Her Honorable Mercenary--A dramatic Medieval romance

by Nicole Locke

  ‘You ignored me, so that made it difficult to tell you anything.’

  She slapped him hard on the arm, and he held his arm as if injured, at the same time giving her a wide smile.

  ‘Tell me why,’ she demanded.

  ‘I thought you’d want to stay with your sister.’

  Because family was important to her and he knew that. How could she doubt him anymore?

  ‘I want to go. I do.’

  He wore that expression again, as if he couldn’t believe his good fortune.

  Taking his arm, she picked up the basket, now filled with chamomile to be dried. Maybe she could take some with her to her new home...

  Chapter Twenty

  Margery bumped along in the saddle, holding on for all she was worth. The sky, which had threatened all morning, finally gave up the rain it held. All at once. She swore her bones were wet.

  However, they’d were still climbing hills, and Evrart was determined to make their destination.

  She wouldn’t be concerned if it meant shelter, but she could see none in sight. Just a bunch of trees that steadily grew larger, until he led them under their expansive canopy while the rain pounded on the leaves and branches above.

  Her ears were still ringing, and it took her some time to realise that the rain no longer drowned her.

  Shoving off her hood, she marvelled. ‘What is this place?’

  He dismounted and helped her down. Stamping, her horse shook its head and splattered her with more rainwater.

  Grinning, Evrart moved her away from the beast. ‘Mulberry trees,’ he said. ‘They were once cultivated and trimmed, and now their leaves and branches provide cover.’

  ‘You knew this was here?’

  Nodding, he wandered underneath one. ‘I can stand under them—unlike your quince trees—and if the birds leave enough behind, I can usually find a few.’ He plucked some berries and held them out to her.

  She picked one, and he popped the rest in his mouth.

  ‘They’re delicious.’

  ‘The hills will ease soon as they slope to the river.’ He strode to the burdened horse—the one carrying their supplies.

  ‘I’m not so worried for the hills, but for the rain.’

  ‘The rain will end—the hills will not. This is as good a place as any to rest.’ He pulled at the bindings of one satchel.

  ‘You know this area well?’

  ‘We’re near to the abbey.’ He tossed the satchel to the side and began on another. ‘Most of our travelling will be easier as they’ve cultivated much of the land.’

  ‘There’s an abbey?’ she said, her teeth chattering despite the warmth of the day.

  ‘You’ll see it soon, and then it will always be in the distance. It may be as large as Warstone and its lands, and it’s near to my home. Let me get your cloak.’

  ‘No, I can do it.’ She was no better than the three horses waiting for Evrart to take care of them. Two to ride...one to carry their things to Evrart’s village.

  She still couldn’t believe she was going. Biedeluue hadn’t been surprised when she’d told her, but even though they’d spent years apart, for some reason their parting had been difficult. Still, it had been full of promises and love.

  Jeanne, on the other hand... She had her family at Warstone Fortress, and couldn’t leave, so they’d both cried until Margery had gone under the portcullis.

  Here she was about to cry again!

  Breathing deep, she tried to remember the good. The day was warm, at least, and her hands weren’t chilled. The cloak came free, but when she strode to hang it from the smallest tree, she couldn’t reach it.

  Evrart came up behind her and hung it on a branch. The rain had slicked back his longer locks, displaying his blunt features. His face was not refined, but brutal, the forehead wide, the jaw square. But those eyes...a bit more brown today than blue.

  Their clothes were saturated, and the smell of wet linen and wool, of damp leather and soaked horse permeated the air. But still she scented the man. Her Evrart.

  When he stood this clos she was more aware of his size, of how her eyes were at a level with his belly versus his chest. The expanse of both was twice or more than hers. His arms were heavy at his sides.

  This close, he was larger than a horse and more steep than any hill, and yet not once did she fear him. But she wanted him. Yet, she’d treated him so horribly, by ignoring him and then begging him to take her to his village. She didn’t want to beg or push him further.

  They were travelling to his home, but he had never made a declaration of love and certainly never said he’d marry her. She’d been trapped and forced to live one way by poverty, by her care for her family, and then by Ian. Now she was on her own and felt a bit lost.

  What did she know thus far?

  That Evrart was good...protective. That he’d said he had feelings for her. She was certain he hadn’t told her everything, but maybe he only needed time because he was quiet. And maybe her fears of being useless were merely present because of those last days at Warstone Fortress, when she’d found nothing to do.

  Perhaps her past and this feeling of being unworthy would dissipate the farther she got from it.

  Maybe she just wanted Evrart in any way she could for as long as he’d let her.

  Aware of his eyes on her, she cleared her throat. ‘Tell me of your family.’

  * * *

  Evrart blinked and stepped back. He had been certain Margery would kiss him. Or perhaps place one of her hands on his arm, indicating that she wanted to be kissed. Not talk of his family.

  ‘My father died suddenly in the field one day. My mother, Blanche, is much like me. I have two brothers older than I and a younger sister, Peronelle, who is a handful.’

  His had been a happy home. Not as happy as he wanted his own to be with Margery. If he was to have a home with her. He’d never pursued a woman before. It had been so natural when she’d attempted to show him colours. Easy because she’d touched him so much his body had given him no choice.

  Ever since he’d been nothing but a brute with her. Grabbing her and taking her kisses, desperate to keep her safe. And then she’d ignored him for days. In the garden he had hoped all was settled—except she’d asked only to travel to his home. She hadn’t said she cared for him and he didn’t know how to ask her to be his wife, and that he wanted it to be at his village, and not at Warstone. Though she travelled with him, there was a distance between them he didn’t know how to close.

  Turning away, he tended her horse. ‘It was a happy home.’

  ‘Then how...?’

  He looked over his shoulder at her. ‘How did I meet Ian?’ he offered.

  He’d been out in the field, tilling with oxen, when a procession on the nearby road had caused many of the children and the villagers to run out to greet it. Evrart had kept ploughing. With his back to the road, he hadn’t seen the lone rider gallop across the field.

  But when the horse had kicked up the mud and stones, he’d noticed. When he’d turned and seen the rows he’d carefully dug were destroyed, he’d noticed.

  ‘He came up on a nearby road, saw me, and made my family an offer we couldn’t deny.’

  His only attention on having to redo his work, Evrart had not immediately addressed the man on the destrier. But when a sword was pointed at his throat, he’d noticed that, too. Ian of Warstone hadn’t asked for loyalty in his employ, he’d taken it.

  ‘By threatening them.’

  Evrart nodded. That had been ten years ago. Ten years of hard training, first learning to become a squire and then to gain the skills of a knight. Evrart would never obtain knighthood. That was impossible, but Ian had always gloated he had the training of one.

  Years later, when they’d attended court, Evrart had realised how odd it was Ian did not have the usual guard. Years afte
r that, he had come to know why. Ian couldn’t threaten noble families as he had Evrart’s. He couldn’t force their loyalty. And no family with any decency or with any love of their children would allow those children to be raised by Warstones.

  No, he had been bought, sold, and with his mother and sister crying, he had entered into Warstone service.

  ‘What of your brothers? Were they not there to protect you?’ she asked.

  ‘Yter and Guiot were already gone. Else without a doubt Yter would have volunteered his services in my stead.’

  ‘He’s different from you?’

  ‘They are both as large as me. Yter was always restless, loved adventure, and played games only to win.’

  ‘Guiot?’

  ‘He studies things. To me there are rocks...to Guiot there are kinds of rocks.’

  ‘Are you close?’

  ‘I have not heard from them in many years. I have never learnt what you have Margery. I do not know letters or writing.’

  ‘I should not have learned either, but I... Well, when I did learn I taught my siblings with a stick and some earth. I could teach you. Perhaps Guiot has learnt by now.’

  Was this an indication that she wanted to stay with him? ‘I’d like that very much.’

  Margery looked at the sky, though she could see only a bit of grey. She was chilled, but not cold, and very little rain fell through the leaves. Some quick walking under the trees would dry her well enough.

  ‘Do you want more berries?’ he asked.

  ‘Is there more bread from this morning?’

  He nodded, and she went to the pack, dug around until she found the bread and dried meat and handed him some as well.

  ‘The rain is easing,’ she said.

  ‘We’ll go when it stops. The horses won’t be happy to be carrying packs in the rain.’

  ‘Is it much farther?’

  ‘A day—but with the rain, maybe it will take till tomorrow. You’ll see many buildings before we get to the centre of the village. My family is on the other side.’

  His village sounded larger than the one she’d grown up in. Perhaps in a bustling atmosphere there wouldn’t not be so many prying eyes. Maybe a large village meant there were more resources to pay taxes and there wasn’t the abject poverty of her village. If Evrart, who was good, came from there, then it must be good.

  ‘If it’s only days from Warstone Fortress, what protection does it have?’

  He shrugged. ‘Protection from the abbey—and, in truth, it’s between Warstone holdings.’

  ‘Between?’ More Warstones? More intrigue and betrayal? Would she ever escape danger?

  ‘Be at ease. At first, the Warstones didn’t own the lands. Once they did, they gave Ian the fortress and kept the other land for themselves. The Warstone parents aren’t often there, however.’

  ‘Could they be near now?’

  ‘We should not run into them on this road. I would not have risked it otherwise.’

  When she’d left her village, she hadn’t thought of risks. She hadn’t thought of matters that could be worse than having no food and a mother who hunched while walking. Instead, after Josse, with Roul, and especially with Ian, she’d made matters worse. She’d risked her sister’s life, sending that note asking for help.

  With Evrart, the risks would be lessened, but only if they were together.

  It might be too soon to think of them being together, but her heart couldn’t help but hope. He might not have said he loved her, but he had lain with her...he was taking her home to his family.

  ‘If they are spread too thinly, they’ll head to Philip’s court or Edward’s, to reinforce their losses. Certainly when it becomes known that Balthus wants to deed Warstone Fortress to Louve, a no-name, no-blood hired sword, they’ll be at court to contest it. Most likely they’ll travel to England.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Because Lord Warstone is English, and they have other matters afoot there.’

  Louve was English... ‘Is this something to do with why Louve was searching Ian’s chests?’

  Evrart tensed and rolled his shoulders. ‘How much do you know Margery?’

  After she’d apologised, her conversation had gone well with her sister, who had been saddened, but not surprised she wanted to leave.

  ‘Nothing—truly. Bied would tell me nothing, and I left it at that.’

  Not because she hadn’t wanted to know, but because Bied had said it would risk Louve. Margery hadn’t asked more. Bied loved Louve, and he loved her. Whatever she could do to protect her sister’s happiness, she would.

  ‘Louve truly won’t miss you?’ she asked.

  ‘I talked to him. If we stay in my village, I will need to travel at odd times and days to the fortress often. They can’t trust messages.’

  ‘Is this to do with Ian and...and that scroll in his hand?’

  ‘Everything to do with that.’

  ‘What is “everything”, Evrart?’

  He looked at her for so very long she didn’t know if he’d tell her. Then, ‘I may have been his guard, but I don’t know everything.’

  She immediately wanted to demand what he did know. But this was Evrart, and after her last questioning she’d vowed to trust him more. Could she let his answer stand? She knew this had something to do with Louve searching Ian’s rooms, but she’d let her sister not tell her. She wanted to fight it now, but was loath to lose this time they had today. And in truth, didn’t she have secrets of her past she hadn’t told him? Maybe patience was key for them both.

  ‘When you return to Warstone Fortress, will you give messages to my sister?’

  He gave a curt nod. ‘You truly are on better ground with her?’

  ‘We’re both stubborn, but she is my sister,’ she said. ‘The fortress will be odd, though, without an actual Warstone living there. Do you grieve for Ian?’

  Evrart exhaled roughly. ‘There were times, especially after he married Séverine and had his two boys, when I thought he would become a decent man. But after so much mistrust and betrayal, reason isn’t easy to hold on to. Guy was reported to be the cruellest of all. Reynold left early. And Balthus was much protected by his mother. I think, in the end, he let his wife and boys go to keep them safe.’

  ‘But she ran from him. He must have frightened her.’

  ‘He frightened most men.’

  ‘Ian talked in his sleep,’ she said. ‘He said he loved her still, but he also wanted to...’

  Evrart searched her eyes, and she let him see the answers there that she didn’t want to say. To love someone and yet want to harm them... To throw daggers at brothers and poison servants... She’d thought Josse was controlling, Roul cruel, but the Warstones and their intrigue were something she wanted no part of.

  Was she being a coward not demanding answers from Evrart? No, not now. She liked this peace between them. Liked it that she travelled with him and they were able to talk without the prying eyes of guardsmen or servants.

  She liked the way his dark brown hair was drying, the hacked-off pieces framing cheekbones and shoulders that were better suited to some mythical giant of old. But all she could envisage was Evrart’s impatience and a knife. She hoped before he cut his hair again he’d let her—

  What was she thinking?

  Pivoting, she strode past the horses. They were talking of Ian and his runaway wife, not of them being together. Not of how she could feel the way his hair grew, remember how it felt under her touch. How she wanted it all again.

  * * *

  Margery kept walking in a circle...around the trees, around the horses. Two of them didn’t pay her any mind, but the gentle palfrey kept eyeing her as if she would attack. Maybe she would. She had been uneasy since Ian’s death. Would that playful woman who had filled a basket with quinces return, or had he not protected her enough? Had
he told her too much of what had happened in the Great Hall?

  She wanted to know what Louve had searched for in Ian’s room. He suspected it had to do with the legend of the Jewell of Kings. Over the years he’d caught snippets of conversation between Ian and his parents...something of treasures needed. But he had been careful not to listen. That way lay death. He had been certain Ian would kill him if he’d realised he talked aloud of such matters.

  If Margery had come across Ian talking of it, it was a miracle she hadn’t been killed. Maybe in time they would know. After all, it seemed her sister knew—as did this Louve. But for him, he only wanted to protect Margery, and that meant her not knowing of Warstone matters.

  ‘The rain has ceased,’ he said. ‘We should leave.’

  She stopped her pacing, looked at him in a way he wished he could understand. ‘Could we get some more berries before we do?’ she asked.

  There was a tree that hadn’t been plucked clean. She dug in her satchel and pulled out some fabric wrapped in a circular band.

  ‘What’s that?’ He indicated it with his chin.

  ‘It’s a headdress.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘We have no baskets and I need something to carry the berries.’

  ‘Seems too fine. It’ll stain.’

  ‘My clothes are all too fine, and this I cannot wear in public. Roul—’ She stopped, frowned. ‘All that doesn’t matter. We can’t pour them into the satchels.’

  He eyed the contraption. ‘How many berries do you want?’

  ‘As many as you can find.’

  It was easy enough picking the berries, since he knew which of them would be ripe. It wasn’t easy having Margery at his side, holding up the head covering while he dropped in each find. He swore she purposely kept moving the stiffened fabric around to see if he’d miss.

  When she curved her lips, and turned quickly to the side, he determined to keep a better eye on her. Which proved complicated. For one, with the ceasing of the rain the sunlight was filtering through the leaves and casting her in different shades. The shadows played across the curve in her cheek, the fullness of her lips. The sunlight highlighted the fan of her lashes, the grace of her fingers twining around the silken fabric.