Knights of Valor

by Denise Domning

  In his right hand, he held a small wooden sword. Cornflower blue cloth, the scrap of silk Gisela had saved after cutting out some commissioned garments, was wrapped around the weapon's grip. She'd tied on the silk with great ceremony the other day—when she'd played the worried lady giving a good-luck token to Sir Ewan the Bold, moments before he'd marched off to defeat the kitchen chair in battle.

  Still unnoticed, she leaned back against the door, the bread secured under her arm. A wistful smile tugged at her mouth. A poignant ache coursed through her, for in that moment, she realized his father's hair had likely been that same hue when he was a child. He'd probably dueled with toy swords, too, with equal fervor.

  Ewan growled like a grumpy cat and lashed out with his sword.

  "Missed!" Ada stomped into view, her plump hand dwarfing the grip of another wooden sword. Her long black braid, streaked with gray, swished from side to side, while her broad face glistened with sweat. "'Tis thrice ye have missed me, little knight. How will ye save damsels and slay dragons?"

  On the last triumphant word, Ewan jumped forward and poked her apron-covered belly.

  "Oof!" Frowning, she said, "I shall get ye for that. I shall make ye quake in your boots, ye naughty little—" As though suddenly becoming aware of Gisela's presence, the woman straightened. Sweeping a hand over her girth, she blushed. "Um. . .'allo."

  Ewan's head swiveled. "Mama!" His face broke into a grin and he ran to her.

  She knelt on the dirt floor, catching him in a one-armed hug. Closing her eyes, she savored his snug, return embrace. "My, what a fierce fighter you are," she said.

  He drew back, his eyes sparkling. "Truly, Mama?"

  She winked. "Indeed."

  Raising his eyebrows, he looked over at Ada. "Can we fight again? Please?"

  Wiping her forehead with the corner of the apron, Ada chuckled. "'Tis time for ye ta sup, young knight."

  "Aw! But—"

  "Ada is right. If you eat now, you will be refreshed for more battles."

  Ewan pouted. He swung his sword from side to side. "I am not tired. Or hungry."

  Gisela smiled over at Ada. "You must not miss this special feast, given to honor the young knights. That would be a shame."

  Looking up at her, Ewan said, "What is served at this special feast?"

  Gisela placed a gentle hand upon his shoulder and steered him toward the battered kitchen table. "The finest cabbage pottage in the land."

  Ewan grimaced. "Ugh. Pottage is—"

  "—excellent for building a knight's strength," Ada said, bending over the iron pot steaming over the fire.

  "Especially when served with bread." Gisela set the loaf on the table, then tore off a chunk with her fingers. She offered it to Ewan.

  He shook his head. Grumbling under his breath, he slumped down on the bench drawn up to the table. His sword landed on the wood with a thud.

  "Now, now, Button." Gisela patted his arm.

  Bracing his elbows on the table, he scowled. "But, Mama—"

  "'Tis better than going hungry." She handed him the bread again. "There are children in this village who go to bed at night with naught in their bellies."

  Ignoring her outstretched hand, his thoughtful brown eyes gazed up at her. "Have you ever gone hungry?"

  Anguish shivered through Gisela. "I have."

  "When?"

  Memories too painful to draw out into the here and now—or to explain to a young child who could not possibly understand—threatened to break through the mental barricades she'd managed to build day by day, month by month. The clang of the ladle hitting the pot's side, followed by Ada's footfalls, provided a welcome distraction. "I will tell you another time," Gisela said. "Now, you must eat."

  Ewan sighed and snatched the bread from her fingers. He bit into it, just as Ada set an earthenware bowl filled with steaming pottage in front of him. Wrinkling his nose, he chewed his mouthful, while pulling at a fraying bit of the silk tied around his sword.

  With a grateful smile, Gisela looked at Ada. "Thank you for looking after Ewan today."

  Ada grinned back, revealing a slash of crooked teeth. "Me pleasure." Her smile wavered a little. "'E got a bit of a scrape on 'is arm, I fear, but 'tis not too bad."

  Ewan nodded as he tore off more bread with his teeth. "I cried."

  "Poor Button," Gisela murmured. "How did you get hurt?"

  A blush stained his cheekbones. Around a mouthful of chewed bread, he said, "I fell."

  "Tsk-tsk," Ada said.

  Ewan's flush deepened.

  "Fell from what?" Gisela resisted the motherly urge to panic. He hadn't looked hurt when she stepped into the home, so his injuries could not be too grave.

  "Go on. Tell yer mama." Warmth threaded through Ada's words. She obviously tried very hard not to laugh.

  Gisela quirked an eyebrow. "Tell me what happened."

  Ewan shrugged, then tugged up his right tunic sleeve. A purplish bruise, along with a small, scabbed cut, marked his arm above the elbow. "Ada pretended to be a mountain ogre. I was the knight sent by the king to climb the mountain and fight her."

  Covering her mouth to hide a smile, Gisela said, "Hmm?"

  Dropping his tunic sleeve, Ewan flicked his hand at the table. "I jumped up here and lunged with my sword . . ." He squirmed on the bench. "My foot slipped. I hit my arm on the corner of the bench when I fell."

  "We stopped playing mountain ogre after that," Ada added with a sheepish grin.

  Gisela smiled before sitting beside Ewan on the bench. "I am sorry you were wounded," she said, giving him a hug. "Yet, I have told you before not to stand on the table."

  His mouth tightened.

  "The fault is mine," Ada cut in. "I should have—"

  "Nay, Ada. Ewan knows what he is allowed to do, and what is forbidden."

  The little boy looked down at the table. He swallowed.

  "Please do not play on the table again, all right?"

  He continued to stare down at his pottage. He bit off another chunk of bread. As he chewed, rebellion tightened his shoulders.

  "Ewan." She pressed her hand over his small, white-knuckled one, clenched on the tabletop. "What if you had hit your head on the bench instead of your arm? I could not bear to see you injured."

  He blew out a long sigh, heavy with resentment. "All right, Mama."

  Gisela blinked moisture from her eyes. She well understood his frustrations, the sense of being constrained. How did she teach him that some risks were foolish and should be avoided, while others—like buying bread from the market—were necessary?

  Her son had such spirit. If only she could let him scamper outside with other children. However, unlike Ryle's sprawling manor house where Ewan was born, which was surrounded by a lush garden, the townhouse was situated in a poorer area of the town. It overlooked a street well-traveled by farmers with horse-drawn wagons, vagrants, and customers who visited her premises as well as the other nearby shops. 'Twas not safe for Ewan to play in the busy street.

  Moreover, the danger ran deeper. If Ryle or his cohorts saw him, they might snatch him. Or Ewan might inadvertently lead Ryle to this home. Then Ryle would see them both dead.

  Resisting her ever-present fear, Gisela rose from the bench to fetch a pot of salve from the table beside the two narrow pallets that were her and Ewan's beds. As she reached for the pot, she realized she still held Dominic's necklace. Now was not a good moment to inspect his gift.

  Tucking the necklace into a rip in her sleeve's hem, she fetched the salve and returned to Ewan's side. She gently pushed back his tunic sleeve. The scents of lavender and comfrey rose from her fingers as she applied the salve. "There," she soothed. "A special ointment made from pickled dragon brains. 'Twill help heal your wound, Sir Knight."

  A grudging grin touched his mouth. "Mama."

  When Gisela rose from the bench, Ada motioned her to one side. Her hushed voice taut with concern, she said, "'Tis all right with ye, Anne, that we pretend 'e's a noble knight? 'E
loves it so. 'Tis but a game, like what 'e plays with the toy knight ye made 'im. I mean no insult. I know we are all common folk."

  "I do not mind," Gisela said. Glancing back at Ewan, she saw him dipping his bread into the pottage. She studied his profile, defined by the light sweeping over his face. Her thoughts again returned to Dominic in the stable, his visage limned by shadowed light.

  What if he lay gravely wounded in the stable? Would the tavern owner help him? Or would Dominic be cast into the street, alone and suffering?

  The earthenware pot shifted in her slick fingers. Not wanting to drop it, she crossed to the bedside table and set the salve down. Ada was encouraging Ewan to take another bite of pottage. Taking advantage of the quiet moment, Gisela withdrew Dominic's necklace from her sleeve.

  The thin, softened leather swept like silk against her fingers, as though used to being worn against skin. Tied to the leather was a grubby bit of linen, part of an embroidered pattern of daisies.

  Her hand shook. She recognized the scrap she'd torn from the hem of her shift the day they'd said good-bye. With tears running down her face, she'd pressed the linen into his hand as a token of her love, and to protect him on crusade.

  "Oh, Dominic," she whispered. Fresh tears stung her eyes. He'd kept the little scrap all this time. Next to his skin.

  Close to his heart.

  With gut-wrenching poignancy, she knew he'd never have parted with the necklace unless he needed to show his loyalty to her. To prove she could trust him.

  Gisela again snatched up the salve. Her whole body quivered with a tingling excitement, as though the sun had burned free of smothering storm clouds to illuminate a ravaged land, and she stood in its rejuvenating warmth.

  She turned to face the table. "Ada, would you mind staying with Ewan a little while longer? There is something I must do."

  Slumped back against the stable wall, one arm cradling his aching ribs, Dominic opened his eyes. Tilting his head a fraction, he strained to hear over the restless stirring of the horse in the nearby stall.

  Footfalls.

  The light steps outside the stable indicated that whoever approached was either hesitant, or knew he hadn't left and intended to entrap him. Mayhap the person meant to fulfill the baker and the assistant's parting promise: "If ye do not leave Clovebury right away, as fast as yer legs can take ye, we will come back and make certain ye leave. We want none of yer thievin' kind in our village."

  After delivering his threat, the baker had winced as he touched his blackening eye, a stunning punch from Dominic in retaliation for the blow to his jaw. Then, the baker had turned and stalked out, the blacksmith's assistant at his heels.

  For the briefest moment, Dominic hoped the footsteps were Gisela's. He wondered what she thought of his treasure and whether it meant to her what it did to him. He missed the necklace's brush against his skin, but he'd had no other means to prove himself worthy of her trust.

  Yet, his gesture could well have been for naught. Earlier, Gisela had not welcomed him with knee-weakening kisses sweetened by the joy of a happy reunion. Instead, she'd reacted as though she never wanted to see him again—which meant 'twas unlikely she returned now.

  A pebble rattled outside the stable's doorway. Dominic's hand dropped from his rib cage. In one soundless, careful movement, he pushed away from the wall into a crouch. Pain stabbed through his right side. He gritted his teeth, agony radiating along his bruised jaw. A groan scalded the back of his mouth, but he swallowed hard, subduing the sound. Now was not the time to dwell on his physical discomfort.

  A shadow blocked the light coming in from the doorway.

  His vision blurred. His pain became an eerie ringing in his ears. Shaking his head to clear his gaze, forcing himself to focus on whoever approached, he slid his hand into his boot and found the leather-sheathed knife. His fingers closed around the cool handle. As he drew it out, the thin, sharp blade glinted.

  He pressed his lips together, then rose to his full height.

  If he had to, he could attack with lethal efficiency. He had learned from necessity, when, his body soaked with sweat and his hauberk stained crimson with blood, he'd stared into the dark eyes of the enemy and known he had but one choice: to survive.

  The thought of taking another life twisted his innards. However, if whoever approached intended to kill him, survival was the one and only choice—as it had been on crusade.

  Straw rustled.

  Any moment now, his assailant would round the steep mound of hay.

  Edging forward, Dominic tightened his hold on the dagger. His body tensed. Pain throbbed along with the acute tension, but he paid it no heed.

  He listened.

  Waited.

  A cloaked figure walked into his line of vision. The intruder held an object in his right hand. A weapon? "D—?"

  Before his mind acknowledged the voice, he lunged. Catapulting forward, he collided with the intruder. His breath exhaled on a roar as, with his body weight, he slammed the cloaked figure against the stable wall. His left arm pinned the intruder's neck. He raised his knife, just as he realized how slight the person was, compared to the burly men he'd fought earlier.

  A hard object thumped on the toe of his boot, then fell into the straw.

  "Dominic!" Gisela gasped. Framed by the cloak's hood, her face looked as white as death. With the haze of attack fleeing from his mind, he recognized the rounded softness of her breasts beneath the woolen cloak, the flaxen shimmer of her hair peeking out from the hood, and her sweet scent.

  "God's blood!" Lowering the dagger, he stepped back. "I am sorry."

  Her mouth parted, but no sound emerged.

  His exertions caught up to him. He sucked in a shaky breath, then grimaced. He forced a wry laugh. "We must stop meeting in such dire ways, Gisela. Otherwise, I shall become as witless as a block of cheese."

  Her trembling hand rose to her lips. She stared at the dagger. Revulsion clouded her eyes, while her fingers slid down her cloak to rest above her right breast.

  "Gisela," he murmured.

  She didn't seem to hear him. She continued to stare at the knife, which clearly held a terrible fascination. The horror on her face . . . It threatened to shatter him.

  "Gisela!"

  Her expression did not change. Her fingers pressed to her cloak, as though to stop blood gushing from a wound.

  An icy chill skittered down his spine. She seemed in some kind of grisly trance. He'd witnessed men in such a state after battle, the gruesomeness of what they had encountered so overwhelming, they'd retreated into their own minds. Some never made the mental journey back.

  Why would she react so? Surely she had not experienced battle.

  Ignoring his nagging worry, he bent and pushed the knife back into its sheath. After straightening with a pained grunt, he stepped past her to retrieve the object lying in the straw a few yards away: an earthenware pot.

  Dominic removed the lid and caught the pungent, herbal scent of salve. Astonishment lanced through him. She had come to tend his wounds.

  She did care what happened to him, then.

  He replaced the lid. Cradling the pot in his palm, he turned to face her. Her slender fingers still touched above her breast, but a hint of color had returned to her cheeks. Cognizance glimmered again in her eyes.

  He tried not to stare, but he couldn't keep his gaze from dropping to her hand at her bosom. With wicked intensity, he remembered her breasts framed by her partly removed bodice. How smooth her breasts were, so exquisitely perfect, when he'd cupped them with his hands years ago.

  Had he injured her, when he threw her against the wall? Mayhap he'd bruised her lovely flesh, or accidentally cut her. "Did I hurt you?"

  She made a nervous little sound before shaking her head. She snatched her fingers away. A rosy stain darkened her cheekbones.

  Dominic dragged a hand over his mouth. He had to do something with his traitorous palm that wanted to cover the place she'd just abandoned.

 
Searching for words to ease the awkward silence, he said, "I did not mean to frighten you."

  "W-why did you threaten me with your knife?" She shivered as she spoke and hugged her arms across her chest.

  "I thought you were the baker and his friend, returning to ensure I left Clovebury."

  Her gaze fixed on his bruised jaw. Compassion shadowed her eyes. "Did the baker hit you?"

  "As often as I pummeled him. He got me well in the ribs, though." Dominic chuckled, but grimaced as discomfort shot through his face and rib cage. "Believe me, Gisela, if I had known 'twas you, I would never have drawn my dagger."

  A tentative smile curved her mouth. "You do not intend to take me from here?"

  He frowned. "What do you mean?"

  She tightened her arms across her bosom. "I must know, Dominic. To be absolutely certain. You have not come . . . been sent by . . ." Her breath shuddered between her lips. "You were not—"

  "No one sent me to find you, or take you from here by force, if that is what you ask."

  The faintest gleam of hope lit her eyes. "That is . . . the truth?"

  Annoyance pricked him like a rose's thorns. Her distrust hurt him more deeply than he'd ever anticipated, especially after relinquishing his necklace. However, it seemed she had reason to be afraid, to doubt even him, when long ago, she'd trusted him, as no other man before, with the reward of her body's sweetness.

  What had happened to her? What—or who—had changed his laughing, vibrant Gisela into a frightened, suspicious woman who preferred shadow to sunlight?

  He would find out.

  Forcing his lips into a smile, he said, "Of course, 'tis the truth. What reason would I have to speak falsely to you?"

  Hope shone more brightly now in her gaze. "Promise me, Dominic."

  The words reverberated in his thoughts. A memory revived, of her sitting surrounded by meadow flowers, her fetching smile tinged with sadness. Promise me, Dominic, she'd said. Promise you will keep my memory in your soul, no matter what befalls you. I shall do the same, my love, for I shall never forget you.