Must Love Chainmail

by Angela Quarles

  But where had that fear gotten her? In the middle of a scary-ass war zone in medieval Wales. Where nothing could be controlled.

  A crazy, burbling need to laugh choked up her throat, and some of that need must have shown, because Robert’s eyes widened further.

  She spun around, pictured her fear stuffed into the rock, and—“Gah!”—flung it, her shout echoing and blending into the sounds of the forest, into the here and now. It smacked with a satisfying thunk into a nearby tree.

  “Feel better?” Robert’s voice was laced with understanding.

  She folded her arms as her adrenaline fizzled, leaving her shaky and shivery. “No.” But she did, slightly, and he knew it, judging by the tilt of his mouth. Not only had she felt as if she’d thrown away her fear, but also her need to always control.

  And now his tired, drawn features made her close the distance between them and place her hand on his arm, not out of a need to control, but because she did feel more connected to the moment, to her surroundings, and to him. And right now, he was tired.

  And they’d have more moments to get through tomorrow.

  “You don’t need to stay up this evening.”

  He looked down at her arm, then at her, his eyes dark and curious. He opened his mouth.

  She squeezed his arm. “How can you protect me tomorrow, if you don’t sleep tonight?”

  He grunted.

  “Are you afraid they’ll attack us in our sleep?”

  “No, we hold more value alive as hostages than dead.”

  She led them to their pallets, again encircled by other pallets. She sat down, sighing at her aching muscles, and caught his gaze. “You may, er, wrap your arms around me if that will make you feel I am safer.”

  He chuckled--a hoarse chuckle, rusty, but a chuckle nonetheless. She’d take it.

  “May I indeed?” He lay beside her and pulled her back against him, settling her head on his arm, bunching the other hide up to use as a pillow. “If I must.” His warm sigh tickled across her neck. “After all, I must ensure that pinkie does not wander.”

  Would Robert never let her forget that? Katy elbowed him, and he snickered in her ear.

  “Robert,” she whispered.

  “Hmm?” The low hum of his voice rumbled against her back.

  “Why do you throw away your wood carvings? I’ve seen them. They’re beautiful.”

  No answer. Around her, rustlings and calls from night animals increased as the camp settled. Had Robert fallen asleep? But he tightened his grip. “ ’Tis my way to ground myself, to be in the moment. Consigning them to the fire reinforces that they’re only a product of that moment.”

  As his breathing slowed and grew even, she let his words settle in and marveled at what had happened earlier. Never had she felt so emotionally raw, so out of sorts, and instead of her behavior driving Robert away, he’d understood. Understood and now held her, safe in his strong arms.

  And God help her, she couldn’t help comparing him to Preston. Which wasn’t fair. Preston had never seen her like that because she’d carefully managed her life and their relationship. Which should be ideal—the perfect relationship—but she suspected only proved it shallow, hollow. He’d never seen her true self.

  Chapter Nineteen

  And hereupon, behold there came the Queen and her handmaidens, and Peredur saluted them. And they were rejoiced to see him, and bade him welcome. And Arthur did him great honour and respect, and they returned towards Caerlleon.

  The Mabinogion, an ancient Welsh romance

  Mid-afternoon the next day, their party crossed a drawbridge into a gate between two towers, and into the bailey of Rhuthun Castle.

  “What a journey,” Katy groaned, massaging the muscles in her thighs.

  “One that is almost over. Fear not, we shall be treated well within.”

  God, she hoped so. First thing on her list—rustling up a hot bath.

  They rode Perceval through the gathering crowd, who cheered a hero’s welcome to their five escorts and stared with open curiosity at her and Robert. She swallowed hard and straightened as much as her abused muscles allowed.

  Robert’s soft gasp rasped near her ear, and his whole body went rigid.

  “What, Robert?” She angled her head to see his face, a face set in tense lines as he stared into the crowd. Confusion and pain crossed his face, and he looked sharply away.

  She whipped around and scanned in the direction of his gaze. Then she saw her. An older woman, proud and tall, hungrily drinking him in with her eyes. The way she stood… The proud angle of her chin… Katy’s heart thumped harder. His mother?

  A stable boy scampered forward and held Perceval’s reins. Ugh. Could she even lift a leg and slide out of the saddle?

  Robert dismounted, his ramrod stiff back to the lady, and his warm hands clasped too tightly to Katy’s waist. “I have you.” His voice and actions, while solicitous, seemed too forced into this moment, as if in avoidance of something larger.

  She slid down, steadied by his sure, strong grip. She untied her bag and joined Robert. The boy led their horses into the stable, and Robert draped an arm around her waist and faced their captors. While his nearness and warmth made her aware of his determined poise, she was grateful for the support and inclusion. She was not alone.

  “What now?” he said evenly to Rhys.

  “Now we go within and present you and your lady to Madog ap Llywelyn. His men will see to your comfort.”

  “Madog is here?” Robert stepped forward, his grip tightening around her, his voice tinged with equal parts curiosity and unease.

  “Aye, he is. Arrived yesterday with his tuelo to consolidate our hold on this castle and the region.”

  Twela-what? Not a French-sounding word, so must be Welsh. Later, she’d ask Robert what it meant.

  “Very well.” Robert placed a comforting hand on the small of her back as Rhys forged a path through the bustling crowd. Katy glanced over her shoulder. The older woman kept pace with them on a parallel path.

  Soon they stepped into a large building set against the far wall, flanked by two towers. Like at the great hall at Castell y Bere, her feet crunched over rushes strewn across the floor, but this time, the action stirred up a pleasant scent of lavender. Rushlights flickered around the perimeter.

  A group of men congregated near one of the huge-ass fireplaces, and Rhys made introductions. But dang if any of the names registered—they were so different from what she was used to hearing. One man—the largest, and whose whole demeanor screamed I-lead-warriors-and-I-kick-ass—had a name she did catch: Madog ap Llywelyn. Like the other Welsh, his hair was cut to shape around his forehead and ears, and he was clean-shaven except for sporting a Fu Manchu-style mustache, each end drooping to a point.

  Madog stepped forward. “Welcome, Robert of Beucol. And welcome Lady Beucol. I look forward to your stay with us and discussing the terms of your release. My seneschal—” Madog indicated a lean, stern man in his fifties. “—will see to your comfort. Surely, your lady must wish a respite.” He motioned to a boy of about fourteen. “My son Maredudd ap Madog will show you to your room, and I will send for you when I am ready.”

  Maredudd looked rather proud to be given such a task, and they followed him a few feet until Robert halted. “One moment.”

  He hurried to their host, exchanged words, and rejoined her. “Carry on,” he said to the boy and replaced his hand at the small of her back.

  In the corner, a dark opening revealed stone steps circling upward, and Maredudd stepped inside. Katy glanced at Robert with concern, but when he nodded, she pressed a hand against the cool stone wall and shuffled up the unevenly spaced steps not yet worn with age, her palm rubbing against the bumps and dips of the stone as she ascended. Her muscles complained with each step, but she’d have gone slower than the kid anyway for fear of tripping in the sparsely lit, confined space. Robert said nothing and finally—as her thighs contemplated a work stoppage in protest—they arrived at a landin
g.

  Maredudd opened a stout wooden door and ushered them through. Katy caught her breath as she stepped into a large, round room straight out of every fairy tale she’d read. A fireplace crackled and sparked in one wall, with an intricately carved marble facing and mantle. Several Oriental rugs overlapped on the ground, no rushes. Two rectangular-shaped windows punctuated the far end of the wall.

  A carved, rather large, four poster sat near, but not against, one wall, its posts painted red and what she could only describe as a white picket fence encircling the frame—gaps on each side allowed easy access to the mattress. Red cloth draped from the canopy. A decorative screen and a trestle table with a bench before the fireplace comprised the rest of the furnishings.

  But the most charming feature was the wall—it was covered in a white, plaster-like layer and dotted all over with red rosettes, except for the portion between the windows. A larger than life depiction of St. George overlooked the room, with a dragon writhing along the edge near the floor.

  The boy said something in Welsh, startling her, lit the rushlights inset in the wall, and ran out of the room. The door heaved shut.

  Katy plopped onto the narrow wooden bench and stuck her hands before the fire. “All in all, better than I expected.” She studiously avoided looking at the bed. Oh God. Did it have to be so alluringly unusual?

  “The Welsh are known for their hospitality. What did you expect?”

  “Honestly, I pictured a dungeon.”

  An are-you-serious frown sharpened his features. “We are not prisoners. We are hostages, which is another matter altogether. We shall be treated as guests until I meet their terms.”

  “Really? This is so strange.”

  “You have never been a hostage before?”

  “Uh, no. What will—” She stopped at the rattle and thump against the door, which swung out, and two boys trotted inside hefting a wooden half-barrel the size of a one-person hot tub, which they placed behind the screen. They filed out and closed the door.

  She gasped. “A hot bath. Oh, I’m in heaven.”

  “I thought you would wish for one.” He joined her on the bench, the wood creaking with his added weight.

  “You arranged this?”

  He gave a curt nod. “No doubt the seneschal would have arranged for one eventually, but I did not wish for you to wait.”

  She scooted across the bench and hugged him. While she waited for the water, she focused on what else had caught her eye. “Food.”

  “I imagine there is a drop of wine as well.”

  “Fresh bread. Heavenly.” Her stomach perked to attention and growled. “And cheese.” She bit off a huge chunk of warm, crusty bread, flakes and crumbs cascading onto the trestle table.

  Robert laughed, the sound bounding around the room, filling it, and her heart kick-started. She stopped chewing and stared, bread in one hand, cheese in another.

  “What?” he asked, frowning.

  She swallowed her bite. “I’ve never heard you laugh. You have a great laugh.”

  “Hmpf. I laugh.”

  “Maybe, but I’ve never heard you. You should do it more often.”

  “Well, times have been rather trying since we met.” His mouth twitched.

  “True.”

  “Here, have some wine.” He grabbed a flagon and poured, the red liquid glinting in the firelight and emitting that thick gurgle common across time as it filled her cup.

  She took a grateful sip—while it was watered down like the other wine, this had been somehow sweetened. She tore off another bite of bread and cheese. “So who was that woman?”

  “What woman?” His tone and posture was casual, but she wasn’t fooled. There was a studied quality to his voice and a slight tension in his jaw and neck—cues she’d never have noticed if she hadn’t become so attuned to him.

  “The one in the bailey. The one who—” A scrape interrupted her, and the door opened again. “Saved by the bell.”

  A line of boys tromped into their tower room, each carrying two steaming buckets of water, the scent of lavender permeating the space. They dumped the water into the wooden tub.

  A woman entered next, loaded with lots of cloth.

  Robert talked with her a moment and brought her over to Katy. “This is Elen. She will assist you.”

  “Assist me?”

  The lady clasped a stool in her chapped hands, her florid face a stoic mask.

  He frowned. “Yes, with your clothes and your bath.”

  Katy fought the urge to raise her eyebrows, sensing this was something quite normal in his world. She only nodded.

  “I shall leave you to your bath then.” He switched benches so his back was to the screen.

  The woman spoke no French, but Katy muddled through getting undressed and into the blessed tub, though Elen made her sit on the stool she’d placed inside. Then, to Katy’s complete amazement, the woman took a sponge and soap and began washing her.

  Wow, okay, this was weird. Katy wasn’t helpless or sick, and having this woman wash her underscored the cultural differences. But as she sat there, the hot steam relaxing her sore muscles to mush, the careful, indifferent strokes of the sponge and the tinkling of the water dripping back into the tub, her token protest died on her tongue. She should feel guilty but couldn’t muster up the energy for that either.

  Robert sat at the trestle, head in hands, hearing her splashing, picturing it, and remembering the other time he’d heard her bathe. The night of her wandering pinkie… Christ, nightfall could not come soon enough.

  The door scraped open, and a woman entered.

  She raised her head, and Robert stiffened.

  She stepped into the room and said in Welsh, “Did you think I would not recognize my own son full grown?”

  Chapter Twenty

  And they partook of meat, and drink, with songs, and with feasting; and of all the Courts upon the earth, behold this was the best supplied with food and drink, and vessels of gold and royal jewels.

  - from The Mabinogion, an ancient Welsh romance

  Robert shot to his feet and waved his lady mother inside. His face he kept impassive, but inside his feelings churned. For he was at a loss on how to react. How to greet her. He settled for, “Mam, how do you fare?”

  “So it’s to be like that, is it?” She stepped into the room and stood by the window.

  “I haven’t seen you since I was ten.” Seeing her before him though, it was hard to fathom twenty-three years had passed. For this was his mother, and some mysterious mechanism of the mind cast him back, caused him to feel he was that same lad who’d begged not to leave her, not to leave his sister and all he knew. What a sniveling reed he’d been.

  “Whose fault would that be? And your Welsh is unpracticed.”

  He took a deep breath to disguise a sudden urge to laugh. In truth, she’d not changed in biting tongue or looks. Her back was still proudly straight, her black hair still lustrous, hanging loose about her shoulders, her features still well made. Still his mother of memory, though slightly…softer around the edges.

  “You know the demands of a landless knight. Whilst a page and a squire, I wasn’t at leisure to leave.” And you could have visited.

  She studied him for some moments, no doubt debating whether to point out that once he’d earned his spurs as a knight, he could have found the time.

  “You are married, I hear.”

  He switched to French, not wishing for Elen to be privy to their conversation. “Not in truth.” Estrangement or no, he found that with his mother, he could not lie.

  “What do you mean?”

  How much to reveal? Could he trust her with their true situation? Though even he was ignorant of Kaytee’s full circumstances. However, he wished not to raise any suspicion.

  “She’s a refugee from the village of Bere at the foot of the castle where I was garrisoned. We were besieged by the Welsh, and during our retreat she was wounded, and we were separated from the others. You know she would h
ave been ill-treated if they believed her to be of common English stock.”

  “So you felt the need to lie? Doesn’t that go against your Norman knightly honor?”

  “I believe it not against my knightly honor to aid the defenseless.”

  “Not all in your class agree with you.”

  He gritted his teeth. “I know.” He knew all too well after being taught that lesson when still a squire. It had taken several years for the events of that day to cease haunting his dreams.

  “What are your plans?”

  He began to pace. “I know not. All depends on Madog. He’ll set our ransom, and if it’s not too dear, I’ll pay, and we’ll depart.”

  “What of the woman?”

  “She wishes to find the other villagers from her town, so we’ll proceed to Wrexham in search.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “And…?”

  “No doubt I’ll earn a rebuke for my delay and subsequent capture, but I’m in hopes I shall be able to redeem myself in the fighting to come.”

  “Fighting. You mean the war against the Welsh? Your people?”

  “They are not…” He filled a cup with wine and took a sip. “This war is necessary, Mam. Sooner or later, the Welsh must accept that recognition of the suzerainty of the English crown is for the best.”

  “It is, is it?” His mother bristled, and the atmosphere grew more charged.

  Kaytee bathed still, but the sounds had quieted. Mayhap his mother’s presence caused her unease, and she’d stay in the tub until she turned cold with shivers leading to a fever. His concern for Kaytee, as well as his own mixed emotions surrounding his mother, clawed at him, made him itchy to move. “Can we finish this discussion at another time? I am begrimed and wish to bathe before the water cools further.”

  His mother gifted him with a baleful stare. “Another time, then.”

  Her clear disappointment knifed through him. He looked upon the once familiar, though older, features of his mother and felt a pang of deeply suppressed longing. Longing for acceptance. Longing for the unconditional love she’d always given him. Longing for that carefree time when he was but a child, and his mother and father were everything.