Yes. Of course. He’d recognized her potential for achieving his aim. A reward, in gold, from her kinsmen would be a welcome addition to his coffers. Gold he’d need to fatten officials who lay between him and his king. Gold he’d need to win back his family’s land from the de Buche family.
A source of advancement was all she represented. And that he’d do well to remember.
Meanwhile, appearances must be maintained.
Though English was not his native tongue, he knew enough to command the men at arms. He assayed it now. “Attend me.” His voice low, commanding.
She startled and turned huge eyes to him, eyes that said she understood him not. Well, they would simply have to make do, would they not?
He removed his sword and belt and held them out, his gaze catching hers. Pretend to be my squire, he tried to impart.
She frowned, head tilted slightly, eyes probing his for meaning. Her curiously cut hair curved under her jaw and slid forward, calling attention to her graceful neck. He cleared his throat, cast his glance exaggeratedly around the crowded hall, and returned his gaze to hers, attempting to impart the need for the ruse. She looked around as well, the central hearth fire highlighting half her form. Unease wormed through him. She must understand. Why had he not thought to ask Alfred to explain her duties?
Finally, her face cleared, and the tension in his gut unknotted. She took the sword and belt, and he nodded to the bench. He removed his green surcoat, and when she returned, he handed it over, the satisfaction of their mutual understanding like an oil which made their movements efficient, dare he say, companionable. Curiously, she bowed, folded the surcoat into a neat square, and placed it on the bench.
Though used to removing his own hauberk, he motioned her forward and bent over at the waist. He tugged the bottom edge and caught her eye. She nodded and stepped closer, pearly teeth denting her bottom lip. Her scent--like some fruit plucked only for the king’s table and mixed with her unique womanly scent--washed over him. His gut tightened, and his heart sped faster. Her heat, her presence thickened the air between them. Limned by the firelight, her forearm slid free of the mantle. She gripped the edge and pulled the heavy mail over his head. She stumbled not under the weight, though surprise softened her features.
Slowly, he straightened, his body reacting to her closeness in a manner no squire would have caused. Swallowing hard, counting his breaths, and ignoring her closeness, he unfastened the leather poleyns protecting his knees, removed his quilted gambeson and cap, chausses, and hose. He glanced up, clad only in his braies, and caught Kaytee’s flushed regard.
Her wide-eyed perusal knifed arousal straight through his body. Christ, he couldn’t strip while stiff as a lance. He overruled his errant cock by picturing all the steps to polishing and maintaining his mail, leather, and weapons. Her eyes snagged his, and she reddened further. Thankfully for his peace of mind, she whipped around. So, she had an over-developed sense of modesty.
He carefully stowed away his weapons and armor, placing each with purpose and deliberation. Thoughts and body now firmly under control, he stripped and settled on his pallet on the bench, his blanket pulled up against the chill. The knowledge of her presence sent prickling heat along his back as she settled onto her pallet. It would look peculiar for her to retire fully clothed, but she had to, did she not? Better that than reveal her true sex. He tried not to think about what curves lay beneath her peasant’s garb. That way led to madness. Led to a thwarting of his plans.
The rustling behind her indicated Robert had settled into bed, but her heart, oh no, her heart had not settled. Before, seeing the oval section of his face revealed by his chainmail outfit made him seem anonymous. Formidable, with handsome features, sure. But now?
After helping peel off his layers to expose the man within, the shock of seeing him almost naked still had her all quivery. His gloriously muscled chest in the flickering light, the crisscrossing scars, and the strength and power coiled within, were disconcerting, like she was meeting a whole ’nother stranger, not her stranger. Actually, like she wasn’t seeing a stranger at all.
And when he caught her staring, his hot gaze…
Katy let her knees give out and plopped on her straw bed on the floor and folded her legs up to her chin. A spark definitely snapped between them every time they drew close. What the hell was she going to do? Everything—everything—was alien. In the smoky, fitful torchlight, the men had no qualms stripping until buck naked and sleeping in the same room as everyone else.
Dogs and cats roamed and fought over scraps of food. Someone on her left let rip a loud fart, and from her right came a moan and a slick slapping sound. A man hunched on a bench, his hand moving—oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.
She whipped around and scooted under her rough, wool blanket, yanking it over her head. Didn’t these people think masturbating was a sin in this time? Clearly, they flagrantly ignored the Church.
Again, her hand reached for her absent phone, and she tightened it into a fist. Maybe if she went to sleep, she’d wake up and find this was all a nightmare. One could hope, right? At the moment, she’d settle for being able to close her eyes and obliterate the strange sounds and sights. And smells.
One breath. Two. She’d control the panic that surged through her, threatening to erupt into either a hysterical laugh or a bout of tears. She locked those emotions down. She wouldn't lose it. She wouldn't. Her situation always got worse when she lost control and let her emotions take over.
Her measured breaths were largely working, but then, oh God, that chest, gleaming in the torchlight, painted across her eyelids. She groaned in frustration.
Katy stepped through the rushes strewn across the floor, her hand gripping the cloak tight by her neck. In the shadows around her loomed overlarge depictions of medieval knights with their hacking swords and rearing horses. A cleaved head here. A bloody sword there.
“They’re just drawings,” she whispered.
Still, with the flickering light, the battle scenes painted in stark red and black seemed larger, more menacing. She shivered and stepped around another snoring figure.
She’d woken up in the middle of the night needing to pee. Badly. But where to go? Did they have some kind of bathroom? Did she dare explore?
She reached the far wall, and the general smell of the hall—stale sweat, stale food—sharpened to a more specific smell—eau de latrine. She saw a naked man leave from an alcove in the wall further ahead.
Over her shoulder, a horse’s hooves thrashed in its frozen tableau. Breath held, she did her business, but, oh God, she needed to get the hell out of Ye Olde Middle Ages.
Shivering against the dank morning chill of the castle, Katy retreated into a dark corner. Servants rushed about rousing everyone, and men crowded near smoky fires eating. In the dim morning light filtering through the small windows, the details popped more than they had in last night’s gloom. Richly carved stone arched over the windows and doors. She craned her neck and—stone-carved human heads?—supported the vaulted roof. And the fighting knights and horses painted on the walls returned to being flat representations.
Alfred tugged on her sleeve. “We must grab what fare we can.” He motioned toward one of the hearth fires. He’d arrived earlier and said her knight was to return shortly. Oddly, without him she grew more fearful, like her lack of knowledge of her surroundings made her more exposed, more vulnerable, without him as a shield. Yep, she’d stick to him like the small dagger at his side until she got her case back, if that was possible with the siege. But in one thing she was determined—if there was any way to get outside safely, she would.
She grabbed a hunk of bread and cheese and, gaze darting around, sniffed both. She bit into the crusty loaf, the taste like a rich, wholegrain bread, with a subtle dash of some spice. The hard cheese was not unlike the farmer’s cheese they’d had on one of their stops through South Wales, only a tad saltier. She scarfed down both. Thank God for all the newcomers inside the castle wa
lls—no one questioned her presence. Though, what was Robert speculating? His stare had bored into her at various times yesterday, and she knew that once they could communicate, he’d have some questions. Questions she couldn’t answer. So she needed to find her case before he got the chance to ask.
As if her thoughts conjured him, Robert strode through the large hall doors, his body moving with power and grace and ease across the rush-strewn floor. He seemed unaware that the other knights and men subtly signaled with their postures that they found him superior in strength.
She stilled. Part of her was relieved to see him, though another part, the stronger, practical part, not so much. Each time he drew near, another hook to this time slipped into her, holding her here.
She straightened. This was not her life. She would resist.
The light behind and above him highlighted the dark green tunic draped over his chainmail shirt and leggings. Lord knew what they were called. The chainmail hood bunched loose around his neck and back. Unlike yesterday, his head wasn’t encased in the quilted hood, leaving his wavy dark—almost black—hair to curl just past his ears. One errant piece fell across his forehead as he strode toward her, his expressionless eyes locked on hers. Though not quite expressionless. She’d swear frustration lurked there. Combined with his controlled, almost conscious movements as he drew nearer, it seemed he was just as bothered by this…this attraction that pulled.
His trim mustache and beard hugged his upper lip, chin, and jaw, and all she could think, as he stalked toward her, was—Good God, how manly. Sign her up as a beard fan now, please.
Shit. Knowing this was the same man from last night now clad again in his hunky knightly armor was a strange aphrodisiac. Yeah, a hot look, no denying. And this wasn’t some reenactor posing in his gear. This was the real freaking deal—a knight who knew how to fight and had scars as proof.
Robert stopped at his trunk in the corner, raked a glance down her body that left her feeling exposed, and retrieved his helmet, a fancy number that sloped into an almost-point, topped with a crest, and a green cloth knotted and tied to fall down the back. The face guard had two horizontal slits for eyes, and breathing holes below. He motioned her forward, handed over his helmet, and pointed to her and to his eyes.
Watch what I do, he seemed to say.
He pulled the beige quilted cap over his head, stuffing his hair inside, and tied it by a string at his chin. She knew why he wanted her to watch him—to train her as his squire—but that meant she noticed small details, like how strong, and well-formed his fingers were.
Stupid fingers.
He tugged his chain hood-thing over his head and drew the longer piece near his right ear around his neck and chin, fastening it closed by his other ear. Another string, woven through the chain links around his forehead, he pulled tight and knotted.
Next, flaps by his wrists encased his fingers, like mittens with a leather palm. Alfred had now scampered over, bread crumbs on his chin, and named each piece, but the strange names didn’t stick.
Robert stood motionless and watched her in anticipation. Oh, the helmet. She stepped close, steeling herself to his commanding, hypnotic presence, and handed it to him, his he-man scent trying to steal past her defenses. He nodded and placed the helmet atop his head.
A warm heat flushed her skin. She inhaled deeply and darted back. Every single inch was defensively covered, mainly with mail. Even his feet were covered by his leggings—no separate shoes, only spurs attached to his heels. Like chainmail footie pajamas, but, yeah, not. Surely they were lined with something and he wasn’t walking on chainmail alone.
Over the mail was a long green tunic thing with a coat of arms in white, gold, and red on his chest--a surcoat Alfred told her. At the waist, a loose leather belt.
The whole effect? Warrior. With a big, hard, sharp-edged, capital W.
Next to the sword at his waist, he hung a wicked-looking battle axe like it was nothing. He motioned her over, handed her a knife, and pointed to her belt. She gulped.
He retrieved another knife from his trunk and strapped it in place.
How many weapons did he need? He pointed to the staff that he’d bought for her yesterday and jerked his head toward the battlements. She clamped her fingers around the staff in a sweaty grip. Oh, shit. She…she couldn’t. No way. She stared at the deadly barbs at the end. Blood pounded hotly through her, cold sweat an acrid coating of fear on her skin. No way could she…could she push this into another human being.
Another knife went to Alfred, who, unlike her, looked extremely tickled by the loan.
All set, her heart pounding faster than their footsteps, they went through the main door, flanked by stone-carved figures of lance-wielding soldiers. In the early morning sunlight, a mist hugged the ground. Her breath rose in white-gray puffs in the chilly mountain air.
A stout wooden bridge stretched between the hall where they’d slept and the rectangular tower ahead, extending over a rock-strewn ditch. Another defensive measure? Presumably, defenders could destroy the bridge and hole up behind her in the hall. Once through the other tower and down the steps, they were back in the familiar courtyard where she’d been most of the day yesterday.
All around was frenetic activity. The insistent ta-ting, ta-ting of the blacksmith, the bleating from sheep that must’ve been herded within, folks jostling by on various errands. Robert made his way to the round tower that was obviously the command center for his captain, or whatever he was called. He found the man without much trouble and exchanged a few quick words. Like the other knights, only his face was visible, this one of a battle-hardened man in his early fifties.
She tugged Alfred’s sleeve. “What’s going on?”
Her translator jumped. This must be new for him too, though his rapt expression said he found it exciting, while she…yeah, not.
“We’re to head back to the middle tower. No movement as yet from the Welsh.”
“The Welsh? They’re the ones attacking?”
Alfred frowned, his expression bordering on questioning her wits. “Aye.”
What had the various Welsh tour guides said? Some turbulent years where the Normans fought the Welsh, so she must be during that time—eleven or twelve hundreds?
“Alfred, what year is it?”
“What year?”
“Yes.”
He scratched his chin. “I believe it to be the twentieth year of good King Edward’s reign.”
Okay. That didn’t help—she barely knew the names and order of the English monarchy, much less when each reigned. “Yes, but what year?”
He frowned again, head cocked.
Wait, didn’t they go by A.D.? “Anno Domini?”
He puffed up his chest. “It is twelve hundred and ninety-three, no, ninety-four years since the birth of Our Lord Jesus Christ.”
1294? Oh God. She continued walking, legs feeling like half-baked biscotti, racking her brain for scraps of history from that time. And drew a blank.
Then she sucked in a deep breath and stumbled. When was the Great Plague? Think.
No, wait, she had a few years to go. She couldn’t remember exactly when, but sometime in the thirteen hundreds, because for school tests she’d associated it with unlucky thirteen.
Still. 1294? Yikes.
Right now, she’d chew off her right arm to be curled up on her sofa in the safety of her Stratford East London apartment, chenille throw wrapped tight around her knees, favorite book in hand.
“And it’s early October?”
“Aye.”
At the tower, Robert spoke with Alfred, who looked like he was pleading. Robert shook his head and pointed back toward the villagers’ camp.
Alfred turned to her, his lower lip sticking out. “I must leave you now. Sir Robert wishes me to return to my family. For my safety,” the last said with all the disdain of a pre-teen. “Since you are his squire, you may remain with him.”
Oh, joy. “Thank you for helping me. I hope to see you again
soon.”
“On the walls above are shallow bowls filled with water. He wants you to watch them for vibrations and alert him if you espy such.”
“Why? What does that mean?”
“That someone might be tunneling under the walls.”
Tunneling under the—her gaze snapped to said walls. Oh, man, she was so in over her head. People’s lives were going to depend on her?
With that, she shuffled after Robert as he mounted the stone steps, which switched back on themselves. His chainmail-clad feet dinged against the stone surface as he climbed. At the top, he ducked through an archway onto the inner wall that extended to the round tower. But Robert entered a covered hallway to the left that ran along the outside of the middle tower and formed part of the wall overlooking the space between the two gates—what had that tour guide at Caernarfon called it? The outer bailey?
Their steps echoed in the cool, dark, stone interior. At the door on the far side, he held up a hand—wait—and stepped into the sunlight. She hovered by the stone-framed doorway, while he consulted with the guard on duty. The other man left his station and marched by her, silent.
Robert patrolled the wall without a single glance at her. She was alone.
She eased onto the parapet. In front of her, the wall overlooked the ditch between the middle tower and the keep, with a steep, rocky drop on the other side. To the right, a wall stretched in graduated steps down to the outer gate. She stepped up to the vee where these two walls met, dizzy at the height, and peeked between the stone gaps. Below—her heart sped up, thumping a you’re-so-near beat—was the ravine where she’d stumbled. If she could find a way down—and find her case—she could be with her bridesmaids having a cocktail. Hey, it was five o’clock somewhere. She stuck her head out farther and slumped back. Shit. Too high to jump. She peered back out. So close… She scoured the area for a glint of silver but saw nothing.
Trumpets blared all along the walls, startling her. And not a nice, I’ve-got-an-announcement-to-make kind of tooting. This was definitely a we’ve-got-incoming alarm. Her skin prickled at the menace, warning, and intent all packed into that shrill, blasting sound.
Must Love Chainmail Page 6
