by Sarah Hegger
“We will see when he leaves.” Roger jerked his head at the door. “But it will not do to tarry.” He moved about the room, preparing them for travel.
Kathryn ate quickly, her attention on the sliver of yard visible through the door.
“Here.” Roger dropped a small earthen pot beside her. “You will want to clean your knees and put this on them.”
Kathryn hid her flushed cheeks behind the business of studying the contents of the pot. A sharp, astringent scent rose from it. She poked her forefinger in it and found it cool. “What is it?”
“God alone knows,” Roger said. “Nurse makes it for me and shoves it in my pack whenever I travel.”
Roger knelt before her with a washcloth.
“What are you doing?”
“Cleaning your knees.” He gripped her leg and applied the cloth to the scabs beneath.
Kathryn hissed in a breath. “I can do it.”
“We need to be quick,” he said. “Our man can leave at any moment, and I want these cleaned before we go any further.”
Fine. If he chose not to mention her humiliating night, she could do the same. Blast it to hell. It hurt when he applied the cloth to her scrapes. She chewed her bread to keep from whimpering like a puppy.
Daggers ears perked, and he growled.
The messenger crossed the yard, his pack thrown over his shoulder.
“Time to go.” She pushed Roger’s hands aside and stood.
With a firm shove, he pressed her back to the bed. “He does not travel fast and we know his direction.” He snatched up his pot of green salve. “First, this.”
“Roger—”
“Stop wriggling, Kathryn, and stop looking at me like you stole my horse.”
“Eh?”
“You cried,” he said. Dark head bent, he spread salve over her scrapes. “The world did not end.”
“Ouch!” The salve stung, and Kathryn tried to jerk her knee away.
His big hands tended her with heart-wrenching tenderness. “I have seen battle-hardened knights weep like babes over a dead horse. Men-at-arms cry themselves to sleep the night before a battle, and grown men piss their braies. A few tears are nothing.”
Her heart constricted. If anywhere there lived a better man that this, she had yet to find him. “You are just trying to make me feel better.”
He raised his head and grinned at her. “Is it working?
“Aye.” Already the weight had lifted. “Have you really seen battle-hardened knights weep over a dead horse?”
“Kathryn.” He rested his hands atop her knees. “We all get frightened, we all weep, and we all have a weak spot.” He patted her knees and stood. “All except me, because I am better than most.”
Kathryn laughed and tossed the washing cloth at him.
The horses stood ready and waiting as they left the room.
They rode to make up time.
Already, Dagger seemed to have learned the way of things, and trotted along beside Striker. Every time an interesting scent caught his nose, he took a short foray into the bushes beside the road, then returned. She had found a good dog in Dagger.
As the morning progressed, the events of last night replayed in her mind. The cur had caught her completely unawares. “Roger?”
“Aye.”
“Could you really teach me how to fend off an attacker from behind?”
He glanced at her, breeze running through his hair. “For certain. There are ways to combat almost any attack. However”—he held up his hand—“even with the best preparation and training, there comes a moment in every battle where the plan falls away and the fighter must rely on instinct and individual strengths.”
What he said went counter to everything she knew. “That is absurd. Are you saying training is a waste of time?”
“Not at all.” He surveyed the land about them with a keen gaze. “Training is the foundation of a good warrior, but battle does not run according to the map we have in our minds. A warrior must adapt and react to the situation as it unfolds.”
Kathryn mulled that over. “What sort of strengths?”
“You, for instance.” He shrugged. “Chances are that unless your assailant is another woman, you are always going to be at a disadvantage in terms of raw strength and size.” His grin dared her to argue.
She snapped her mouth shut.
“So, you need to rely on your advantages.”
“Such as.”
“Speed,” he said. “Agility, and it would not hurt you to learn to fight dirty. It is all very impressive to perform a beautiful arc and thrust with a sword, but a knee to the ballocks will get a man on his knees just as fast.”
The knights she had managed to coerce into teaching her at Mandeville had never told her any of this. Perhaps because they never expected her to use what they taught her. That Roger saw her as a warrior filled her with delight.
He stopped his horse and scanned the clear day about them “We should spot him soon.”
They slowed for a couple of men traveling with a handcart. Dagger warned the men off with a snarl in passing.
Last night raised another weakness in her plan. Men suffered from lusts. As much as she did not want it so, many would look at her and see a woman first, and a warrior only from the sharp end of her steel.
Naiveté could be allowed behind keep walls, indeed praised and encouraged in girls, but a woman who wanted to make her way in the world needed to face some of its harsher realities. Someday, somewhere, a man might slip past her defenses and finish what that whoreson had started last night.
“Roger?”
“Aye.”
“That man last night would have raped me.” Her words made her cold inside.
“Aye.” He motioned Dagger. “You have him to thank for your rescue. He woke me with his whining and pawing at the door.”
Dagger had done that for her. She wanted to jump from Striker and hug him.
Dagger looked at her and lolled his tongue as if to say she was welcome. But she had a more important point to raise. “I do not want my first experience with a man to be that way.”
Roger jerked in the saddle, and his gaze smoldered with an emotion she dared not name. “No woman does.”
“I think I should rid myself of my virginity.”
“What?” He yanked his reins so hard, his horse fought for its head.
Heat rushed to her cheeks and she kneed Striker forward of him. “I need to find the right man.”
“This discussion is over.” Roger’s voice came cold as the grave from behind her.
“Perhaps you could help me.”
“Over!”
Chapter 14
They followed the messenger into the full light of day. Upon closing their distance to sight range, they dismounted and shadowed their prey with the edge of the wood as cover. Thus far Kathryn’s adventure seemed to involve a lot of sneaking about, and although exciting, did not quite live up to her dreams of flashing swords and thundering hooves.
A short while after the bells of a nearby monastery tolled midday, the messenger veered off the road down a small earthen track.
Roger motioned her to halt. He drew close enough to stir the wisps of hair about her ears. “We should leave the horses here, and see where he goes. There is not much cover.”
Kathryn nodded and they drew the horses into a small thicket away from the road. Her attempts to get Dagger to stay failed miserable, and so he joined them as they trotted after the messenger. They engaged in a thrilling game of dash and dart using small bushes and rocks for concealment.
The track opened into a yard in front of a humble, thatched cottage.
Three large boulders provided the perfect vantage point for her, Roger and Dagger. She took hold of the rope halter around Dagger’s neck and held on tight.
The messenger approached the door and knocked. The door opened and admitted him.
A flock of hens pecked
the unkempt yard. A hawk screamed from the clear blue sky, and sent a flurry of wrens into the gnarled branches of a huge oak shadowing the cottage.
Dagger grew bored and took the time to do some personal grooming. It would take a lot more than a bit of a lick to get him clean.
The cottage door opened and three people came out.
“Matty.” Alive and apparently well. Relief was painfully sweet. Kathryn rose, but Roger yanked her behind her boulder.
“Wait.”
They had found Matty and she slapped his hands away. “I have come all this way to find my sister.”
“Then a few moments more will not hurt.” He held her wrist. “Information is the best weapon at your disposal.”
Matty wore a simple yellow gown Kathryn had seen her wear many times before. The differences lay in her bare feet and unbound hair. Matty never allowed herself to be seen in such dishabille.
The man beside her spoke earnestly with the messenger. Of middling height, slim and lean, he had a delicate, almost pretty face.
“He looks familiar to me.” Kathryn had seen those features before, but she could not think where.
Roger grunted.
The pretty man put his arm about Matty’s shoulders and drew her into him.
How dare he? Kathryn almost leapt to her feet. She would have if Roger had not tugged her down again.
“Who is he to be so familiar with my sister?” She shoved past a crouching Roger to better see the couple in front of the cottage. Matty, who should have slapped the pretty man, gazed at him with open adoration.
Kathryn had seen enough. She stood, evaded Roger, and marched around the boulders and into the yard.
Pretty man spotted her first and froze.
Muttering curses to bring a blush to anyone’s cheeks, Roger followed in Kathryn’s wake.
Matty turned and saw her then. She squealed and ducked behind the man.
The messenger glanced at her, then Roger and near ran from the yard.
Dagger pulled to give chase, but Kathryn tightened her grip. Her dog harbored no fond feelings for his former owner.
“Matty.” Kathryn stopped in front of the man. “Who is this?”
Pretty man clenched the sides of his chausses. His gaze darted to Roger and back to her. “Lady Kathryn.”
“I am not speaking to you. I wish to speak with my sister.”
Matty poked her head over his shoulder. “How did you find me?” She paled and squeaked as she stared at Roger. “And you brought him.”
“I followed you.” Kathryn stepped around pretty man.
He moved into her path, one arm behind him keeping Matty away from her.
“How could you?” Matty wailed.
“How could I?” Kathryn would box pretty man’s ears if he stepped in front of her again. “I brought your betrothed.”
“Um, Lady Kathryn.” Pretty man swallowed hard. His chest swelled. “I am afraid he cannot be her betrothed because Matty is already married.”
The yard dipped and swayed around Kathryn, pretty man’s large brown eyes the only sure point in her shifting world. “Married?”
“Aye.” He raised his chin. “To me.”
* * * **
Roger nearly laughed. Kathryn’s dumbfounded look stopped him. “Perhaps we should take this inside.”
She turned and gaped at him. “She cannot be married.”
He gestured the man by Lady Mathilda’s side “Unless he lies, it appears that she is.”
The man eyed him warily, as well he might. Roger topped him by a clear foot, and near dwarfed his slight build. “I am Roger of Anglesea.”
Taking the proffered hand as if it were a viper, the man shook it. “Digory of…” He waved his free hand about the farm. “Here.”
“I will not come back with you.” Lady Mathilda tucked her arm through Digory’s, a hint of Kathryn in the stubborn cast of her jaw.
“Inside.” Roger hoped they had mead in their cottage. He was in sore need of a drink.
Stopping inside the door, Roger took his time to take it all in. The place looked as if it had been ransacked. Mugs, bowls and cutlery littered the table, and overflowed the wash bucket to the side of the hearth. Women’s clothing spread across the rumpled bed, the table, the one bench and even hung from the rafters. Above the cooking hearth’s dead ashes, a large black pot tipped and oozed its contents onto the hearthstones and then the floor.
Kathryn gasped. “What happened here?”
Digory flushed and unearthed a large hen from beneath the table. The fowl shrieked and clucked, dropping feathers in her haste to escape Digory’s boot.
It proved too much temptation for Dagger who slipped his collar and gave chase with a happy growl. He dashed past Kathryn, nearly knocking her down, and lunged into the yard.
“Stop that awful dog!” Matty screamed.
A loud squawk died on a deep snarl. Silence.
“Oh, dear.” Kathryn glanced out the door and back again. “I am afraid we owe you a hen.”
Roger had to duck his head. Any more of this and he would lose his composure.
“Will you not sit?” Digory grabbed a handful of mugs from the table. He stood there, mugs in hand, and looked for somewhere to place them. “I am afraid we were not prepared for visitors.”
Dirt coated the bench, and Roger wiped it clean before he assisted Kathryn to sit. She kept staring at Matty and shaking her head.
So relieved he wanted to dance a reel, and he never danced, Roger took his seat beside Kathryn. The resemblance between Matty and Kathryn marked them clearly as sisters. The subtle differences lay in Matty’s softer, more rounded edges. He supposed many would consider her the prettier sister, but give him Kathryn’s delicate, angled features any time.
“Married?” Kathryn whispered, and there came the headshake again.
“Aye.” Lady Mathilda smoothed her bliaut over her hips. “Digory and I have been married since last summer.”
He had better pay attention to this conversation. “I beg your pardon?”
“Might I offer you some ale?” Digory’s voice came unnaturally loud.
“I think you must.” Kathryn looked even more confused than he felt.
Digory wiped a mug clean with the edge of his tunic and set it before them. Next he moved the chemise from atop a large stoppered jug beside the hearth and poured the ale into the mug. “I think we should explain.”
“Aye.” Kathryn took a long sip and offered Roger the mug.
Sharp and bitter, the excellent ale loosened his tongue from the roof of his mouth.
“We met on Whitsunday last,” Digory said, cleaning a mug for himself.
“I loved him from the first.” Lady Mathilda clasped her hands to her bosom. Tears sprang into her large brown eyes. Eyes so like Kathryn’s, and yet so very different.
Kathryn’s had a direct, honest gaze. Whereas Lady Mathilda…
He could not quite put his finger on it, but his nape prickled a warning.
“Indeed.” Digory cleared his throat.
Dagger entered the kitchen, licking feathers and blood from his muzzle, tail giving the air a lazy stir.
“Get that horrible thing out of here.” Lady Mathilda pointed imperiously, and then slid behind Digory.
“Oh, settle down, Matty.” Kathryn clicked her fingers for Dagger. “He is only a dog, and not the most important issue to hand.”
Roger could not have said it better. “So.” His big, dumb soldier’s brain needed clarity. “When you came to Anglesea to become betrothed to me, you were already married.”
“Aye.”
“You do not think you might have mentioned that?” Forgive him for his tone, but God’s balls!
Kathryn put her hand on his arm. “You have been married for almost a year and you told nobody. Not even me?”
Mathilda glanced at Digory, who shrugged. “I told Cecily.”
“Cecily?” Kathryn’
s voice rose. “You told that lack-witted peahen you were married and not your own sister?”
“How could I?” Mathilda held her hands out in entreaty. “You know what father would have done had he known.”
“And you thought I would tell him.” The hurt in Kathryn’s voice cut through Roger. “You thought I would betray you?”
In mute appeal, Kathryn stared at him.
“I think you had better start at the beginning and tell us all.” Roger spoke to Digory. He would like to hear this story without the declarations of love.
“We met at the festival near Mandeville.” Digory proved himself a sensible man by refilling Roger’s tankard before taking the seat opposite him. “I was immediately struck by Lady Mathilda, but never thought she would look at one such as me.”
Roger nodded. Ladies did not, in his experience, look at men so laughably far beneath their station. Unless the lady bore the name Beatrice. “You are a farmer?”
“Aye.” Digory nodded. “It is not much, but it is all mine.”
“How did you meet?” Kathryn’s hand tightened on his arm.
Roger took her hand in his and curled his fingers about hers.
Lady Mathilda peered at their hands and then stared at him with a smug smile.
Damn who saw the gesture, Kathryn needed the comfort.
“We danced,” Digory said on a besotted sigh. “I was standing beside that large oak tree in the center of the green, and I found Matty right beside me.”
“I asked him,” Mathilda said.
Aye, she would have to. No small farmer would dare approach the lord’s daughter, not even on festival day.
“I did not see you dance with anyone.” Kathryn frowned at her sister.
“You were busy looking at swords.” Mathilda gave Kathryn a fond smile.
“And where was father?”
Mathilda sneered and crossed her arms. “Drunk and atop a whore.”
“We danced all night.” Digory got the sort of dreamy look that made Roger itch to cuff him. “And later we strolled in the forest beside the church. We talked and talked. We had so much to say to each other.”
Talked? Roger raised his brow at Digory. A man did not waste time talking to a pretty girl in a forest in the middle of the night.
