A Knight to Remember: Good Knights #2

by Christina Dodd

  They closed ranks and walked him toward his newly resurrected camp. The usual marital congratulations seemed inappropriate when the bride had abandoned the groom, and Hugh understood that. “Come, men,” he called. “Let us go speak together.”

  “My lord.” Hugh’s squire, a young Welsh boy of thirteen by the name of Dewey, took Hugh’s hand and kissed it fervently in a gesture of respect and relief. “We despaired of your life until Wharton arrived to reassure us of your good health.”

  “It was not my time to die yet.” Hugh freed his hand, then ruffled the lad’s hair. Turning, he glanced over the group. “Where’s Morven?”

  Dewey sighed and kicked the ground, and Hugh rubbed his forehead. “He was too young for such a fate. And Sir Ramsden?”

  Dewey shook his head dolefully.

  “A seasoned warrior, lost to us now.” Hugh was well aware of the gap Sir Ramsden’s death would leave in his small band. No one worked with the horses better than Sir Ramsden, and he had been a faithful companion for many years.

  The youthful squire Morven hadn’t been with them long enough to make an impression, but if anything Hugh mourned him the more. Sir Ramsden had lived a full life and had died with a sword in his hand. Morven had been nothing but a lad, all gangly legs and jutting arms, and Hugh muttered, “I should have worked with him more.”

  Dewey heard him, for he quickly replied, “Nothing could have saved him, my lord. Three seasoned knights attacked him. I tried to reach his side but was too late.”

  “Three knights?” Hugh’s strides lengthened. “Why would they bother? The lad had nothing for them to steal.”

  Sir Philip, new in Hugh’s troop but a seasoned warrior nonetheless, answered. “They attacked because he stung them like a persistent wasp, keeping them at bay when they would have taken your fallen carcass.”

  Dewey turned on Sir Philip with a hiss, but the knight lifted his hand to silence him. “The lord had to know. He would mourn Morven more if he thought he had died a useless death than to know he died for love of Lord Roxford.”

  Lord Roxford. That was he, although Hugh wanted to look around and see this lord of whom everyone spoke. He was new to this earl-homage and found it still staggered him on occasion.

  “In sooth,” he said, “Sir Philip is right. It helps ease the grief of his death to know the lad died helping our cause.” Yet still he remembered Morven’s big worshiping eyes following him everywhere, and he wished he’d left the lad with his mother. True, there had been nothing but poverty and starvation ahead of them, but at least Morven wouldn’t now be rotting in the ground. “You did get him buried?”

  “Aye, my lord. I took care of it myself,” Sir Philip answered.

  Another lad trudged with them, and Hugh called to him. “How did you fare in the battle, Wynkyn?”

  “’Twas magnificent, my lord.” His words were hardy but his tone faint.

  Hugh lifted an eyebrow at Dewey.

  “It made him vomit.” Dewey answered the unspoken question.

  Intercepting the nasty glance Wynkyn sent Dewey, Hugh asked, “Is that all? In my first battle, I sweated so much from fear I lost my grip on the sword and almost slashed off my own leg.”

  “I couldn’t sleep for nights after my first battle.” Sir Philip grimaced and smoothed his gray hair off his forehead. “I kept hearing the screams of the wounded, and I hated the crunch the horses’ hooves made when they stepped on the bodies.”

  Hugh’s chief adviser, Sir Lyndon, had made his way to Hugh’s side, and he smiled with all his considerable charm. “Ah, to me it is the sweet sound of battle.”

  “Really?” Hugh shuddered. “I still hate that.”

  Wynkyn paled. “Does it get better? The abomination of it, I mean.”

  Walking over to the lad, Hugh wrapped his arm around Wynkyn’s neck and tugged him off-balance while ruffling his hair. “It’s always dreadful, but somehow you get used to it. Unless it’s really a bloody battle, of course. Then you’re back puking your guts up.”

  He released Wynkyn. The lad would do. His father, the earl of Covney, had been concerned that Wynkyn’s dreamy air would shatter at the first taste of combat, but Wynkyn had held up well and Hugh would send a letter of reassurance to the earl.

  Forgetting Wynkyn, he looked at the looming fabric walls of his tent with fierce gratification. He had feared he’d lost it when he disappeared from the battlefield, but here it was. He’d seen chambers in a palace with less room than his tent, but on the frequent occasions when it rained and the wind blew cold, he hosted strategy sessions for his whole troop. He kept a table, camp stools, his camp bed, and trunks filled with blankets and clothes for the squires should they need them, which as boys they frequently did.

  Sir Lyndon stepped beneath the black felt roof that protected the entrance and held the flap back invitingly. “Would you care to rest while you await the return of your bride?”

  “Nay. I would have refreshment while you recount all you know of the battle past and give me your reports of our enemy’s movements.” Hugh needed to know, and besides, he couldn’t rest until he had Edlyn within his grasp again.

  Sir Lyndon tied back the flap. “When you disappeared during the battle, we were discomfited, my lord, and I fear we failed to guard your possessions as we should. After the battle, marauders stole much from you, but I would offer my own camp bed for your comfort. It will be better than the hard floor.”

  “My thanks, Sir Lyndon, but of what use is a narrow cot to a newly married man?” Hugh accepted a goblet of ale from Dewey and swallowed the liquid in one long gulp, ignoring Sir Lyndon’s lifted brow. He knew what Sir Lyndon thought—that a warrior should have better control over his wife. But while he had long treasured Sir Lyndon’s advice in battle or siege, he remembered the pale, beaten aspect of Sir Lyndon’s wife and the suspicious aspects of her death, and he dismissed any claim Sir Lyndon might make about domestic peace. “Dewey will instead make us a wide pad of skins and blankets on the floor.”

  Sir Lyndon snapped his fingers and Dewey hurried to obey.

  Hugh settled himself on a camp stool outside in the shade of his tent’s overhang. From here he could watch for Edlyn’s return. Around him, squires placed stools according to each knight’s rank and the confidence Hugh held in him, and his knights seated themselves.

  There was a general clearing of throats, then Hugh, earl of Roxford, demanded an accounting of his men.

  “They fought like demons, my lord, especially when they thought you were dead.” Sir Lyndon flexed his hand as if he recalled the agony of holding a sword for too long. “But actually, ’twas all to the good, for de Montfort’s men overextended themselves and we were able to divide the army and conquer those who didn’t flee.”

  Hugh sipped from his refilled goblet and looked at Sir Philip. “We took hostages?”

  “Aye, and shipped them off to the prince for justice after stripping them of their armor and horses.” Sir Philip smiled, well pleased with their haul. “We’ve distributed the wealth evenly, my lord, and left you what we thought you would desire. Should you decide differently, we’ll give up whatever you wish.”

  Hugh smiled, too. His years as a landless knight had given him an appreciation for the tradition of stripping defeated foes of their belongings. Many was the time he’d eaten off the money he’d made selling knightly trappings back to his enemies after a tournament or battle. This time, no such offer was made. Those who fought for Simon de Montfort had given up their rights to their property. And some, like the earl of Jagger, had given up their lives.

  Hugh glanced toward the forest not far from the tent. Where was she? How long would she sulk? She wouldn’t keep him waiting too long, surely; the sun rapidly approached its nadir, and night in the woods was a fearsome experience.

  “We missed your leadership on the battlefield,” Sir Lyndon said. “If not for your early wisdom in planning our maneuvers, we would have been sore pressed after you were wounded.”

  Hu
gh didn’t answer. He didn’t like Sir Lyndon’s barrage of compliments. He didn’t like that their friendship had changed from one between equals to one between superior and supplicant. When Prince Edward stripped Edmund Pembridge of both his title and his castle and bestowed them on Hugh, Sir Lyndon had begun to regard Hugh with an eye toward profit. Hugh found it disconcerting to be viewed as a cow to be milked.

  “Who escaped the battle?” he asked.

  “Richard of Wiltshire and his party of mercenaries.” Sir Lyndon spit on the ground after saying that name. “Baron Giles of Cumberland. And the clan Maxwell.” He would have spit again, but he knew better.

  “The clan Maxwell,” Hugh repeated. He didn’t say so, but he was glad they had escaped.

  “I can’t understand what they were doing fighting on English soil.” Sir Lyndon dared to grumble.

  Hugh grunted. “They’re Scottish, aren’t they? The Scottish love to see the English fight among themselves, because the Scottish always make a profit off our wars. And why shouldn’t the Maxwell take sides? If the prince wins and the king is freed, they can retreat over the border into Scotland and live off the plunder they’ve taken. If de Montfort wins, they’ll have the pick of any loyal English lord’s castle.”

  “You consorted with them, didn’t you?” Sir Lyndon said.

  “After they captured me in battle, I lived in Scotland for almost a year,” Hugh acknowledged.

  Swept by curiosity, Dewey didn’t realize that a squire should never interrupt. “Did someone ransom you, or did you escape?”

  “Neither.” Hugh looked each man in the face as he answered. “They let me go.”

  Sir Philip stared in fascination. He hadn’t been with them long enough to have heard this story. But Sir Lyndon avoided Hugh’s gaze. Hugh’s year with the Maxwells occurred before they met, and Sir Lyndon seemed to wish Hugh would forget it—or, at least, stop talking about it.

  But Dewey pressed for an explanation. “The Scots let you go? I thought the Scots are barbarians who roast their captives if they can’t make a profit off of them.”

  “So they are,” Hugh agreed. “Although I never saw anyone roasted, they do make slaves of their unransomed captives.”

  Dewey knelt by Hugh’s stool. “They made you a slave?”

  “And made me turn the grindstone in their mill,” Hugh said. “I was chained, and the man in charge told me I was better than a horse and dumber than an ox.”

  “He thought you were dumb?”

  Dewey didn’t wonder about the “better than a horse” part, Hugh realized, and that was a tribute to his strength. “Aye, he thought I was dumb. That was his first mistake. Letting me off the chain to fight in their championships was his second. I beat everyone there, and when the laird took me into his castle, the miller found himself buying an ox.”

  Dewey’s eyes bulged. “Then what happened?”

  “I served the Scottish lord—Hamish Maxwell, by name—until I rendered him such service he let me go.” Hugh’s men shuffled their feet and cleared their throats, embarrassed for him that he had served such a lowly creature as a Scottish lord. Hugh didn’t care. To Dewey, he said, “That is why, to this day, I can speak Scottish, eat haggis, and sing every clan song from start to finish. ’Tis good to know your enemies, Dewey—never forget that.”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  “Now,” Hugh said, “I smell meat roasting, and I’ve had too little of that this last moon. Would you bring me something to eat?”

  Dewey jumped to his feet, chagrined that he’d had to be nudged into doing his duty. “As you wish, my lord. We’ve put together a wedding feast for you and your new lady.”

  As the squire disappeared toward the fires set among the tents, Sir Lyndon said, “Too bad your new wife isn’t here to share in it.”

  Hugh ignored his counselor and looked again to the woods. Had he made a mistake by letting her go? Would pride make her stay longer in the forest than was wise? She’d already demonstrated an overabundance of regard for the wisdom of her actions.

  In sooth, he could depend on Wharton to watch over her.

  “So the rumors are true.” Sir Philip combed his beard with his fingers. “You lived with the Scots. Are they truly the barbarians of legend, or are they nothing more than superb fighting men?”

  Hugh grinned at Sir Philip’s choice of words. “Nothing more than superb fighting men,” he said. “Before you go into battle against them, have the priest give you last rites and pray you don’t need them.”

  “I always do, my lord. I always do.”

  Hugh studied Sir Philip. He was a quiet man, older, and at his age nothing could make him Hugh’s best fighting knight. He had lost his youthful quick reflexes and he had only one eye. Yet Sir Philip still lived, he still fought, and Hugh had come to treasure his thoughtful advice, both before and after battle. Hugh needed to raise Sir Philip’s status in the hierarchy of his knights, but for now he said only, “Where have the enemy retreated?”

  Sir Philip opened his mouth, but Sir Lyndon hastened to reply first. “The barons who support Simon de Montfort scattered. De Montfort himself is in the area of his stronghold at Kenilworth. Most of the others have moved to the north. Richard remains close—he’s besieging Castle Juxon.”

  “I told Juxon to strengthen his defenses. I hope he listened,” Hugh said dispassionately. The earl of Juxon was the kind of nobleman he most disliked. Juxon had been born with lands and through his own negligence allowed them to fall into ruin. He squawked loudly that the prince should protect him since he had remained loyal, yet he sent less than the minimum of knight service he owed while he lounged in his great hall impregnating his serving girls. Nay, he’d get no assistance from Hugh, who’d got his winnings the hard way.

  “Easy pickings.” Sir Lyndon dismissed Castle Juxon. “Richard is the most ruthless mercenary I’ve ever had the misfortune to face, and the earl—he’s a fool.”

  “I’ll not argue with you there.” A movement at the edge of the forest brought Hugh to his feet. Wharton approached at a run, and Wharton wouldn’t run for less than an emergency.

  Shoving Lyndon aside, Hugh met Wharton just outside the circle of his knights. Wharton panted in huge gasps, his great chest working like a bellows. “Master…master…they’ve got her.”

  Hugh grew cold at the ragged note of panic in Wharton’s voice, and he wrapped his hands around Wharton’s arms. “Who’s got her?”

  “Thieves. Rogues. Mercenaries. Got her. Took her. Headed south.”

  Hugh dropped Wharton as if he were a cold-blooded snake. Captured? Edlyn was captured? Impossible! She was a woman under his protection, and he would never have failed so fully.

  “Master.”

  But he had. Fear exploded in his chest. His fingers tingled with it, his head swelled.

  “Master.”

  And rage—God’s glove, how he wanted to bellow his rage, to paw the ground and charge off after her.

  “Master.”

  Hugh looked down at Wharton.

  “Ye may slit me throat fer failure, if ye wish.”

  At the sight of Wharton’s bared neck, Hugh gained control. Bellowing, pawing the ground, giving vent to his emotions would accomplish nothing. His men all stood now, staring at Wharton and at him, prepared to go to battle on his command. They’d done it before, this sudden preparation to attack or defend, and they all understood what Hugh would do, and their duty, without words.

  As confidently as if emotion had never touched him, Hugh said, “Let’s go rescue my lady, then.”

  They stirred into motion. Someone gave Wharton a drink and his stool while Dewey and Lyndon—usually it was Dewey and Wharton—brought Hugh his hauberk and weapons and prepared him for battle. Someone had gone to get his destrier, too, he knew, and the thought of settling into the saddle of that mad warhorse calmed him as nothing else could do.

  But when they brought him his gentle traveling palfrey instead, he found the rage had not retreated so very far. In
a tight, controlled voice, he asked, “What do you expect me to do with that?”

  “Can’t ride a destrier where we’re goin’,” Wharton said. His breath had been restored, but he kept his message brief. “Anyway, we lost your Devlin during the battle.”

  “Dead?” Hugh demanded.

  “Aye, master.”

  Another strike against the rebels. Devlin had been the best destrier he’d ever owned, and he wanted to catch the worms who had murdered his magnificent beast. But since he couldn’t, he would take out his ire on the men who had dared steal his wife.

  His wife. His fists clenched. Edlyn.

  As soon as Dewey had finished belting the sword around Hugh’s waist, Hugh said, “Follow me, then, for I’m going to rip the hearts out of these renegades with my bare hands, and their bloody carcasses will warn all men not to ever steal a woman for fear she is my wife.”

  The fire flickered in the clearing, burning bright in spite of the mist of rain that had descended with the night. Hugh crept through the underbrush, climbed over boulders, every sense on the alert, and focused on that one light in the dense dark of the forest. There he would find his wife, and he feared for her fate with a deep and abiding fear.

  Would he find her raped by an endless parade of men who valued women less than sheep? Would he find her beaten, taken to task for her unending impertinence, and treated to the taste of a man’s brutal fist?

  Would he find her dead?

  Around him he could hear his men moving with him, but he had instructed them to stay back until he had rescued Edlyn. He wanted a chance to shield her from the stares of his men—and if it was too late, he wanted the chance to kill each and every one of the mercenaries responsible for her death.

  The clearing before him seemed unusually quiet for a camp of eight men. Wharton had reported that number, but a silence hung over the forest. Occasional moans sounded on the still air, and Hugh heard his men muttering as they reacted to the unearthly noises. These weren’t fairies. They weren’t anything he understood, but he didn’t care. He cared only about Edlyn.