rounded the man's warhorse. The red knight had managed to stand and move from the narrow shoulder that separated road from ravine. A muffled curse came from inside the man’s helm.

  The knight raised his sword . . .

  . . . And Linnet screamed.

  William froze and turned. The knight knocked his sword from his hand. William whipped around, a vile curse on his tongue.

  The knight was ready. His mailed foot shot out. With the force of a catapult, he kicked William square in the belly and he doubled over and saw stars. A second later he tumbled backward and down the ravine.

  Jagged rocks jabbed his shoulders, his back, his legs. He grunted. Bracken and sharp roots scratched his face and neck. He curled into a tight ball to keep from catching a limb and breaking bones.

  Down he fell, faster and farther. Down, over more sharp granite edges and rough thorny bushes. Down until a mud pit stopped him. He lay there, mud oozing around him, the world spinning, and more stars than Linnet could count shooting past his vision. He didn't move for the longest time. He took one breath, then another, very slowly.

  "William?" She was looking down from the edge of the roadside.

  He opened his mouth.

  "William, please. Answer me!"

  He tried to speak. A moan came out.

  "William? I'm coming down there."

  "No!" he croaked.

  Too late. Her muddy slippers crept over the edge and an instant later she was sliding down the hill on her backside, a fall of flaming red hair flying out behind her. "Ouch!"