Knights of de Ware 01 - My Champion

by Glynnis Campbell

  “If you wish to retain custody of your horse and cart,” he said calmly, as if he could read her mind, “I’d advise you remain where you are.”

  She had little choice. She could ill afford to lose her wagon or the nag. She sat helplessly by while he patted his beard into place.

  Suddenly the craziness of the whole episode struck her. Here she was, the hostage of a man who claimed to want only to protect her, who had no use for coin, and who possessed a penchant for wearing false facial hair. Slowly her fear began to diminish in the face of burning curiosity.

  “Why do you wear that…that ridiculous thing anyway?” She waved toward his beard. “Can’t you grow your own?”

  “A beard?” He glared at her. “I used to be able to grow one,” he said pointedly. “Although a few more harrowing days like this one may leave me both beardless and bald.”

  She peered at his thick ebony mane. He could probably lose half his hair and still have enough left for two men. It curled sinuously about his ear and teased the broad column of his neck. It looked soft.

  He curved a brow at her, and she realized she’d been staring. She jerked her head around and trained her eyes on the nag. “I have work to do. So if you’ll leave off your morning ablutions and tell me just what it is you want from me…”

  His cursory perusal of her from head to toe made her regret her choice of words. Thankfully, he didn’t rise to the bait. He took a deep breath as if to collect his faculties. “I made a promise when I earned my spurs to protect all women,” he announced. “I intend to honor that promise.”

  She could only stare at him. For all his strange antics, it had never occurred to her that he might be genuinely mad. Until now. “Your…spurs?”

  “I do not take my vows lightly.” His eyes took on a faraway cast. “Wherever there is one in need, there will I go.”

  Linet was silent for a moment. Then she burst out laughing. “You expect me to believe you’re a knight?”

  He thrust his jaw forward haughtily, which only made her laugh all the more.

  “Well, Sir Whatever-You-Call-Yourself, you’re the first knight I’ve met with no horse, no armor, and absolutely no sense of honor.”

  The flicker in his eyes warned her she had just trod on perilous ground.

  “I have more honor in my little finger,” he ground out, “than you have in your entire body.”

  “Oh ho!” she cried. “My father was Lord Aucassin de Montfort of Flanders.” Her hand went reflexively to the family medallion she wore against her bosom.

  His laugh was a snort of disbelief. “Indeed? Your father’s a lord, yet he allows you to toil in the wool market?”

  She blanched. He had no right to question her, none at all. A nobleman would take her at her word. She owed him no explanation, and she certainly had no intention of divulging her family’s blemished history.

  “Ah, I see,” he said, his eyes softening. His voice grew curiously gentle, the amusement gone. “You’re a by-blow then?”

  “No!” she exploded. “I am not a by-blow! Don’t ever call me that. My mother and father were properly wed. It wasn’t my father’s fault if…”

  “If…” he prompted.

  The care in his eyes seemed genuine. But she wasn’t about to let a stranger know the humiliating circumstances of her birth. She straightened on the seat.

  “You’ll drive me to Woolmaker’s Row,” she informed him coolly, “and you’ll leave me there…alone.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not leaving you anywhere. You may be in grave danger. I’ve taken a vow to see you safe, and—”

  “Safe? And who’s to keep me safe from the likes of you?” She shook her head. “Nay, I have no need of your protection. I have my servant, Harold—”

  “The old man?”

  “He’s…stronger than he looks.”

  The beggar coughed.

  She clenched her fists in the folds of her surcoat while her anger smoldered.

  He clucked to the horse, and the cart lurched forward.

  “You may escort me only as far as the fair,” she told him, pretending she had a choice in the matter.

  He made no reply. She knew better than to mistake his silence for assent, but it was useless to argue now. Once they turned down Woolmaker’s Row, she’d have Harold and the entire Woolmaker’s Guild to back her up. Then she’d be rid of him.

  She’d likely never see him again.

  She’d never learn the reason he wore that infernal beard, or why he claimed to be a knight, or why he was singularly obsessed with protecting her. But it was no concern of hers. She had her own life to live—a life of warp and weft, numbers and accounts, profit and tax—a comfortable, secure, predictable life. She had no time for eccentric beggars and their crackbrained chivalrous fantasies.

  She sighed and clasped her hands in her lap as they bounced along the road, wondering uncomfortably if her father was scowling down from heaven. This was the closest she’d ever been to a commoner. Likely the closest she’d ever get. And as long as she was never going to see him again, she supposed it would do no harm to take a quick peek at the man, just out of the corner of her eye, solely for educative purposes.

  Who was the mysterious beggar? The fists holding the reins were massive, the veins prominent. They were hands accustomed to hard work. His thighs, too close to hers for comfort, were long and heavily muscled beneath the crumpled hose, like a laborer’s legs. And yet there was a laziness about him, a sensual languor that made him seem as if he worked at nothing.

  Then there was his behavior. He was certainly as vulgar and boorish as the crudest peasant, and yet he possessed the natural authority and speech of a nobleman.

  His clothing, of course, revealed the truth. While the wool of his trews was coarse and riddled with tiny moth holes and his leather boots worn thin, his cloak was fashioned of the finest English worsted. No coin had been spared in the making of that garment.

  There was but one conclusion to be drawn. The man was a thief.

  “You must have paid handsomely for that cloak,” she muttered, raking him with a knowing glare.

  He smirked. “Actually, it was given to me.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Given to you! No doubt given at the point of a dagger. It’s too fine a garment to give away. Indeed, sirrah, you do the thing an injustice by wearing it over threadbare rags.”

  “Indeed?” The corner of his lip curved up. “You think I should cast it aside?” Then he clucked his tongue. “Ah nay, you little wanton, I perceive your trickery now. You won’t get me out of my clothing that easily.”

  She was sure she turned the color of Norwich scarlet, especially when he began to chuckle deep in his chest.

  “And as for doing the garment an injustice, I must object. I’m always grateful for gifts, and I respect their value.” His lip twitched with repressed humor. “Unlike some I could name. Why, only yesterday, I heard some ungrateful wench dumped a gift of Spanish wine into the sea.”

  Surprise slammed like a rock into her chest. She whipped her head around. “What do you know of that?” she asked sharply.

  “Enough.”

  She fidgeted with her skirt, shifting her gaze between the two azure orbs of his eyes. “I was correcting an injustice. El Gallo stole goods from my father.” She meant to stop there. She owed the beggar no explanation. But something about the silent encouragement in his face bade her continue. She stared at her hands in her lap. “I didn’t want the wine at all. That wasn’t the point. But somebody had to stop the thieving. That’s why I dumped it out.”

  She ventured a glance at the beggar. Damn her ready tongue. She’d said too much. His gaze had melted into some utterly indescribable emotion—something between amusement and pity and admiration. She didn’t like him looking at her like that. It was far too…intimate. If it killed her, she swore she’d not breathe another word to the man.

  She was close enough to him now to see that silvery streaks shot through the cobalt of his eyes, as
incongruous as silver thread worked into the blue woad of peasant’s cloth, as enigmatic as the man himself. A lock of hair crooked across his forehead and between his brows like black lightning, giving him a dangerous air. His wide mouth had parted the merest bit, enough so she could see the tips of his strong, white teeth.

  He was dazzling, she realized with a start. And just as quickly, she remembered he was a pauper. She trained her eyes on the path ahead.

  Duncan endured Linet’s curious perusal in silence most of the way. By the time he hauled the old nag up behind the de Montfort pavilion, she’d so thoroughly studied him that he wondered if the poor wench had ever laid eyes on a man at all before.

  “Harold!” Duncan called, bringing the servant scurrying out of the booth in surprise. He tossed the reins to the old man. “Thank you,” he said with a nod.

  Linet alit daintily from the cart, clearly peeved by his familiarity toward her servant. She smoothed her skirts and cleared her throat.

  “Listen,” she said quietly. “If it’s coin you’re after…”

  He grinned. She was ever offering him coin. “As I told you before, I have no need of money. My family is quite rich.”

  She looked at him with such frustration that it was almost comical. He supposed the amused glint in his eyes didn’t help to soothe her irritation. “You won’t leave?”

  He shook his head in mock sorrow.

  She muttered something behind her teeth and began hauling forth bolts of cloth from the wagon with a vengeance. As much as she clearly longed to be rid of him, they both knew she could hardly afford to start a heated exchange in the marketplace. Besides, he had every right to be there. The fair was public thoroughfare.

  Still, it didn’t stop her from voicing her opinions under her breath. She muttered as she worked, and he heard bits and pieces of her complaints—“spiteful peasant,” “meddling beggar,” “just take the coin and be on your way.”

  Chuckling, he climbed down from the wagon and positioned himself at the front of the stall to watch.

  She selected the materials as if she were an artist choosing pigment—gray patterned worsteds and russet woolens, creamy broadcloth with deep green stripes, and some in several shades of blue, even a dark Spanish scarlet. All the while, her hair shimmered about her like a Saracen dancer’s veil. When her nimble fingers caressed the varied textures of her wares, he found himself imagining those fingers upon his own varied textures.

  He heaved a languorous sigh.

  She’d scarcely completed displaying all her fabric when a golden-haired nobleman approached, eyeing a piece of yellow cloth.

  “Ah, the saffron worsted,” she told him, summoning up a convincingly charming smile in spite of her ill temper. “The color comes from a rare and exotic flower, sir. If I may say so, it’s a perfect choice for your fair coloring.”

  The man was obviously flattered by her nonsense. His eyes gleamed, and he stroked the material speculatively.

  Duncan didn’t like him. And he didn’t like the way Linet was speaking to him, almost as if she were enticing the man to purchase something more than her cloth. He straightened and scowled at the patron from across the row. The man sheepishly backed away and moved on.

  Linet whipped around, her fists clenched at her sides. “What do you think you’re doing?” she hissed.

  “I’ve never trusted a man who’d wear yellow,” he invented simply.

  She looked at him as if he’d fallen from the moon. “You’ve just cost me a fortune! Do you know how much that worsted is worth?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “I won’t tell you how to sell your goods, and you won’t tell me how to protect you.”

  “I told you I need no protection,” she bit out.

  Then two young ladies approached, and she was forced to grit her teeth and smile again. Duncan nodded politely to the pretty maids. They giggled. Linet elbowed her way in front of him to show them a length of damask in soft brown, but they gave it only a cursory glance. They weren’t interested in Linet’s cloth. They were interested in him. He gave one of them a wink. The maid blushed, murmuring something to her friend behind her hand.

  “Does anything catch your eye, ladies?” he quipped, gesturing to the cloth draped about the booth.

  The girls gasped and giggled again. Then, either too shy or muddled of wit to pursue further conversation, they scurried off, fluttering their eyelashes in farewell.

  Linet gave him a withering glare. “You’re interfering with my trade.”

  He bowed and retreated to a less obvious post beside the counter. “My apologies.” But he didn’t feel apologetic in the least. He was enjoying himself.

  “You may have no need of coin, beggar, but I depend upon it.”

  He snorted. “After what you took from the de Ware coffers, I should think you could live comfortably the rest of your years. Though that may be a short time for one who traffics with sea reivers.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “Lady Alyce was charged fairly for her cloth,” she huffed defensively. “As far as sea reivers—”

  “Sea reivers?” a fat woman with red cheeks aped as she picked up a piece of green broadcloth. “Are these stolen goods?”

  “Nay,” Linet hastened to assure the lady, giving Duncan a warning glare. He obediently returned to the far side of the lane, but not before flashing his most charming grin. He heard her continue. “Everything here is come by honestly, my lady, and what a clever woman you are to have spotted that green.”

  It was going to be a long day, he thought, leaning back against an elm and folding his arms across his chest. And it was going to be a Herculean task to keep troublemakers away from her—his angel with the dancing eyes, the dazzling smile, the heavenly curves.

  A smile touched one corner of his mouth. It would be hell all right. But he supposed somebody had to guard angels here on earth.

  CHAPTER 4

  Linet had been so certain the beggar would leave by day’s end. Surely by then he’d have tired of his game, seeing how intently she focused on her work and how seldom she paid him any heed. But still he remained, standing across from the stall with his arms crossed, watching the merchants, watching the passing crowds, but mostly watching her. It seemed as if every time she glanced up, he was watching her.

  It had affected her business. She’d sold only ten ells of cloth today, and there was little hope of selling more. Already the sun sank in the half-wooded copse, dancing in dappled patterns across her fabric. The acrid smells of the dying fair hung on the air—rusting apple cores, horse dung, stale beer.

  Soon a great fire would blaze in the nearby clearing. All were welcome to roast their own meat and apples over it or perhaps purchase a joint or a pork pie from a vendor. Some of the merchants packed up their wares and carted them home. But the village of Avedon, where Linet kept her mesnage and warehouse, was too far away for the daily trip, so she’d bed down in her pavilion.

  “What will you have for supper tonight, my lady?”

  Linet pressed a startled hand to her heart. She hadn’t even seen the beggar cross the lane.

  “A pasty? Mutton mortrews?” he asked.

  “Nay. I have a little salted cod and—”

  The beggar made a face. “Salted cod?” He shook his head. “That’s not food. That’s punishment. You must have a proper meal.”

  She opened her mouth to stop him, but he snagged a passing squire, mumbled some instructions to him and pressed several silver coins into the boy’s hand before she could speak. God alone knew where he’d come by the money, but she doubted he’d see it or the boy again.

  Thus it was a complete surprise when, even before she and Harold had finished folding the cloth away, the lad returned, juggling a veritable feast. The beggar must have purchased a half dozen pasties and fruit coffyns. There was a great joint of beef, a wedge of hard cheese and even a jack of ale. Her mouth was still agape when the beggar shoved a pasty into it.

  “I hope you like lamb,” he said.

&nb
sp; Before she could reply, he called out, “Harold! Give those old bones a rest. I’ve got supper.”

  Harold dropped the cloth he’d been folding and toddled eagerly forward, not about to question a free meal.

  “Weary of that nasty cod, are you?” the beggar asked.

  “Oh, aye.” Harold licked his lips.

  Linet would have protested the beggar’s meddling, but she was still chewing on the lamb pasty. It was admittedly delicious, the meat succulent, the crust flaky. It was far better than another meal of salted cod and hard bread. But she’d be damned if she’d tell him so.

  “Salted cod’s not much good for anything beyond Lent, I say,” the beggar confided. “Here, my good man, have a pork pie and a swig of ale to chase it down.”

  “Thank ye, m’lord.”

  M’lord? Linet choked on the pasty. Had Harold actually called the peasant m’lord? Her eyes watered, and she began to cough.

  “Or perhaps you’d better have the first drink,” the beggar offered with a wink, clapping her on the back.

  She seized the ale from him and downed a big gulp. When she’d swallowed properly and could finally catch her breath, she returned the jack. “Harold, he is not your lord,” she scolded. Then she turned to the beggar. “My servant and I were quite content with our cod.”

  “Ah.” He was laughing at her. She could tell.

  “I won’t pay you for what my servant eats,” she informed him.

  “I won’t ask you to.”

  Fine, she thought, as long as they understood one another.

  She dusted the crumbs from her skirt and surreptitiously eyed the fruit coffyns. They looked delicious, all golden and shiny and flaky. She wondered whether they were apple or cherry. The thought of the sweet fruit within made her jaw tingle. Her tongue flicked once lightly over her lip. Apple or cherry?

  Perhaps, she considered, if she played along, if she did partake of his food, the beggar would leave willingly.