by Sarah Hegger
“Very well then.” Father threw his hands wide and forced a chuckle. “Amuse yourself with our little Kate, whilst I go and find your bride.”
“A splendid idea,” Sir Roger said.
Her father shuffled across the practice yard sand toward the keep.
“So, you enjoy manly pursuits?” Sir Roger shifted closer to her.
Kathryn knew not what to make of him, and she trod carefully. “Aye.”
“I have yet to see a woman joust,” he said.
“That does not mean they cannot,” she said.
Sir Roger crossed his arms over his wide chest. “Not very well.”
“I hit the target dead center.”
“Aye.” He shoved his hands in his belt and shrugged. “But you hit a wooden shield with a sword. A lance is much longer and more unwieldy.”
“I do not have a lance.”
“And a man’s chest is much denser to pierce and doesn’t hang there like a ripe plum for you to skewer. The way you hung off your horse like a rag poppet would have seen your ass in the dust.”
Father looked behind him before he entered the keep. Even from there, his scowl burned into her.
“I suppose you could do better,” she said.
Sir Roger merely chuckled. “You know I could.”
“Do it then.”
He raised his brow. “Is that a challenge?”
“Maybe.”
“Accepted.” Sir Roger approached Striker, careful not to startle him. He stroked Striker’s forelock, murmuring to him. “Will he bear me?”
“Of course he will.” Striker was the best horse in the Kingdom. “Unless, of course, you do something stupid and then you will find your ass…I mean, yourself in the dust.”
Sir Roger cantered Striker back to the far end of the yard. He drew his sword. “This is more difficult with a lance,” he called.
Braggart. Kathryn sat on an overturned bucket.
“Hah!”
Striker shot forward, ears pricked, hooves beating a muted tattoo on the sand.
Sir Roger seemed part of the horse beneath him, smooth, fluid, and graceful. He had an excellent seat, controlling the horse with his thighs, making those tiny adjustments to keep his fine fit in the saddle.
He hit the quintain with a crack. It whirled in a blur, the swing arm heading straight for the back of his head.
Kathryn nearly shouted a warning, but he kept riding, sitting straight in the saddle, and the swing arm passed within a hair of him.
“Now”—he drew Striker in front of her and dismounted—“climb on this fine steed of yours and I will give you a fast lesson.”
A real knight giving her instruction, an opportunity too good to be overlooked. “You will?”
“Up you go.” Sir Roger clasped his hands for her to mount.
Kathryn sidestepped his hands and leapt into the saddle. Without touching the stirrup. Let him tell her any squire could best that.
“Good.” He nodded, and ran a hand down Striker’s shoulder. “You have a fine horse here.”
“I trained him myself.”
His harsh features softened as he caressed Striker’s coat. “You did well, Lady Kate.”
“Thank you.” Kathryn grew breathless as he stared at her. “Kathryn. I do not like to be called Kate.”
“Why?”
“I do not care for it.”
“Kathryn it is then.” His eyes, at first so cold, glowed warm and inviting. “You are not married?”
“Nay.” She backed Striker up. “My sister is far more suited to make a wife. A man would be lucky to have her.”
He looked at her, his expression inscrutable. “Your horse is not a tool. He is your partner, your helpmate, and together you enter the list.”
His words warmed her heart, and she stroked Striker’s neck. They were a pair, the two of them.
Sir Roger stepped back and crossed his arms. “Take your friend back there and show me what you can do.”
“Aye, Sir Roger.”
“And by all that is Holy, stop calling me Sir Roger. Roger will do nicely.”
“Right you are…” It seemed so intimate to use his given name, but right somehow. He did not appear to be a man puffed up with his own importance. “Roger.”
He grinned. “Now, ride!”
Kathryn rode Striker back and turned. She took aim and dug her heels into Striker.
Again, they hit the target square on. Let Roger tell her she foundered at this now. Why, the swing arm went round and round as if struck by the hand of God.
“Understand something first.” He rested his elbows on the top rail of the fence behind him. “When you tilt, you ride fast, ride hard, and hit hard.”
She already knew that and opened her mouth to tell him so.
“Which brings me to the second thing you need to understand. The force of your blow relates to how fast you ride and how much weight you put behind your blow.” He pushed away from the fence. “As a woman, you are at a size disadvantage. One hit and you’re in the dust.”
“I would not be—”
“Your opponents will be bigger, but that does not mean you will always lose. You ride like a girl, however, and you will need to correct that.”
“I—”
“Your timing and your aim need to be perfect as well, because everyone gets hit.” He took hold of her bridle and stroked Striker’s neck. “In your case, you need to mitigate against the force of that hit.”
She still burned to correct him about the riding like a girl, but he had just voiced her biggest concern. “And you know how I can do that.”
“I know it is not by sweeping across your target.” He raised his brow. “Aim for the target, from the moment you begin your approach. The horse moves beneath you, and if you bring your sword down and then attempt to aim, your opponent will be past you before you can blink. Or have their weapon planted in your chest.”
“Aim for the target?”
He patted Striker’s shoulder. He had big hands, calloused from work, nails short and blunt. Capable hands. “Keep your eye on it.”
Kathryn turned Striker and rode back again. “I do not ride like a girl.”
His chuckle followed her. “Do not drop too early. Judge the speed of your mount and his. Bring your weapon down in one smooth motion, right on target.”
Chapter 3
Kathryn skipped to Matty’s chamber with an extra spring in her step. Her nethers ached from Sir Roger’s instruction the evening before, but nothing could dim her happiness. They had stayed in the yards until Anglesea’s Nurse called them in to get ready for dinner.
Nurse had not seen anything amiss with her mannish pursuits either, merely reminded her to get the smell of horse off her before she sat at table.
Roger had excused himself to bathe in the barracks. A hard taskmaster, but Roger rode like a dream, and he handled a sword as if it formed part of his arm.
Matty would marry the perfect man for her and finally be safe. She couldn’t ask for better. With Matty safely tucked away in Anglesea, Kathryn need only concern herself with Mother. Still no apparent solution, short of burying the old cur ten feet under, had presented itself, but one step at a time. Matty’s marriage represented a massive stride toward Kathryn’s goal.
Perhaps Roger would allow Kathryn to spend time here at Anglesea with Matty. He had seemed to like her well enough yesterday, and she could make herself useful. She hunted well, tracked better than most men, and most assuredly did not ride like a girl. Indeed, she only need stay until he taught her how to handle a sword as he did. The world beckoned. Adventure. Freedom.
A serving maid smiled at her in passing. “Good morrow, Lady Kate.”
“Kathryn.” She softened the correction with a smile. “I prefer to be called Kathryn, and it is indeed a good morrow.” Holding the girl’s hands, she gave her a quick spin. “It is the very best of mornings.”
Giggling, t
he girl danced away down the hall.
“Get up, Matty.” She threw open the door to her sister’s chamber. What a marvel Anglesea was, with its separate sleeping chambers. The views of the sea on three sides robbed her of breath every time she strode near a casement. Aye indeed, she would do her best to endear herself to the Anglesea folk. Perhaps she and Mother could spend the winter months here. Did the sea freeze like the lake beside Mandeville? “Matty?”
Matty must have risen already, and had left her linens in disarray. Matty despised mornings, but the prospect of her wonderful groom must have gotten her up and about early this morn.
They’d spoken long after dinner last night. Matty had proven surprisingly stubborn, but Kathryn had worn her down, made her see sense. She could not stay at Mandeville.
Kathryn picked up a discarded wimple. Matty should make an effort to keep her room tidier. Lady Mary had seen Matty and her housed in lovely chambers. Though small, the bright, cheery fabrics and gleam of fine wood furnishings made them feel like visiting princesses. Bright embroidered florals ran across Matty’s bed hangings in a glorious tangle of green and yellow. At the foot of the bed stood Matty’s clothes chest. Open and empty.
Thieves! Matty had been robbed, and right in the midst of one of the strongest keeps in the kingdom. A well-guarded stronghold that shut its gates at night and had men who walked the halls whilst the residents slept.
Kathryn paused before she opened the door and cried foul. Matty’s wedding bliaut hung from the clothes tree beside the casement. Morning sunlight glinted off the gems sewn across the bodice. Mother had labored for months, each gem stitched with care.
The bliaut stood ready, lonely for the absent bride to don it.
Warning prickled Kathryn’s nape as she strode to the chest. What sort of thief took only the most common day raiment and left the gem-encrusted wedding bliaut?
The fabric alone could have kept a family fed for the year. The cost of the gems? Kathryn shuddered to consider. Father kept a tight fist about his coins, but even he would not send his daughter to one of the richest families in the land looking like a pauper.
Beside Matty’s wedding gown, where her heavy traveling cloak should have hung, the clothes tree stretched an empty wooden arm into the room.
Kathryn’s knees weakened, and she perched on the edge of Matty’s bed. Matty was gone.
The door opened. Ella crept into the room and slammed it shut behind her. Matty’s maid braced her slim back against the door and released a shuddering breath. “Lady Kathryn. I did hope it would be you.”
“Where is Matty?”
Ella’s pallor frightened Kathryn. She looked a breath away from crumpling into a heap on the floor.
“You must tell Sir Royce. Lady Matty said you would.” Tears trickled down Ella’s soft cheeks. Her hands twisted in her apron. “I cannot tell him, Lady Kathryn. I am afeared.”
“Ella?”
With a cry, Ella tossed her apron over her head.
Kathryn wanted to shake the girl, but more than that, she wanted answers. “What has happened, Ella?”
“She is gone.” Her apron muffled her voice.
“What do you mean, gone. Has someone taken her?”
Ella shook her head. She buried her covered head in her hands and wailed. “I cannot tell Sir Royce. You must not make me tell him, or I shall die.”
“Never mind Sir Royce.” Kathryn ripped the apron from her head, and gripped Ella by the shoulders. She towered over the smaller, frailer woman. “Tell me where my sister is.”
“I do not know.” Ella collapsed in a heap.
Dear God, grant her patience not to slap the girl into next year. “But you must know something.”
“She begged me to help her.” Ella hugged her knees to her chest. “I did not want to do it, but she cried so and I feared she would make herself ill. ‘Save me, Ella. You are the only one who can help me,’ she said.”
“Help her? Why?” Kathryn needed to think, understand what the bedamned, blighted hell had happened. “Ella, if you do not stop crying, I will give you something to cry about.”
Ella whimpered and scuttled to her feet. She edged toward the door.
Kathryn blocked her way.
“Dear God, help me!” Ella raised her hands to the sky. “God save me.”
“Stop that! And do not move from there.” Kathryn wrestled her temper down. She stood before Ella, and kept her tone gentle. “Ella, I need to know what happened.”
“You will whip me.”
“Nay, Ella, I will not whip you. I merely need to know where my sister is.”
“You said you would make me cry.” Ella sniffled.
Kathryn dug her nails into her palms. “I spoke in anger. Nobody is going to raise a hand to you.”
“Your father will.”
True enough. Father would beat the hell out of everybody if they did not find Matty and find her soon. “I will protect you from my father.”
With a big sniff, Ella scrubbed her apron over her cheeks and peered at her. “She left, Lady Kathryn. Lady Mathilda said she could not marry that great oaf of a man and she took her bits and left.”
“Left?” Her worst fear. Kathryn plopped onto her ass on the hard stone. “Why? Where did she go?”
“That is all I know.” Ella stood and straightened her skirts. “She did not tell me more. You can try to beat it out of me, but I know nothing more.”
“Oh, Matty.” Kathryn dropped her head into her hands. “What have you done?”
* * * *
Kathryn made sure to put herself between her mother seated at the casement and her father.
Sir Royce’s anger seemed to build with each circle before the hearth. His wide chest rose and fell rapidly as he smacked his fist into his palm. “You know where she went.”
“Nay, Father, I do not. I found her chamber empty this morning.”
Sir Royce’s cunning gaze fastened on her. Eyes as dark as hers and Matty’s, but cold and merciless in their intent. “Are you lying to me, Kate?”
“Nay, Father.”
Behind her mother gasped.
“Are you sure about that?” He lunged for her, wrenched her braid back, and forced Kathryn to look at him. Shaking a lock of dark hair out of his eyes, his voice went soft as silk. “It would be a big mistake if you were lying to me.”
“I am not lying. I swear it. On my life.” He would yank her hair out by the roots if he persisted. “On mother’s life.”
He released her and stepped back. His stare swung to mother, and he smiled. “Perhaps I am asking the wrong person.”
Kathryn stepped into his path.
“You dare.” His chest swelled on a growl. He lashed out, cuffing the side of her head.
Ears ringing, Kathryn stumbled across the room.
He pushed his face into Mother’s, jowls quivering, and yelled, “Where is your bitch daughter?” Wider, taller, he loomed over Mother.
Mother shrank into the casement cushions. She shook her head, bringing her arms up to ward him off. Dark bruises already mottled the frail bones of Mother’s wrists.
“She does not know either.” Kathryn grabbed his arm.
Muscle tensed beneath his tunic and he shook her off. He yanked Mother to her feet. His huge hand engulfed Mother’s delicate shoulder.
Mother immediately dropped her gaze to the floor. “I do not know, Sir Royce.”
“I do not believe you.” His knuckles whitened as he dug his thick fingers into her shoulder.
Mother whimpered and paled.
God, he would break her if he kept squeezing. Mother’s health suffered with each year. A stiff wind could carry her away.
“She does not know.” Kathryn raised her voice to get his attention. “Nobody does.”
“She best not.” With a snarl, he shoved Mother back into her seat. “How is it that you know so much about this?” Her ploy got her right back into his line of rage
. He stalked her, boot heels clipping the flags.
“I told you.” The note shook as she held it out to him. “I found this in her bedchamber.”
Ella wouldn’t stand a chance against Sir Royce’s wrath. A hastily penned note saw the girl free from blame. Father could not read anyway.
Sir Royce knocked the parchment from her hand. “That could say anything.”
“But it does not.” Kathryn lunged for the note, careful to keep her eye on his boots. Sir Royce could be wickedly quick with a well-aimed kick. “It says ‘Tell Mother and Father I am sorry, but I could not marry.’” She smoothed the note. “Have the keep priest read it to you if you do not believe me.”
Sir Royce went deathly still. His breath rasped. Through his snarling lips his mead-laden breath hit her face. He snapped his fist back and punched her. “God’s Teeth!”
Kathryn flew across the room and landed with a hip-jarring crunch before the hearth.
“You did this.” He stalked to where she lay. His legs, thick with riding muscle, blocked mother from her. “You must have said something to her. Done something. Mathilda would never take it into her head to do this without someone whispering in her ear.”
She raised her chin and met her father’s glare. When she showed fear it only enraged him further. “I had naught to do with this. Matty did not seek my opinion, and if she had, I would have encouraged her to marry Sir Roger.”
He sneered at her, nudging her with his boot.
“It is true, Father. I think you made an excellent choice.”
“You approve, do you?” Fist in her hair, he dragged her to her feet. “Haughty Lady Kate approves of my choice.” He shook her. “Proud, noble Lady Kate deigns to look down her nose and find favor in the action of her father.”
Kathryn bit her tongue to keep from crying out. Ella he would have whipped until she told him something, anything, to get him to stop.
“Sir Roger is a fine choice.” She prayed their presence at Anglesea would stay the worst of her father’s hand.
Father laughed in her face. “Is that what this is about? You saw a man you wanted for yourself, did you? You decided you would have him and not your sister, and so you persuaded her to flee.”
