“I’ve no coin,” she announced as they entered Chesterfield. The way she said it and the set of her mouth told him that the money she had sent to her sister was the last she had. “I must earn some while we are here.”
His assertion that she need not do so, as he still had a little left from the long-ago sale of the hawk, was politely disregarded. He watched her eyes light up at the sight of an old man selling meat pies, then was amused to hear her quiz the man on his method of cooking them. It seemed to meet her approval in the end, and she said she would return to buy some once she had found a place to sell one of her knives.
Gryff saw her touch one of the blades on her forearm. He had seen her touch them in moments of idleness, her fingertips rubbing over the letter stamped at the base when she was lost in thought. She cherished them, and she had already lost one on this journey.
“Would you trade a pie for entertainment?” he asked the old man suddenly.
That was how they found themselves, an hour later, with a crowd of onlookers placing bets on what the fair maiden could hit with her knife. She did not like it as much as she had when she’d shown her skill in the privacy of Hal’s yard, but she did not object. Gryff was careful to stay close to her, gathering all her winnings into a basket he bought for the purpose. He kept it in easy view so that she might say when she had enough.
In the end, there was a small pile of coins, food enough to last them a week, and a few too many admirers for her comfort, or his. Only one man was fool enough to reach out for her as she walked away, his voice urging her to stay while his eyes held a greedy, lecherous look. Gryff moved swiftly between them and stamped his boot on the man’s foot. His own hands were full, but he would drop everything if he must and take up the knife at his belt. He did not need to do more than look at him for a long, hard moment before the man slunk away.
“Will you teach me that?” asked Nan as they walked away from the market. She had pulled a meat pie from the basket and was licking the juice of it from her lips.
“Teach what?” he asked, attempting to tear his attention from her lips. He seemed to spend most of his days pleasantly distracted by the sight of her mouth, and his nights more than distracted by the feel of it.
“The way you looked at him.” She said it with her mouth full, and swallowed before continuing. “You looked like the king himself, and would throw him in a tower or have his head on a pike. But it’s calm-like, not full of temper.”
His father had had that look, and his grandfather too – the eye of Arawn, they called it in his family, likening their belligerent pride to the pagan god of the Welsh underworld, gathering souls with a glance. He almost said as much to her, almost told her how the bard had stood beside the great open hearth and sung the legend of Arawn, how his brother Owain had loved it best of all the poems, how Gryff was the only one of his brothers who did not quail when their father gave that fabled look.
He did not say any of it. They were dead. He could never be that person again.
He knew she thought him a falconer, like Hal, employed by some wealthy household before misfortune landed him here. There was no reason to tell her otherwise. It was the only thing he would be, from now on. Just a simple falconer, and not even one of great status such as Hal was.
“Can it not be taught, Welshman?” she asked with a grin, before taking another bite of her meal.
She never called him by his name. To her he was only Welshman, and each time she said it, his heart felt lighter. A simple Welshman, safe from anyone who would throw him in a tower.
“I think me your defenses are more use than any look,” he assured her. “The sight of your blade is enough to drive away all but the most witless.”
They gave a coin to a man who let them shelter for the night in a loft above his granary and Gryff counted himself witless when she bared her body to him, wrapped her legs around him, but would not set down her blade. Her fist stayed closed on the silver knife, though it stayed in its sheath and she never held it to him after that first night. He had begun to dream of the day she would let it go, and take off the dagger that hung from her neck as well. It became entwined with the vision of her in Aderinyth, as though he need only to bring her there and her doubt and distrust would melt away.
In the morning, they made their way to the crossroads outside of town. They could continue west through the rolling hills and dales and reach Wales in as little as a week. Or they could follow the southern road, travel much farther, moving southwest until they crossed into Wales closer to his home.
He still did not know where she intended to go – only that it was north of Aderinyth, and so the western path was hers, the shorter path. He could ask her destination, but somehow the words would not pass his lips. They stood at the crossroads without speaking, the heavy basket of provisions slung over his shoulder.
He would follow her, to wherever she journeyed. He could make his way to Aderinyth from there. Without her, if he must.
“Will we go south now, or later?” she asked.
In all their journeying, she had never asked him this. She only chose the road silently, leading him by hidden ways to where he wished to go. Now she stood very still, her eyes trained on the ground, a delicate color high on her cheeks.
“South?” he echoed.
“To Aderinyth. There is coin enough to last the journey now. If you want... If you would have me come there.”
He dropped the basket and kissed her, relishing the sound of satisfaction and relief that came from her. He remembered himself in time to keep from devouring her right there. She was so fierce that he forgot sometimes how small she was, how easy it was to overwhelm her slight form. But now she kissed him back, her hands holding his face.
“Home,” he said, smiling against her lips. “Aye, I would have you there.”
Chapter Eighteen
He knew such joy could not last forever, but he never expected it to falter before nightfall, nor shatter within a day.
They did not journey far from Chesterfield, but found a place off the southern road long before night fell. At his request, she showed him how to throw his eating knife. He had asked mostly because he wanted to hear her voice more, and thought she must speak to instruct him. He was right.
“My wrist,” she said, as his hand moved slowly down her forearm. He stood behind her as she took aim at a tree only a few paces away. “It’s my wrist you’re to feel as I throw, not the rest of me.”
She was half-amused, half-exasperated. She took the study seriously and expected the same of him. He put his fingers lightly around her wrist and felt it as she threw – a sharp snap, very contained, that he thought would take a thousand hours of study to learn.
Three times she threw, instructing him to watch not the knife but her arm and how it moved. It was not a graceful movement, nor was it graceless. It was powerful and swift and smooth. It was as beautiful as she was.
When she brought the knife back from where it had landed in the tree, she gave it to him and stood behind him. She put her hand on his so she could guide it in its aim and stood on her toes, her breath against his ear.
“The feel of it as it leaves your hand – take note of it,” she said. “You’ll know if you’ve done right by how it feels.”
He threw. It didn’t feel like anything as it left his hand, but obviously he’d done it wrong. It hit the tree far off center and fell to the ground. She kissed the back of his neck lightly, causing a flare in his groin as she went to retrieve the knife. He was suddenly far less interested in his aim.
She had just handed the knife to him, looking at him with invitation in her eyes when Fuss came bursting through the tall grass between the rocks that hid them from the main road. The dog was barking frantically, but Nan did not seem alarmed. She stood still, her own dagger drawn in reflex, looking slightly disbelieving while Fuss ran a circle around her and then bounded back through the grass, barking all the while.
“Nan?” he asked, gripping the knife.
When a tall youth strode into the clearing, Nan rushed at him. The dagger fell to the ground as she jumped up to embrace him. Her arms were around him, and he hugged her tight, swung her around as a smile brighter than any Gryff had ever seen lit up her face. He blinked at it, adjusting to the plain fact that there was no danger here.
“What fortune is this?” cried the youth. Not truly a boy, but only barely a man. He was tall and fair and full of joy. He planted an exuberant kiss on her cheek, and then another and another. Gryff waited for her to pull a blade and gut him, but she only kept hold of him and, incredibly, buried her face in his neck.
“Who journeys with you, Nan, or will I have to discover his name myself?”
His voice matched his clothes: wealthy and noble. He could have come straight from the king’s court, this handsome boy who was allowed to squeeze her tight in his arms and pick her up without warning. She did not shy from his touch, or stiffen, or require any careful approach.
Gryff felt his heart shrivel with envy. Then he heard her reply, a soft murmur against the stranger’s cheek.
“He’s my Welshman.”
She pulled back, and the boy put her down but did not let go. She turned to Gryff, smiling shyly now.
“This is Robin,” she said. “Robin Manton.”
Gryff thought most men would find it difficult to dislike Robin Manton. He was warm and courteous, never brash or boastful, and eager to please. Fuss adored him as much as Nan clearly did, which spoke well to his character and made Gryff exceptionally churlish.
Robin’s horse, a fat and docile rouncey, was brought behind the tall stones that hid them from the road. Robin was coming from a tournament and had stopped in Chesterfield this afternoon, planning to carry on his journey after a good meal. “But a man at the market did say the fairest maid he had ever seen paid for her supper with her knives, only yesterday.” He smiled broadly. “In faith, I knew it must be you even before he told me you split a reed at forty paces.”
He had ridden south, reasoning she was headed for Morency and wondering why she was so far from Lincoln. Fuss, who had been keeping guard over their hiding spot, saw Robin on the road below, ran to greet him, and now they must share their evening with this boy who sat so close to Nan that their knees touched. Gryff attempted to glare his disapproval at the dog for this betrayal, but Fuss was too busy staring worshipfully at the newcomer.
“But wherefore do you wander so far from Lincoln?” Robin asked her, with a sidelong glance toward Gryff. “What of your travels to Wragby and your business there? And where is Sir Gerald?”
“Injured by knaves who attacked halfway to Lincoln, and I must leave him to heal at a priory.”
She said nothing about having met Gryff, nothing about her aunt or her sister, nothing about why she was here instead of on the road between Lincoln and Morency. Instead of pressing for answers, a perplexed Robin only looked at her intently, observing her stillness and her downcast eyes for a long moment. Gryff held his breath and prayed the boy would not ask what had happened at Lincoln. Anyone could see she did not want to speak of it. All the sweet contentment that had been in her for days was draining away as she sat silent in the face of his curiosity.
Gryff opened his mouth, prepared to say anything to deflect the questions, but Robin moved. He simply touched the back of Nan’s hand, barely a brush of his fingertip, to draw her attention. When she met his eyes, he gave the ghost of a nod. His voice was light as he asked, “You have sent word to Morency that you will be delayed in your return?”
This casual change of subject endeared him to Gryff. He would think of what it meant later, that this boy could understand her silence and communicate without words. Right now he was only relieved to see the tension leave Nan.
“Aye, I asked the prioress at Broadholme to send word.” She looked at Gryff, a faint smile briefly chasing across her face. “But now I’ll be going another place, and should send a new message.”
Gryff smiled back at her, vaguely wondering how it was that a servant had such freedom in where she may go and how long she may be away from her duties. He might have asked, but Robin burst into a fresh grin of delight and said, “You must come to the manor at Whitting with me, then! Is but a few hours from here on foot, a message can be sent from there.”
“Whitting?” Gryff asked sharply. “Whose manor is that?”
“It is one of Uncle Rob’s holdings,” the boy said to Nan, who looked delighted at this news. He explained to Gryff, “My uncle is Robert de Lascaux, the lord of Darian.”
He kept explaining, saying it wasn’t truly his uncle but a friend of his father’s who was dear enough to be family, while Gryff ran the names through his memory. He could not recall a lordship of Darian at all, which meant it must be a small place and a very minor lord. The name de Lascaux meant little to him, unless this uncle was related to the man who commanded a force in the Aquitaine – and if he was, Gryff could not remember ever meeting that man or anyone of that family. He was sure he had never heard of Whitting.
“You must come! There will be soft beds for you both, and a hot bath,” Robin said, his eyes dancing with excitement. “And if the time is right I think me there may be something even better than all that. Better even than pork pies,” he assured Nan. “Though I know you will say there is naught can be better than a good pork pie.”
To Gryff’s intense gratification, Nan looked at him briefly before blushing prettily and saying perhaps they would go to Whitting tomorrow, but for now they should eat something. She busied herself in searching through the basket for the best offerings, while Gryff felt the boy’s curious eyes on him.
As the evening wore on, it became plain that these two knew each other from Morency, that Robin was squire to its lord. Gryff would have asked him more, including why a squire went to tourney without his lord, but he was afraid of saying too much and revealing his familiarity with that world. Instead they spoke of hawking, a subject about which Robin was almost as passionate as the sword. It was a safe topic, except for the moment when the boy said his father had once owned a peregrine of Aderinyth, the best-trained bird he’d ever seen.
Gryff could feel Nan look at him when the word was spoken. When Gryff only replied that it was well known that the best falcons and falconers came from Aderinyth, she no doubt took it as modesty. Perhaps he need not hide it. There was nothing wrong with being a common man from Aderinyth, after all, and this boy would only know him as that.
The light was failing, and Robin was saying he must stay awake and keep guard because of the horse. Nan insisted they must take it in turns, that he would take the first watch and must wake her halfway through the night so she may take the second.
“How easily you command me! You peck at me as a wife pecks at her husband,” Robin teased her with a laugh. He turned to Gryff like it was a fine jest. “She could be my wife, you know. I asked her years ago and she refused me. My heart yet bears the wound.” He turned back to Nan with a wide grin. “You may still say yes, Nan, never will I disclaim the offer.”
“You were a boy. And I know my place, even do you not know your own.” She was cleaning the mud from her boots, and did not look up from her task. She did not laugh. “You’ll find a good lady soon enough, worthy of your name and estate.”
After that, he bid Gryff good night and went to keep watch by his horse. Nan went with him, and Gryff could hear their whispering at the edge of the clearing for what felt like hours. He could make out no words, but it was her voice as much as his. It seemed to go on and on, more than she had ever spoken to Gryff. He tried not to think of the dagger she wore over her heart, and how the symbol on it looked very much like the letter R.
He lay awake and reminded himself that they had made no promises to each other, spoken no vows. They had barely spoken at all, and it had not seemed to matter until now. But it did matter – of course it did – that before he had ever met her, she had had a life and a purpose, people she cared for. So many things she must
leave behind if she were to come with him to Wales. For himself, he left little behind but danger. And there was little that would greet him – no family, no lands, no name he could claim.
She came to him finally, a quiet and careful step, and knelt beside him.
“I must go with Robin to the manor tomorrow,” she said low. “Will you come? We need not stay the night there.” She spoke Welsh, but he did not answer. Her hand brushed against his shoulder and rested there. “I know you wake, Welshman.”
He tried to imagine watching her walk away with the handsome, smiling Robin, disappearing into a manor while he waited sullenly to see if she returned to him.
“I will go whither you go,” he said at last. “If you do truly want me with you.”
Her hand moved to cup his throat, her thumb stroking his jaw for a long moment of silence.
“Robin is my bosom friend, since he was a child. He is like a brother to me. You need not fear I have any secret desire for him.”
He wanted to pull her down onto him, to feel her hair spill free between their naked bodies and kiss her, make her gasp with pleasure until she forgot everything but him. He hated that he could not.
“And if he has a secret desire for you?”
“He does not.” There was laughter behind her words, as though she found the idea absurd. But she sensed his doubt. She spread her fingers over his cheek as she leaned over him and said, “Think you I would not if know he lusted me? Think you I could be easy with him if he did? Have sense, Welshman.”
Like a fog lifting, the doubt left him. Never would she be so free with Robin – embracing him, allowing his nearness, smiling as he greeted her with kisses – if there was even the chance he felt more than brotherly toward her. She whispered a good night and brushed her lips softly against Gryff’s before retreating to sleep a short distance from him.
Somehow he slept, and in the morning they walked to Whitting. It was only two hours, and Gryff might have forgotten to worry about what awaited them there if not for Robin, whose every manner suggested anticipation of a great surprise. Something even better than pork pie, he had said last night, and Gryff could not fathom what it might be.
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