Must Love Chainmail

by Angela Quarles

  He gathered up Kaytee’s limp body and gingerly placed her over Alfred’s lap.

  He stared at his trunk and then at Alfred. “Thank you.”

  Bless them—that paltry trunk represented all his hopes and dreams, and to lose it now was not something he wished to contemplate.

  He lashed his trunk and Kaytee’s sack on his pack horse, attached him to Perceval by a lead and, with a last glance at the burning courtyard, followed the others through the sally port, picking his way down the sharp incline. He risked a peek at Kaytee. While the bleeding had stopped, her color wasn’t good, and her wound needed tending.

  Once they gained the valley floor, he threaded past the others in the retreating column until he reached the castle’s chirurgeon.

  “Attend to my squire, if you please.”

  The healer’s gaze jerked to his, eyes wide. “Now, sir? But the savages could be on us any minute.”

  “Be that as it may, my squire requires attention.”

  “Begging your pardon, sir, but I’m responsible for all. I cannot separate from them to attend to one.”

  “The chirurgeon is right, half breed,” sneered de Buche. “Mayhap you could petition your kin for succor. They should be on us soon.”

  Robert stared into the mean gray eyes of his boyhood nemesis and fought for control.

  De Buche leaned down from his saddle to bring his face closer to Robert’s. “After all, your family has a history of being traitors, no?”

  Enough. Kaytee needed him. Robert turned his back to him and said in short, clipped tones to the healer, “Provide me with some ointment. I will see to my squire myself.”

  The healer grumbled, dug into his bag, and pulled out an earthenware jar and a clean rag. He smeared a generous dollop onto the cloth and handed it to Robert, along with a spare bandage, and a small earthenware jar. “Elder oil for you to boil and pour over the wound and a salve. Godspeed, sir.”

  Robert tied it closed and continued with the column as they hurried along. He kept a lookout for Sir Hugh.

  At last, his former lord’s surcoat bobbed into view, and Robert approached. “I must see to my squire. Do you know where we are headed?”

  “What do you mean to do?” Sir Hugh’s vigilant gaze roamed the valley behind.

  “My squire was wounded during the retreat. I must attend to him.”

  His gaze snapped back to Robert’s. “By God’s spleen, you cannot mean to halt now. The Welsh will overrun the castle soon enough and could send out a party in pursuit.”

  “Regardless, his wound requires attention. Should be but the work of a moment.”

  “I like this not, Robert.”

  “You need not, but distract Staundon with regards to me. I should be able to join you ere he notices, but in the event I’m delayed, do you know where he plans to break for the night?”

  Staundon’s greyhound loped by, and Sir Hugh’s horse sidestepped, head jerking in annoyance. “He mentioned making for Cymer Abbey by taking the eastern path around the mountains and camping along the Afon Mawddach River.”

  “Cymer? That’s over twelve miles.”

  “Aye, he means to press through the evening.” Sir Hugh looked from side to side. “There’s not much shelter, Robert. Be careful, and be quick.”

  “I will. I mean only to make for yonder stream, clean the wound, put on what is surely a foul-smelling salve the chirurgeon gifted me, bind the injury, and return.”

  He turned to Alfred, still perched on Perceval. “I need you to continue on with them, lad. I’ll be able to catch up on my horse better with only one other passenger.”

  “I could ride atop your packhorse,” he squeaked.

  “Nay. Your family will want you with them. I’ll see you anon, lad.”

  Alfred gave a slow nod and slid down Perceval’s side, careful to keep Kaytee across the saddle. Robert ruffled the boy’s blond locks and nudged his back to send him on his way. With a final nod to Sir Hugh and Perceval’s lead in his mailed fist, Robert turned away, only to be brought up short by a hand on his arm.

  Sir Hugh bent down from his saddle, his gaze locked with Robert’s. “Be careful, my friend. Tarry not. It will not aid your cause with the king if you anger Staundon.” He finished with a glare at de Buche’s back.

  “Aye.” Robert clapped his former lord’s shoulder and pulled on Perceval’s lead, pushing through the bilberry and Welsh poppies to reach the sloping bank of Afon Cadair. Quiet descended as the last of the column threaded out of sight. He searched along the river’s length as long as he dared until he found a rocky outcropping that sheltered them from view. A moment to attend to this task, and he’d be on his way, likely not far behind the last of the stragglers. He’d be caught up with them in a half hour, at most. In the chaos, Staundon wouldn’t notice his absence as long as Robert returned to the retreating line. If worst came to worst, he’d catch up with them tonight.

  He eased Kaytee off the horse and settled her down on the mossy bank. Curse it, but she was still unconscious. He peeled back his mail mittens and tied them at his wrist to give his fingers free range and pushed her sleeve up over the broken shaft of the arrow. Careful not to disturb her, he unwrapped his crude bandage.

  At the sight of the long, narrow arrowhead, he breathed easier. The barb had not penetrated but instead had lodged in the fleshy area of her upper arm and should heal clean. Frankly, he was surprised it hadn’t fallen out on its own.

  He tore the healer’s extra bandage into strips and wet a piece in the river. He skimmed his hand up the smooth skin of her arm and held it in place. Gently, he withdrew the arrow, and her lips pursed, her head and arm jerking. He placed a hand on her shoulder, hating that he’d had to hurt her.

  “Shh. Shh… I seek only to remove the arrow. All will be fine.” She couldn’t understand him, he knew, but he fervently prayed his tone communicated his meaning. Cries of panic he could not risk, nor any delay she might cause from it. The Welsh were too close. The longer he lingered, the more exposed he felt.

  He pressed the wet cloth to her arm and cleaned the wound. He looked anxiously at her face. Christ on the cross, it was a little paler than before. Fresh blood welled from the wound, and whilst he applied pressure, he ran through different options should the Welsh pursue.

  He dared not tarry further. He opened the bundle containing the healer’s ointment and brought it to his nose. A pungent, noxious odor seared his nostrils.

  He jerked his head away. Vile. What was in this stuff?

  Actually, he’d rather not know.

  He scooped a portion and smeared the greasy concoction over her wound, using gentle strokes, careful not to cause her additional pain. Taking the last strip of cloth, he wound it securely around her arm and knotted it.

  She mumbled, and her eyes fluttered open. When her hazel eyes snagged his through the horizontal slits in his helm, they widened. She moved her arms as if to rise, winced, and slumped back. Low, questioning tones in her strange tongue fell from her shapely lips.

  He swallowed to moisten his dry throat and motioned to her arm. In his own tongue, he said slowly, “You were wounded.”

  Her eyes searched frantically around, her unwounded arm clutching at the clothes covering her chest. She visibly relaxed. Upon seeing they were alone, he expected her to shrink from him, but she surprised him by regarding him with eyes bold, not in invitation, but absent of fear, and it puzzled him.

  His fingers itched to have an excuse to run down the soft—so soft—skin of her arm. She’d flattened her chest in some manner, but he knew what lush flesh lay beneath. He could lean over and test how her lips tasted, see if they were as soft and sweet as he imagined. A keen yearning suffused and thickened the air between them. Her eyes darkened, and her breaths grew short, like his.

  God’s balls, he couldn’t afford to be distracted by her. He slammed his control into place and lurched to his feet. He yanked off his helm and let it dangle from its chain at his belt. Water. They needed water. He stompe
d to his rouncey and rummaged for his traveling pouch, which he always had filled with provisions for such times as these. He removed a leather flask and picked his way through the brush to the swiftly flowing river and filled it.

  At her side again, he eased his arm behind her shoulder, ignoring her warmth and scent, now absent that exotic fruit smell, but enticing nevertheless. He clenched his jaw and tapped the edge of the flask to her lips. Her eyes expressed her thanks, and he watched as her throat moved with her swallows. When she drew away from the flask and nodded, he settled her against the ground. He broke off a hunk of manchet bread and handed it to her. Eat, he urged with his eyes. Whilst she gratifyingly obeyed, he refilled and stoppered the flask.

  He hated to ask this of her, but safe they were not. By now, the Welsh would have secured the castle. “We must go.” He pointed to them both and to his horses.

  She pulled in a ragged breath and nodded, saying something like “Je comprends,” similar enough to “I understand.” So, he’d not been mistaken that she spoke a strange dialect of French.

  When she finished her bread, he held out his hand. Her warm fingers slipped into his, and he tugged her upright, admiring her grace. He returned his flask to his travel pouch, donned his helm, and reattached his mittens. Fabric stirred behind him, and her foot slipped into the stirrup. She bounced on her toes several times, but with only one functioning arm, it was clear she couldn’t mount unassisted. Besides, he needed to mount first.

  Locking down all feeling, he stepped behind her and stilled her. He swung up, reached down, and pulled her onto his lap, since there wasn’t room enough for them both in a saddle meant to fit him snugly in both front and back. With her tempting thighs atop his, he urged Perceval up the rough path to the broad valley, her back brushing against his chest. But as he cleared the last stand of brush and trees, the open terrain filled him with unease. He noted the sun’s position.

  By all the saints’ holy testicles, he’d spent more time than he’d planned tending her wound. And though ’twould be faster to use this open trail, it was too risky—they were too visible from all vantage points.

  Move faster and reach the others at a canter in an hour at most—and risk being seen without the defensive benefit of numbers? Or head back to the river and take advantage of the cover it provided, and pick their way on that rocky and rough terrain at a much slower pace?

  He canted his head to the side and examined Kaytee’s pale face, soft in the filtered light from the cloud-covered sun.

  Curse it.

  Chapter Ten

  And there arose a storm of wind and rain, so that it was hardly possible to go forth with safety. And being weary with their journey, they laid themselves down and sought to sleep.

  The Mabinogion, an ancient Welsh romance

  Begrudging the lost time, Robert swung Perceval about and headed back to the river and its safer path, his rouncey easily navigating behind to follow. A walk short of a full trot should bring them into camp shortly after they bedded down for the night. Mayhap in the chaos of setting up their camp, his absence wouldn’t be noted. For Sir Hugh was right, ‘twould not reflect well on his petition to the king if he were thought to have abandoned his duties.

  In front of him, Kaytee held herself rigid. It couldn’t be comfortable sitting astride the high pommel. One arm he kept loosely around her waist to hold her steady, though he longed to pull her against him, to feel her back along his front, mayhap to ease one hand up her waist to the lush curve of… He stiffened. By Saint John’s sacred jaw bone, ‘twas good they were not entwined so.

  After a moment, in her curious voice, she pointed to an oak and said something close to tree. He nodded and repeated with his own pronunciation, and she continued on in that manner with several other objects, an activity they maintained for the space of the sun to travel lower toward the horizon.

  Her French puzzled him. In some respects, it resembled the French of the king’s court on the Ile de France, more polished than the Norman dialect spoken in England. At other times, it differed completely from it and his own. Some consonants she pronounced with a harder sound, and once he understood which, he could anticipate the differences.

  He grew hopeful they could soon converse, but erelong he had other concerns, for dark clouds amassed overhead, and a biting wind whipped through their valley, whistling through the trees and fluttering and snapping the folds of his surcoat behind.

  Still no sign of his party ahead. Backward glance—no sign of pursuit. Or sound.

  At the ford over a tributary of the Afon Cadair, he stopped. The bank on his side showed the retreating party had turned east as planned, following the branch to Lake Tal-y-llyn. To the north, however, was the western spur of the mountain. They could ford the river and take the Rhin Gwredydd pass over the mountain.

  Dare he risk it? In the mountain slopes above, the Welsh could be found, for all knew they inhabited the upper regions and left the valleys for the foreigners, for the Normans and English. He could eliminate at least five miles from their journey in this manner—he might then meet their party as they swung to the north of the mountain range.

  He forded the river. After they crossed three small streams, rain drops landed on Kaytee’s increasingly pale face, and he urged Perceval into a trot, cursing that the terrain prevented a faster pace. If only they could reach the camp before it rained in earnest. But when sheets of rain began to pelt them, turning the earth to slippery and slick mud along the stones, Kaytee quieted and began to shiver, and he knew they could not continue. They must find shelter, and fast.

  He reined in Perceval and listened to the forest, but only the hard hammering rain and the gushing river filled his senses. Crossing quickly through the pass was one thing, but seeking shelter on the slopes was another matter altogether.

  Kaytee’s chattering teeth decided him. He clucked to his mount and guided him across the river and upslope to the west, praying he’d find a hafod, one of the many summer huts used by Welsh herdsmen. Unbidden, a memory of tending a herd with Pedr, his mother’s uncle, the summer of Robert’s sixth year flooded him with pleasant warmth. He’d felt like such a man, helping his uncle, sheltering overnight, just the two of them, in a hafod.

  The sun dipped lower as he scoured the mountain slope, working steadily upslope, but he finally found a round animal hide and bark structure, large enough to sleep four. He quickly dismounted and turned in time to catch Kaytee from slumping off the side. He grasped her tightly around the waist and lifted her free of the saddle, cradling her trembling form against his chest like a babe. He hustled them into the shelter.

  “Thank the Virgin Mary,” he whispered as water dripped from his face guard. The previous occupant had left a short stack of hides, clean straw, and several bundles of chopped wood and dry kindling. In the center of the ceiling, there was a smoke vent.

  He eased her onto a bed of straw, and she softly moaned. He must get her dry and warm. Cursing, he whipped off his helm and built up a fire using the flint from his travel pouch and dry kindling, risking notice but praying the Welsh would assume only another of their kind would dare be up this high in the mountains. When the fire’s first warm tendrils curled and crackled into their space, he looked at Kaytee’s shivering, wet form.

  No choice. “Begging your pardon, I must undress you. You must needs get warm and dry.” She responded not, and a slight wedge of fear entered his heart.

  Christ, had she lost consciousness? He peeled back his mittens and, with efficient fingers, stripped off her wet garments. There was nothing sensual about his actions. It was a matter of survival, and he focused on each step he must accomplish.

  He paused, fingers poised at the knot under her arm holding the bindings around her breasts, a testament to her desire to pass for a man. But they were soaked.

  Her health. Her health was paramount.

  He closed his eyes and drew in a calming breath, willing a cool indifference. Ready, his own fingers stiff with cold and shaking, h
e loosened the knot—ignore her lush curves—until she lay before him, naked down to her braies and shivering. He snatched a hide and rubbed it vigorously in her hair and over her back, arms, torso and legs, which…were oddly smooth, as bare as a baby’s bottom. He frowned. Yes, much about her was strange.

  He shook his head to redirect his attention. He needed to get her not only dry, but warm. He wrapped a dry hide about her shoulders and spread another on her legs.

  Not enough. He shoved two of the straw mats over to the fire and stretched another hide across it, fur side up. He transferred her to the makeshift pallet, tucked the hides over her, and waited.

  Only then did he notice the wet, cold clothes wicking into his quilted gambeson. Blast it. His mail would rust if he did not have a care. But first, Perceval and his rouncey.

  He coaxed his horses into the hafod, in the manner of peasants, but they needed tending, and their warmth would aid Kaytee. He divested Perceval of his accoutrements and rubbed him down, settling him against a wall once finished. He removed his rouncey’s burdens and tended to her as well.

  Grateful for his well-trained horses, he stripped down to his braies and laid their clothes on a straw mat. Not good enough; their clothes needed to dry faster. Outside the hafod, he searched until he found what he sought: two forked sticks and another long, straight one.

  Inside, he whittled the ends of the forked sticks into crude points and worked them into the ground. He dried the pole as best he could, stretched it between the sticks, and laid out their clothes. His fingers hesitated at the belt holding up his braies. They were soaked now too, and he dared not risk it. While hers had been too, he couldn’t bring himself to strip her that far. With quick movements, he dispensed with them and hung them over his makeshift drying rack.

  He extracted the wool blankets from his trunk, piled them over Kaytee’s still form, and crawled under them so he lay behind, but not touching her. Even at this distance, his warmth should help. The rain continued to beat against their roof, ever harder. Thank the saints they’d found this shelter in time.