Knights of de Ware 01 - My Champion

by Glynnis Campbell

  As for El Gallo, what her husband would do with him—whether he strung the reiver up by his ballocks or let him sail merrily back to Spain—was of no concern to her. She just wanted Duncan home and happy, with a wife to look after and to keep him out of trouble.

  It was the perfect solution.

  Only one thing stood in the way of securing the banns for them at once—the king. And Holden could do something about that.

  “You have our blessing to go to your king, Holden. Tell Edward he may have you.” She pursed her lips. “But he will have to recompense us in kind. I have a favor to ask of him, a betrothal I want arranged immediately.”

  “Mine?” Holden nearly gagged on the word.

  “Nay, Duncan’s.”

  The relief on Holden’s face was amusing to behold, but Alyce had no time to tarry. She brushed past the men to unlock the garden gate. She had a bath to order, one with an extra sprinkling of dried violets. She’d don the red silk, the sheer garment James had brought back from Turkey. And she’d see if Cook had any of those cherry coffyns left. A challenge awaited her—convincing her husband that a union between de Montfort and de Ware would be profitable and wise—and she looked forward to every delicious moment of it.

  Sombra gazed down at his handiwork, but he felt nothing. No satisfaction. No justice. Only the cold wind that slid up the wall of the cliff, ruffling the blonde hair of the girl lying at his feet.

  Her eyes were glassy and wide. Her skin was as pale as alabaster. The blood had quit pumping from the thin slit he’d carved in her throat. There was only a feeble trickle now, soaked up by her cheap woolen under-shift like broth by bread. Even the abandoned sprawl of her limbs across the rocky ground, the way her skirts bunched high above her quivering knees in her final portrait of death, did nothing to inspire him.

  He needed more than just the whore’s death to compensate him for all he’d lost. He supposed it wasn’t entirely her fault anyway. Despite possessing the medallion, despite the dramatic scene that had played out, divesting the real Linet de Montfort of any claim to her title, Lord Guillaume de Montfort had never placed complete faith in Sombra’s story. Melancholy had persisted in the man’s eyes from the moment he’d reluctantly taken the imposter’s hand in his and placed a kiss upon it. And his daughters had been just as hesitant, in spite of Sombra’s most charming efforts.

  Fate had decided to play a cruel trick on him then, letting him believe that everything was in his grasp. Coin beyond counting was pressed into his palm. He was showered with gifts of inestimable value—cloth and spices and jewels—gifts of gratitude for the safe conveyance of the de Montfort heiress to her rightful home. He’d basked in the warmth of victory, dreamed of reclaiming his manor in Spain and taking a toothsome revenge upon those who’d stolen it from him.

  And then all of it was snatched away. Some lowly tailor woman from the neighboring village, hearing the gossip and hoping to earn a hefty reward for her trouble, came crawling to the lord with a heavy silver ring she’d obtained from a woman claiming to be Linet de Montfort. And this Linet de Montfort was quite different from the one who now assumed the title. This lady, she said, had surrendered the ring tearfully and proved so knowledgeable about the quality of the garment she desired that the tailor had nearly turned her shop upside down trying to please her.

  The story was little proof of anything in and of itself. The ring, bearing a wolf’s head, could have been stolen. But de Montfort recognized the crest and made the connection between the ring and the monk’s claim of de Ware heritage. De Ware was an old family, a powerful family. One didn’t offend such families. If there were any chance that the monk truly was kin to de Ware…

  Sombra didn’t want to think about the humiliation that had followed—the seizing of his rewards, the shackles rattling about his wrists as he and his harlot imposter were led down the dank, stinking steps to the dungeon.

  He’d escaped within the hour, of course. Gaolers were notorious halfwits, and castles were busy places. The wench and he had fled through the wood, stealing food and clothes, never resting until they’d reached the sea. Naturally, he couldn’t let the girl go. She’d turn him in to the authorities for the reward. And so he’d killed her.

  He kicked gently at her corpse with the toe of his boot to be sure. There was no response. Wary of staining his garments, he nudged her body with his foot until she rolled over the cliff and broke upon the white-spattered rocks below.

  The sun was on its last legs when Sombra arrived at the docks of Calais. He raked his lank hair back with his fingers and straightened the brown woolen surcoat, silently cursing. It had been the best garment he’d been able to snatch in this backward country. But soon, he told himself, he’d don black velvet again—black velvet and cloth of gold and silk from the Orient.

  Luck was with him. El Gallo was still in Flanders. At the far end of the dock, fluttering from the tallest mast in the harbor, hung the pennon of the Corona Negra—the black-crowned scarlet cock strutting proudly against a ground of gold.

  For the last several miles, Sombra had practiced the remorseful and cunning speech that would convince El Gallo to welcome him back aboard. If he could pique the captain’s interest in something new and profitable—whether it ultimately bore fruit or not—Sombra could have his life again. He could reclaim his cabin on the Corona Negra and work as the shadow of the great sea reiver once more.

  He moved forward through the crowd. Just ahead, El Gallo’s crew began coming down the gangplank: Diego, soaked to the skin, his head wrapped in bloody linen; Roberto, limping, half-dragged by a deathly pallid Diaz; an unconscious Felipe carried between two others.

  Something was very wrong.

  Sombra pushed his way through the throng, taking long strides toward the ship. His heart beat against his ribs like a moth caught in a child’s fist. At the foot of the gangplank, he seized Diego’s arm.

  “What is it?” he demanded. “What has happened?”

  “Sombra!” Diego wheezed. “It is the captain. El Gallo…is dead.”

  Sombra stumbled back. “No,” he whispered. “No.” His heart seized, and he crumpled to his knees before the Corona Negra, unable to say more, hardly able to breathe. All his hopes, all his schemes had been crushed in a single, final blow. There was no doubt in his mind now. He was fortune’s foe.

  Across the sea, the Dorwich harbor teemed with merchants and travelers and young boys itching to clamber onto the sailing vessels anchored at the dock. After two days of breathing the stink of her grisly cargo, the passengers from Flanders disembarked enthusiastically, eager to tell the tale of the defeat of El Gallo, some of them exaggerating their own part in it. A few brazen souls even climbed aboard the ship for a peek at the corpse of the infamous reiver.

  Despite Duncan’s efforts at comforting her, Linet was still in shock. And now that they’d arrived in England, he didn’t want her subjected to questioning. She could hardly be found guilty of murder under the circumstances. El Gallo was a notorious criminal, and there were plenty of witnesses to the incident to exonerate her. But unless and until a trial became necessary, he intended to protect her from gawking bystanders.

  “I need to wash my hands,” she said for the fiftieth time.

  Duncan looked down at her fingers, rubbed raw with washing the imaginary blood from them. He was more concerned with the huge stain on her surcoat.

  But he obliged her before she could attract too much attention, guiding her below deck and into the captain’s cabin. He poured water from a pewter aquamanile into the wash basin beside the captain’s pallet. “Give me your hands,” he bade her. Then he gently laved away the evidence only she could see.

  The ritual seemed to calm her. As he handed her a linen towel, she murmured low, “Can you ever forgive me?”

  “Forgive you?” For what—saving his life? If she hadn’t acted swiftly and, he was reluctant to add, with characteristic de Montfort brashness, it would have been his blood soaking the deck.

 
“I was…wrong,” she said. “I was wrong to judge you, wrong to…betray you.”

  He rubbed his thumb nervously along the back of her hand, trying to resist the softening of his resolve. He’d listen to her apology. But though he’d continue to protect her, he wasn’t about to let her commandeer his heart again.

  She let out a shuddering breath and picked at a nub in the wool of her skirt. “Please hear my whole story,” she said quietly. “I can’t excuse what I’ve done. But perhaps I can explain it.” Her eyes took on a faraway cast, and she swallowed, trying to find the right words. “You see, my father was a noble. But my mother was a commoner. He was so in love with her that he surrendered everything to wed her. He gave up his de Montfort title, his wealth, his land, his family.”

  Duncan had heard such tales before. “And then he fell out of love and came to regret that decision?” he guessed.

  She frowned. “Nay. He never stopped loving her. She stopped loving him. Once she discovered he could no longer offer her the trappings of nobility, she ran off.”

  “And you?“

  “Before she left, she made him a gift of their newborn child.” She smiled faintly. “Father said I was still wet from the birth when he heard me squalling at his door.”

  Duncan swallowed. He’d found such a child once in a heap of refuse. The little girl lived at de Ware Castle now.

  Linet closed her eyes. “My father taught me that commoners are ignoble and unworthy. He said I must never put faith in them. You must understand—”

  “I understand,” he said brusquely.

  “But you,” she began, the frustration of the paradox wrinkling her forehead, “you’ve been kind and brave and…and…nobler than any gentleman I’ve ever known.”

  Duncan’s hands grew very still. He didn’t want to hear this. He wasn’t ready to forgive her. But when Linet looked at him with those wide, angelic eyes, he could feel his control slipping.

  “If you’ll still have me,” she murmured, “I will consent to be your wife.”

  Duncan ceased breathing. Suddenly it felt as if his heart was being held between Linet’s palms over a deep chasm. A hundred emotions swirled through his head.

  She’d saved his life. He owed her for that. Yet before, she’d left him like carrion for his enemies. She was the loveliest, most clever and engaging woman he’d ever met. Yet she’d callously stolen his crest ring. She’d made love to him with a passion and unbridled zeal he’d never before experienced. Yet she’d betrayed him while his seed was still warm inside her.

  He’d offered her marriage once. She’d refused him most dramatically. He wasn’t inclined to repeat his mistakes. Still, there she was, looking up at him with a rapt breathlessness that was rapidly turning to embarrassment as he delayed answering.

  “Why?” he asked bluntly.

  “Be-because I see you’re not the man I thought you were,” she stumbled. “You’re honorable and…and worthy—”

  “Worthy?”

  She blinked in confusion.

  “I see now,” he said bitterly. “You’re no better than your mother. Now you know I’m Duncan de Ware. Now I am worthy of you—with my wealth and position, my trappings of nobility.”

  “Duncan de Ware?” she exclaimed. “Don’t be absurd! You may have fooled El Gallo and his crew, but I’m not so gullible.”

  He scowled, incredulous. “You don’t believe me?”

  “That you’re Sir Duncan de Ware? Of course not.”

  “Then why do you want to be my wife?” he demanded.

  “I told you—”

  “I’ve always been honorable and worthy,” he said dismissively. “Why now? Why not before?”

  She squirmed under his regard. “Because—”

  “Because?” he prodded, boring into her soul. Then his eyes suddenly flattened, and his gaze slipped pointedly toward her belly. His voice was like ice. “You fear you might be with child,” he guessed, “and you don’t wish to bear a bastard.”

  “Nay!” she cried, but her blush doubtless revealed how close he’d come to the truth. Aye, two days ago marriage had seemed a reasonable solution, but she’d been to hell and back since then. She’d had two days to reflect on everything they’d been through, on the beggar’s decency, on her betrayal, on what truly had meaning. She was a changed woman.

  “You needn’t fear, lady,” he bit out, his eyes like splinters. “I provide for all my offspring.”

  “You don’t understand. I…” Linet stared at him, incredulous. “All your offspring? How many do you have?”

  “Nineteen.” A thoughtful frown flitted across his brow. “Or twenty.”

  At first, she thought he was jesting. But there was no mistaking the severity of his expression. All the air went out of her. He was serious.

  “So you see, when I marry,” he told her, teeth clenched, “it will be for far more substantial reasons than to give my name to a child I’ve sired.”

  Linet eked out a desperate protest. “Please, don’t answer yet.” Dear God, she wished she’d never asked. She couldn’t yet face the possibility that there was no hope for their love. “Think about it for a while.”

  His mouth worked in indecision before he finally replied. “I will…think about it.”

  He slipped a cloak from the peg on the cabin wall and draped it around her to hide her bloodstained kirtle. Then he ushered her briskly away from the ship and the inquisitive crowd, pausing only to send a young lad on to de Ware castle with news of their safe return.

  The rickety wagon and its sorry nag made slow progress along the northern road the next day. Usually, Linet made the journey in a few hours. At this speed, it had taken most of the afternoon. Still, she thought, thank God Captain Campbell had seen fit to provide them coin for transport, or else they’d have gone afoot, for the three travelers—Harold, the beggar, and she—hadn’t a farthing between them.

  They’d stayed at an inn, and she’d spent a blissfully dreamless night upon a comfortable straw pallet. Someone had even left her an underdress and a clean kirtle to wear.

  When the beggar had shown up with a horse and cart, insisting upon accompanying her to Avedon, she’d almost wept with relief. She was going home at last.

  And now the journey was almost over. The amber sun dipped behind the mountains as they crested the top of the rolling hill below which nestled Avedon.

  Linet’s spine straightened with pride. The beautiful, thick-grassed glen was dotted with sheep and ribboned through by a silvery stream that meandered about the walls of the little town. In the distance lay fields of young wheat and barley, oats and rye, spread like a patched cloak over the fertile ground. From atop the hill, the thatched buildings of the village huddled together like gossiping neighbors.

  As they passed through the city gate and along the cobbled streets, Linet breathed in the familiar smells of home—fresh cut fodder, mellowing ale, the acrid stench of the dye house, evening pottages warmed over a hundred different home fires. Most of the merchants had closed up shop and gone inside their dwellings. Twilight would soon wink its watchful eye over the land, and the city gate would close for the night.

  A mistiness touched Linet’s eyes as she thought how much her life had changed since she was last here.

  Duncan watched with narrowed eyes as they rolled past cottage after cottage. Out of habit, he sought out the penniless waifs tucked into the crevices between the buildings, wishing he had coin to give them.

  At long last, they arrived at a sizeable thatched cottage with a wall around it, and Harold gestured proudly, letting him know it was the de Montfort demesne.

  Linet, throwing caution to the wind in her eagerness to be home, hopped down and ran forward to the wooden gate, preparing to shove it aside so the cart could enter the forecourt. No sooner had her hands touched the gate than Duncan grabbed her forcibly by the shoulders, setting her aside.

  “Let me go first,” he murmured.

  Something about the house didn’t seem right to him. A
wisp of smoke curled up from the chimney, but no firelight shone through its shuttered windows. The yard was well-kept, and the flagstone forecourt was clean, but no servants bustled out to greet their mistress. Duncan felt uneasy. “Wait here. I’m going inside.”

  “But ye’ll—” Harold protested.

  “Wait. I don’t want you walking into a trap.”

  “I don’t think you’d better…” Linet began.

  He slipped off before she could finish. Drawing his dagger, he stealthily approached and slowly pushed the door open.

  The inside of the cottage was lit by a fire burning low on the hearth. The shadows cast by the room’s furnishings did a macabre dance upon the plaster walls as he strained to make out the faint details of the room. He took a tentative step forward.

  The quick, slight breeze should have warned him, but it had been too brief for him to move away in time. Stars burst suddenly upon the darkness as he was bowled over by a tremendous bang against his forehead.

  CHAPTER 19

  Duncan reeled like a drunken man from the bruising blow, shaking his head to clear his double vision. Somewhere, echoing in his addled skull, he heard the incongruous cackling of an old woman. Was it his disoriented brain, or was some ancient wench actually egging him on?

  From outside, Linet smothered a gasp at the loud clang.

  “I’ll see to the horse and cart, m’lady,” Harold muttered.

  Linet picked up her skirts and hurried toward the cottage. She’d tried to warn the beggar. Now she could hear the old woman threatening him with more violence.

  “Margaret!” she shouted. “Margaret, it’s me, Linet.”

  “Ah, Lady Linet, ye’re home early! Don’t ye worry, lass!” the old lady beamed. “I’ve got the rascal! He won’t be seein’ straight for a few days, that’s for certain.”

  “Margaret!” Linet scolded, squinting into the dim room. “What have you done? Where is he?”