Must Love Chainmail

by Angela Quarles

  Robert sat on the cushion beside his mother in the great hall. “We are to leave today for Flint.”

  She clasped her hands together. “So it is rumored. When will I see you again?”

  Guilt and a sense of inadequacy hit him. He glanced away. “I know not. Mayhap after this rebellion is settled.”

  Her features tightened into grim lines, but she nodded. “I wish for you to have something of your father’s.” She reached inside the pouch at her waist.

  He stiffened. “I do not—”

  She held up her hand. “Your father was a brave and honorable man.”

  “He committed treason.”

  She tsked. “So says King Edward, but that was not what was in his heart, my son. His aim was not to depose the king, but rather to have him honor his own sworn oaths, oaths he forsook at the earliest convenience. Your father was a man of honor. He could no more have forsworn his solemn oath to uphold the Oxford provisions than cut off his own hand.”

  Robert remained still, his emotions and thoughts warring with each other. He kept his counsel though.

  She laid a hand on his arm. “There’s no shame in honoring a vow, honoring in your heart that which you know is right.”

  He fidgeted. Personal honor such as that was feasible only in the Arthurian romances of his youth. No matter how much King Edward styled himself as the embodiment of King Arthur, the reality was much different. But he wished not to take away his mother’s illusions.

  She opened his hand. “Here. A memento from his pilgrimage to the Holy Land.” She placed a smooth, multicolored stone in his palm and closed his hand over it.

  “He took the Cross?”

  “I told you so as a child.”

  “I did not remember,” he murmured, embarrassment burning in his gut.

  She nodded, her face solemn. “He found this stone in Palestine. He didn’t rank high enough to acquire such relics as a nail from the Crucifixion or a piece of the True Cross, but your father valued it just the same. He espied it the morning after a fierce battle against the Saracens and was thankful he still drew breath, though he believed fervently enough in his cause to die for the faith. The stone spoke to him, and he treasured it.”

  Hearing this about his father, about something unrelated to his treason, was a tight fist around Robert’s throat. It made his father more complicated, more concrete, so he no longer fit into the tight role Robert had made for him.

  A sense of loss swamped him. Reciting his history to Kaytee this morn had acted as a strange sort of purging, as if the act of revealing had allowed him to see it through another’s eyes, allowed him to examine it anew and form new opinions. Robert placed the stone in his own pouch at his belt. It gave him the time he needed to control his emotions.

  Only to have them stutter when his mother asked, “Will you visit Marged and Owen? You will be near their land. She would love to see you.”

  Chest tight, he responded. “Will she even remember her faithless brother?”

  “She worshiped you. You know that. No, she will not have forgotten you. She crafted stories of your imagined adventures. She was proud of you. Hurt you never visited, but proud nonetheless.”

  Could he see his sister? No. His prolonged absence in her life deserved more than a harried visit. And harried ’twould have to be during this time of war. He swallowed past a knot in his throat. “I’m not sure I’ll be able.”

  Sadness lurked in his mother’s eyes. “If you change your mind,” and she gave him instructions on how to find their demesne from Flint.

  He stood. “Will you see us off?”

  “Of course.” She took his hands and squeezed, offering him a watery smile. “You know I had to foster you to Sir Hugh.”

  “I am aware of the path to knighthood.” A long-buried hurt surfaced. “But why Sir Hugh? Why not with Pedr, or one of your other brothers?” He’d not realized how much he’d resented being pulled from her bosom and his Welsh kin.

  “I kept you for as long as I was able. But Sir Hugh had been named in your father’s will as your legal guardian. I had thought him ignorant, and when your seventh year passed, my heart began to ease. But he sought you out, and I had no legal standing in their Norman courts, mother or no. Believe me. I did not relish putting you in such a man’s hands.”

  “Sir Hugh is a good man.”

  “Let me tell you how I feel about Sir Hugh and those other barons. If your father had lived, I have no doubt he would not have broken that oath.” Her voice turned bitter. “Unlike Sir Hugh and those faithless barons. Your father honored his oaths. Unlike this King Edward you follow. How can you serve a king, and call yourself honorable, when that king doesn’t honor his own oaths? And be ashamed of a father who did?”

  He stared at her hands, still lean and strong, and felt long-held beliefs begin to crumble. He shored them up until he had the time for reflection. And as his father had become a more complicated figure with this new knowledge, so had his mother and his feelings for her. He had much to contemplate, but under all rode a thread of affection that had survived from his childhood despite himself. It swelled for a moment within, competing with his long-held feelings of resentment, to form a hot ball in his throat. He squeezed her hands and kissed her on the cheek, unable to articulate further.

  “I hope you find that which you seek, my son.” She held his cheek, brushed it with a mother’s kiss, and stepped away.

  “Thank you, Mam.” But his quick bow was not quite so smooth, for instead of envisioning his suit being granted—earning back his lands and family honor—her words had conjured Kaytee, always by his side.

  Late afternoon sunlight spilled through the trees crowding close along their final approach to Flint. The extra horse from Madog had indeed made their trip faster. An hour ago, the path across the forested, rolling flatlands had widened to something resembling a thoroughfare. The trees on either side had grown unnaturally quiet, and the first refugees stumbled across their path. The numbers increased, Welsh and English villagers alike, wary of Robert but causing no trouble. The reports were the same--the region was in chaos and completely lawless. Katy now held scant hope the villagers would have stayed in Flint, if they’d gone there at all.

  The lawlessness left her feeling raw and exposed. She latched onto the sight of Robert’s formidable form, bobbing and swaying with an unconscious grace in his saddle ahead. What would have happened to her without him? He’d chosen to stay with her, even when it hurt his cause. Even when she was a burden. Even through all this chaos, even through her mood swings, one thing had been a constant—he’d never abandoned her.

  Unlike her father.

  But as she nudged her docile mount along the road, a new understanding flooded her. It wasn’t anything she did that had caused the people in her past to leave. She hadn’t driven away her father with her temper tantrums. He’d made that choice. He’d lacked the maturity to meet the demands of fatherhood. He’d been the weak one.

  Desperate to avoid abandonment again, she’d circumscribed her life to play it safe, to guarantee she’d never feel that pain again. The pain of being unwanted.

  And this had botched her relationship with Preston and prevented her from truly opening up to the possibilities Robert presented. Too scared to risk herself or her heart.

  Shit.

  They passed a burnt-out farm house, the grim-faced family huddled beneath a tree. Plumes of smoke smudged the horizon ahead. The air thickened with the smell of burning wood, straw, and other unknowns, adding up to aw-shit-not-good. Shouts and screams echoed in the near distance, and a cold wash of fear flooded her spine.

  Katy spurred her horse. Robert slowed, and they drew alongside. Since she was again posing as his squire, she held his shield and lance, the latter purchased from the Welsh before leaving that morning. He’d also given her a short-handled mace, which she kept belted at her side.

  Robert twisted his upper body toward her, his brows furrowed. He motioned with his hand, and she silently pass
ed him his shield, proud her grip held steady despite the blood pounding through her veins. He urged his mount into a trot, and she did the same. She sure as heck didn’t want to stay behind. The packhorse behind her kept pace.

  They passed a bend in the road, and Robert drew his sword with a steely hiss.

  What—?

  And then she saw it. A Norman knight struggled with a woman and ripped her dress. She screamed, twisting in his grip as he ran his tongue up her neck.

  Oh. God. No.

  Robert galloped toward the attacker, his horse’s strides eating up the short distance. The other knight was so focused, he didn’t notice Robert’s approach until the last moment.

  No. Robert was not the cynical, hardened warrior he pretended to be. Or believed himself to be. Her heart stuttered as he heroically dashed to the lady’s rescue.

  The attacker swung his head around at the same moment Robert raised his sword. The man looked familiar, which seemed odd. Wait. He was one of the knights at Castell y Bere, the surly one. His blond hair was matted to his forehead, his helm missing. Mud and blood streaked his craggy, harsh features.

  Oh God. It was that Nasty Knight, Ralph de Buche. The one who relished cruelly toying with his enemies. The one who snapped when his victim fought back, however feebly. The one who seemed to hate Robert.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  And Blodeuwedd looked upon him, and from the moment that she looked on him she became filled with his love. And he gazed on her, and the same thought came unto him as unto her, so that he could not conceal from her that he loved her, but he declared unto her that he did so. Thereupon she was very joyful. And all their discourse that night was concerning the affection and love which they felt one for the other, and which in no longer space than one evening had arisen. And that evening passed they in each other’s company.

  The Mabinogion, an ancient Welsh romance

  “You going to run me through, Robert? ’Tis only a Welsh wench. Or did you want her for yourself?”

  Anger, sharp and hot, flashed along Robert’s muscles. And that long ago day when he’d attempted, and failed, to save another defenseless woman superimposed in his field of vision. But this time, the outcome would be different.

  “What’s happening here?” And then fear chased the anger. Not for himself, but for his sister and her family. If the environs were in such chaos, how did they fare? He should have listened to his mother and visited. Made sure she was safe.

  “Teaching a lesson to the locals. They got out of hand, thought they could rise up and overthrow their local lord.”

  “A lesson to their local warriors, you mean. This lass is no warrior.” He lowered his sword so it pointed at de Buche’s heart.

  “No matter. These are merely Welsh. They’ll get what’s coming to them.” Genuine confusion battled with disgust across de Buche’s face. “Ah, I see. Protecting your own, are you?” He whipped out a dagger from his sword belt and yanked the frightened woman around by her hair.

  Enough of this.

  Robert angled his sword back and whacked de Buche across his temple with the flat of the blade. The cur of a knight slumped to the ground, the woman falling with him. She lurched back, crab-style, her eyes round with fear.

  Speaking in Welsh, Robert encouraged her to seek protection elsewhere in the forest. She bolted up and ran into the surrounding woods. Robert slapped the rump of de Buche’s horse and watched until it galloped out of sight. He wheeled his horse around and rode back to Kaytee’s side.

  “Come,” he said, straining to grab her reins. “We must ride for Flint as hard as the packhorse can manage. De Buche will not be out for long. Of a surety he is not alone.”

  Frankly, that he’d not run de Buche through with his sword was a bit of a surprise. Leaving him alive only complicated matters, but as he’d ridden toward his nemesis, the weight of Kaytee’s eyes on his back stayed his hand. He wanted to be what she’d hinted she saw in him—honorable. And he’d not forgotten his mother’s words from this morn.

  Katy angled for a better view of Flint. Folks on foot and carts pulled by stout ponies shared the road as they wended toward town. Ahead trudged two white-robed monks.

  At the town’s edge, a threadbare and grimy man was leaving town, pushing a small wooden handcart overflowing with a large, dark, fly-covered mound. As they neared, she gagged and turned her head away. It was poop he was carting out!

  The town didn’t have a wall but instead was surrounded by a deep, wide ditch and a wooden palisade. Soon they were through the palisade gate, and a grid-like town spread before them, but more than half of the buildings were burnt to the ground.

  She looked to Robert. “What happened?”

  “We’ll find out soon enough.” They turned right down a lane with charred, smoking ruins and reached an area that had been spared. They fetched up in front of a two-story building, which had no windows but had a large double door open wide at the moment. As they passed through, she discovered it wasn’t the side of a building but a gate in a wall connecting the ends of a U-shaped wooden structure. Now they were in an open courtyard. Was this an old wooden fort?

  “I will see about a room.”

  “This is an inn?”

  “Indeed. Did you not see the emblem out front?”

  The ground floor of one side held a well-kept stable, and plain doors on the other sides indicated it might house storage. A wooden porch ran along the second floor on all three sides, overlooking the courtyard. They collected their belongings, and a boy emerged from the stables and led their horses away.

  “Let’s see about that room,” Robert said with a wink.

  A room they’d share as knight and squire to the outside world, while inside…

  A thrill shot through her. Oh man, was she in trouble. Having sex again had mucked up her emotions exactly as she’d originally feared. Now, she craved more of him, more of his touch, his strength, his gentleness. His roughness. But there was more to it than that.

  Even when she’d altered it yesterday, her plan had been clear. The Original Plan—avoid sleeping with Robert to protect her heart and return to her time. The Altered Plan—sleep with him to experience his raw passion once more before returning to her time.

  Now? Her Plan had a big, fat wrinkle in it—learning and experiencing a sense of connectedness, not only with him, but also with the world. With Robert, everything felt right. Everything made sense.

  But she had to leave… Didn’t she? Yes. Because despite her feelings, or even what he might be feeling for her now, he’d said he couldn’t marry.

  Her throat thickened, and she blinked back tears as she followed Robert up the wooden steps at the base of the U-shaped inn into the main public room. It was kind of how she’d have pictured the interior of a medieval inn, but not quite, for her imagination couldn’t have filled in all the details, or the myriad smells. A fire blazed in a stone hearth in the center of a large room, the ceiling exposing the roof beams. Trestle tables and benches filled the floor space. Stale body odor mixed with the scent of rushes and herbs spread on the floor, with an over note of horse poop. Travelers and locals filled the benches, drinking and gossiping, while a harassed serving girl did her best to navigate the customers’ shouted instructions.

  Several scruffy-looking dogs lay curled up before the fire, and a cat sat on the counter, very much looking like a lord surveying his domain. The walls were white-washed, but dark smoke stains marred them near where rushlights burned.

  Robert conversed with the innkeeper, a short man with a leather apron and thinning blond hair. Robert returned shortly. “We are in luck. They still have one of the better rooms off the hall. Otherwise we’d have to share a room off the outside gallery with others.”

  “Did you find out what happened to the town?”

  “Aye. Burned by order of the constable to protect the castle against the Welsh. The townsfolk are quartered within the outer bailey, preferring to make do there for free than pay for accommodation h
ere. The innkeeper was glad for our fare.”

  She dared not stand there any longer, peering around like a nosy busybody. She picked her way across the rush-strewn floor. Their room was toward the back of a short hall and, while small, was rather cozy, with a fire already blazing.

  “I daresay we should have something to tide us over ere long if the innkeeper is quick with my request.” He unbuckled his sword belt and sat in the settle by the fire.

  “What’s your plan? Do you see your commander?”

  “Yes. But not tonight. It is too late, and I will do myself no favors seeing him weary from travel. After we break our fast on the morrow, I will seek him out. The innkeeper confirmed Staundon’s whereabouts.”

  “Will you ask where the villagers went?”

  “Aye, that I will do, for certes. I’ll return as soon as I can. If unable to get away, I’ll send a messenger here with what I learn, so I’ll not delay you.”

  Emotion choked her throat to hear him speak so casually of their separating, at how easily he’d let her go. But she knew this was coming. Very well, then.

  She approached the trestle table and ran a finger along the rough wood. “Robert, I thanked you earlier for not abandoning me when I was sick, but I…” From the corner of her eye, she could see his large frame engulf most of the bench.

  Robert. Robert whose presence, whose pull, was stronger than ever. Again, unable to resist, she swung around the table and settled beside him, placing her hand on his arm. She swallowed a lump in her throat. “Now knowing what you sacrificed, I want to say, again, thank you. You have no idea what it means to me. I hope it won’t permanently affect your plans.”

  What a completely lame thank you. The full depth of her fear and her gratitude swelled up within and almost—almost—burst from her tongue. Thank God, some sense of let’s-not-look-pathetic stayed her. It was her hang-up, one she’d finally recognized. They needed to part ways tomorrow. He needed to be able to leave her, free of any fear she might feel abandoned.