Must Love Chainmail

by Angela Quarles

  The Mabinogion, an ancient Welsh romance

  “Jesus and all the saints,” Robert spat. What an unforgivable lapse in vigilance. He pushed Kaytee down, hoping she understood he wanted her out of sight.

  The small band of Welsh trotted into view and reined in at the clearing, their mounts prancing from side to side.

  On the surety of his soul, he’d venture ‘twas the same party they’d espied yester morn. One deftly slid from his horse and hefted his spear. The other two notched arrows and pulled, the creak of stretching sinew stark in the morning air, the shafts swooping down to aim straight for his chest. One of them grinned, mischief in his eyes, and dropped his aim still lower. At his giblets. Bastard.

  “Beth sydd ydym yma? A ydym yn torri ar draws rhywbeth?” the spear-wielder asked.

  “Speak French,” he growled to the speaker.

  Robert understood the query but thought it prudent to keep that a secret—he might glean information from their unguarded conversations. Plus, there was no chance in passing himself off as Welsh, since his allegiance and liege lord was plain for all to see in the arms displayed on his shield. Nor did he have a chance against the reach of the man’s spear and the two Welsh bowmen. Alone, mayhap he’d have attempted, but not with Kaytee to protect.

  He also entertained a thread of hope as to the outcome. The Welsh bred strong, swift horses, but the terrain favored infantry. The horses’ mere presence meant these men were wealthy or were in the retinue of someone of wealth. If so, Robert and Kaytee had a chance to escape with their lives.

  “I was merely speculating what we must have interrupted between you and…” the spearman leaned sideways and looked down, “…your lady.”

  “None of your damn business.” Robert took up a defensive stance—By God’s holy teeth, he’d protect her if their minds took an evil turn.

  “No doubt you are correct. Now, there is no need for bloodshed.” The man eyed Perceval, Robert’s shield with his lord’s heraldic markings, and nodded, saying, “You ought to fetch a decent price. We shall work out the terms of your ransom back at Rhuthun castle. As for your wench, well…”

  “She’s not my wench. She’s my lady wife,” he heard himself saying.

  Kaytee gasped behind him, and he prayed she’d contradict him not. No other remedy existed if she wished to be decently treated. In truth, the Welsh treated their women better than his own people, but he’d rather not consign her to their tender mercies. If she possessed value as a hostage, though…

  Besides, he’d been the one to endanger her with his carelessness. He’d erred. Greatly. By not venturing farther off the path for their camp. By forgoing basic defensive measures due to his lust. By not hearing them sooner…due to this lust. If he had, he could have collapsed their structure and burrowed into the nearby forest’s depths until the danger passed. But he hadn’t.

  His captor grinned. “Even better. So I have your word as a knight in the king’s service that you and your lady wife are my hostages, the price of your freedom to be determined once we reach our castle?”

  “How can you have a castle? All were forfeit to the crown a dozen years ago.”

  His captor’s grin spread wider. “A little matter of re-appropriating what was ours.” He motioned with his spear. “So, your word as a knight?”

  “Yes,” he ground out.

  “Very well, then. I’m Rhys ap Owen. Make haste and dress yourselves. A long day we have ahead of us.”

  Katy might only have the barest grasp of what was happening, but one thing was certain—she’d been saddle-bound for five-plus hours as their captors headed northeastward.

  Anger and confusion frazzled her nerves, though the anger had settled into a slow burn. What could happen next? Anything. Not a comfortable feeling.

  She clutched her mantle closer—damn Robert. Yeah, she understood why he claimed her as a spouse—to protect her—but it rankled. She’d wanted to turn around and conk him on the head. Another event happening to her without her say. Another event she could not control as if the whirlwind she’d dared step into with Robert last night had careened off with a life of its own. This was why she avoided spontaneity.

  Thank the self-preservation gods the Welsh had interrupted whatever had happened between her and Robert. It scared her, made her heart trip along faster than the horse’s hoofbeats, at how fully and how quickly she’d thrown herself into that. She doubted she’d have had the strength to stop on her own.

  A small, still rational, part of her knew she was blaming Robert for everything she couldn’t control, but…

  Now she was just freaking exhausted, with no idea when these cheerful Welsh warriors would stop for the night. Though she supposed she should be grateful for the simple lady’s tunic he’d procured at the abbey. Saved questions. She touched the piece of bark tucked into her waistband. Earlier, at their first break along a beautiful lake which they traveled alongside for a good while, she’d found the smooth clear bark, and with a piece of flint, she’d made a rough map of their path.

  Crude, and probably useless, but it helped. Somewhat. At each stop, updating the map helped her feel as if she had some control. And in between each stop, memorizing the features, their path’s twists and turns, occupied her mind.

  She leaned back and let herself rest against Robert, something she’d resisted.

  He wrapped an arm around her, pulled her tight against him. Warmth and security spread over her. That felt good. Dammit.

  A shout came from ahead, and the leader answered. In the lowering afternoon light, columns of smoke spiraled skyward, and darker shapes moved among the trees, accompanied by the sound of barking dogs, wood being chopped, and the low hum of voices.

  As they neared the camp, the shapes resolved into men erecting small shelters, others building fires and cooking food. How many were there? Too many for her to count.

  Their captors led them into the center, and the leader—Rhys?—talked to another, who studied Robert and Katy and nodded. Rhys directed them to a clearing that fetched up against a rock outcropping. He jumped off his horse and grabbed Perceval’s reins.

  “We camp here. Unload your burdens, and assist us,” he said in French.

  They slid to their feet, Katy unable to suppress a groan at her protesting muscles. Probably not the best time to quip about being ridden hard in more ways than one. Robert put an arm around her and walked her to a rock. “Sit. I will assist them.”

  She nodded, slumped onto the rock, and sighed. The movement and new position returned feeling to certain portions of her anatomy.

  Robert unharnessed Perceval and unstrapped their few possessions from his packhorse. She watched, quiet, as they collected branches and constructed a crude lean-to against the rock outcropping. When they were done, two short hide and stick walls jutted out from the rock, with a roof of the same stretching across. All in all, quite large and roomy for the two of them, and her spirits lifted. Until they filled the space with four pallets of hide, side by side, with a fifth stretching across the feet at the entrance.

  So all of their party were going to be crammed in there. Oh joy.

  Robert assisted their captors in making camp, praying he had enough money saved to effect their release.

  During their journey, Kaytee’s cooperation—not only with his lie, but also protesting not their capture, nor giving any trouble—was admirable. But as the day progressed and his few attempts at conversation had been met with short replies, he noted her body’s posture. He’d grown accustomed to watching it for meaningful clues these past days and, combined with their new intimacy, he easily read the subtle signs. She was not composed. She was seething.

  For some reason, the realization heartened him, admiration for her fortitude swelling. Despite the chance of another part swelling, he’d ached to wrap his arms around her delectable form and pull her close. But he’d refrained, sensing that part of her anger was with him. So when she finally relaxed and sought his comfort, just before they approache
d the camp, his relief had been acute.

  He was not forgiven, but she’d called a truce.

  Now they were heading back to the lean-to after spending a considerable time around the fire eating with their captors as they passed wine skins and shared ribald jokes. They spoke in Welsh, but either dared not risk that he’d lied about understanding their language, or genuinely had no important information to discuss, for they talked only of their successful raid against one of King Edward’s convoys and other previous feats. He noted the number of men, however, and their weapons and supplies. Most wielded spears typical of the northern Welsh, but the presence of archers attested to perhaps a southern Welsh alliance.

  The Welsh wit was the hardest to endure, for it took great effort to pretend he understood it not. For as long as he dared, he’d remained at the fire side, hoping some morsel of information would slip, but when Kaytee’s eyes drooped, he’d bade them good night and tossed into the fire that night’s whittling.

  “Wait,” he said when she moved to drop to her pallet. “Sit here first.” He drew back her cover and pointed to the middle of her pallet. She slumped bonelessly down. He grabbed his pallet’s hides and spread the fur against the sloping rock behind her.

  He settled himself against the upright perch and parted his legs. “Here, sleep with your back against me. I shall protect you better this way.”

  She nodded, shuffled closer, and leaned back against him. Her unique womanly scent washed over him, and he fortified his resolve, though having her so close on a bed of furs fired his blood. She dragged her fur up, and he draped his extra across, tucking it in around her shoulders and arms.

  “I do not fancy having one of them lying next to you. Besides, I wish not for your pinkie to wander.” He wrapped his arms around her, cinching her against him.

  She lurched up. “I would not—”

  “Shh.” He held her fast so she’d not disturb the blankets. “I tease.” He kissed the top of her head, the fine hairs silky against his lips. He inhaled and placed another kiss at the crown. “Go to sleep, my sweeting.”

  She was quiet for a moment. “What about you?”

  “Worry not for me.”

  “Will you be able to sleep like this?”

  “I’ll not be sleeping.”

  “But—”

  “Relax. I know you’re tired.” He nestled her closer. “I also know you’re wroth with me and wish to vent your spleen. I promise I’ll give you a chance to yell at me anon.”

  “I don’t want to yell at you.” She struggled again in her cocoon.

  “Yes, you do. And I blame you not. You shall have your chance.”

  She huffed. “Now, I want to yell at you.”

  He chuckled and stroked the ends of her glossy, black hair where it lay against her neck. Her breaths slowly evened out. She’d fallen into slumber.

  The Welsh continued to carouse, trading jokes and stories, and the fires slowly bled out. How his cock could be at full attention while in the middle of an enemy encampment, Robert could not fathom, but he did have Kaytee nestled temptingly and trustingly against him, so he forgave his pintel for being so ignorant of their situation. For she was unlike any other woman. Who would have known such passion lay under that calm exterior. To be the one to bring out that side of her again, how he ached for it. Curse these Welsh.

  He grinned. But then his smile froze. He’d meant what he said. He couldn’t marry her. Even if his suit were granted, he must ally with an heiress who brought her own property in her marriage portion, to bolster and solidify his gains and position in the court of King Edward.

  He gazed down on her short hair, a dark splash across his chest. He knew not what to do, but giving her up? That, he was not yet willing to do. He lifted a hand to smooth her hair away from her soft cheek, but let it drop.

  So beautiful… Who was she? He studied what little of her face he could behold from this angle and the flickering light from the surrounding fires. Her pert nose, lush lips and…he suppressed a chuckle…those lips now emitted quiet little puffs of air as she softly snored.

  He leaned his head against the rock. Christ, when was the last time he’d seen the humor in life? And now, of all places, in an enemy camp, with a strange woman who made him burn. Burn with desire. Burn with need. A desire and need not only for her and her body, but for something he couldn’t quite name.

  Her reply to his bout of honesty last night came back to him, when he said he couldn’t marry her—I cannot, either.

  He frowned at her sleeping form.

  “Why not?” he whispered.

  “If I never sit on another horse again, it’ll be too soon,” Katy whispered.

  Yet again, she’d listed to the side, and she gripped Robert’s arm banded around her waist. Robert and Katy rode in the midst of their escort, now increased to five since breaking camp that morning. Each step of their horse took her farther and farther from her goal, and as they ambled through the flatter terrain, what little chance she had of rendezvousing with the villagers dwindled.

  The more they traveled, the more her ability to cope stretched thinner and thinner. How would she find her way? The sweeping mountain vistas of northern Wales were breathtaking, sure. But the vastness…the vastness seemed to overtake all and left her feeling…lost.

  And her pitiful map? Ha.

  Panic and a touch of hysteria threatened to crawl up her throat and emerge as either a scream or a crazy laugh. She swallowed hard. Plus, she was dirty, tired, and convinced she had an insect or two in her hair.

  As the deep shadows of dusk settled over the valley, their party halted at a clearing. Finally. Robert slid off the saddle and clasped her around the waist. Too exhausted to protest, she accepted his help off Perceval. But in the shifting movements, she stumbled upon landing, her bark map slipping loose. Perceval sidestepped out of her way and stepped on it with a crunch.

  “Oh, shit.” No, no, no.

  She fell to her knees and picked up the small pieces of bark. Her one link to some semblance of control, gone. She opened her mouth, and what came out was not a scream or a hysterical laugh, but a howl of frustration that echoed around the forest. She pounded her fists on the ground, and tears choked her throat.

  And then she stopped her howl-snivel fest mid-choke. Horror and shame flushed her skin. She never acted out like this. Well…not since her eighth birthday. What the hell was happening to her? Had she finally lost her mind?

  A warm arm draped over her shoulders, and she recognized Robert’s scent. “What troubles you?”

  “My map. It’s destroyed.” God, that sounded stupid out loud, because, really, what kind of map had it been? Probably not something she could’ve used. But dammit, so much of her need was wrapped up within the stupid thing—her need to find some way to organize and make sense of her surroundings and her situation—and it was gone.

  Whether he sensed this somehow, or to humor the crazy lady, he kept quiet, gathered her up, and held her tightly as she fought and then gave in to the wracking sobs.

  After a moment, she angled away and wiped her nose. Not very lady-like, but at this point, who cared? She pulled in a deep breath and risked a peek at Robert. What would he think of such a loss of composure?

  Under his eyes, dark circles bruised the skin, his mouth rigid with strain. He hadn’t made up his sleep while in the saddle, and knowing him, he’d insist on staying up all night again to protect her. This she could fix. This she could control.

  She opened her mouth to tell him not to stay up, when he asked, “It’s not just the map, is it?”

  She looked away, unnerved by how well he understood her. “No,” she whispered. “I feel so out of control. Where are we, Robert? What will happen?”

  “Ease your mind on the former. I know these lands. As to what will happen, I know not. But we will get out of this, I promise you.”

  She flapped her hands, anxious energy coursing through her. “How can you be so calm?”

  He got to his fe
et, unfolding with an easy grace. He held out a hand, his dark eyes focused solemnly on hers. “Come with me.”

  “For what?”

  “That’s part of the lesson.” Was it her imagination, or did a twinkle of humor stir in those eyes? “Center yourself, and grab onto the here and now.”

  That made no sense—what was he now, Sir Medieval Zen Master? But she slipped her hand into his strong, calloused one. He hauled her up until she bumped into his chest. With a finger under her chin, he tilted her face until she looked in his eyes.

  “Listen to the world around you. Hear the birds? Hear the small animals scurrying? You are in this moment, this moment only, and sometimes that’s all you can do, all you can be.” His finger pulled away, brushing against her skin, and he tapped her nose, stepping away.

  He scanned their surroundings, picked up a good size rock, and held it out to her.

  Stupefied, she accepted it. “What is this for?”

  “Sometimes, I find movement, movement of any kind, can ease the frustration when I feel overwhelmed. Movement also helps ground me in the moment.” He nodded to the rock. “Throw it as hard as you can.”

  “At you?” she asked with a slight teasing note in her voice.

  “To be honest, I rather hoped you would toss it in the other direction. Put your arm into it, and give a good shout.”

  She eyed the rock, and then him, and his eyes grew wary. The rock’s rough contours bit into her palm’s soft flesh, and she imagined doing something so friggin’ out of character.

  A strange clarity punctured the surface of her frustration and sense of helplessness—she was done. Done with being poised. Done with trying to be perfect. Done with behaving exactly as she should. All her life, she’d constricted herself to this…this role…this need out of…out of…

  What?

  What exactly drove her?

  Fear.

  Ha. Yes. Fear that if she lost control—didn’t show her best self—her world would fall apart. Fall apart as someone she loved left her. Like her father.