Must Love Chainmail

by Angela Quarles

  She swung off her horse and rushed toward him, not trusting her horsemanship to the situation—too many were around, with one she had no wish to accidentally harm. But then Robert’s sword flew from his hand and clattered to the ground.

  “Well, my Lord Powys, look at this,” de Buche sneered. He pulled a thin blade from his belt. “The mighty Beucol at our mercy. Not so mighty now, are you? What? Can’t fight three at once?” de Buche tsked.

  Robert’s arms were yanked behind him. “Get his squire,” the nasty knight said to the other. “I say murder them all. Teach this half-breed a lesson. But first we make him watch as I take his sister.”

  Bile rose in Katy’s throat—she’d witnessed how he liked to torture his opponents. No thank you.

  Nasty knight glanced around, then let loose a roaring shout. “Where are you, you bitch of a Welsh whore?”

  Katy darted her gaze around too and was relieved to see Robert’s sister and her family were gone. Then her blood chilled as de Buche lowered his head. She didn’t need to see his face behind that helmet to know Robert was now the focus of all his rage. And she’d seen how he reacted when thwarted, however little, by his victims. Now Robert would be his focus.

  She hunched her shoulders, attempting to impersonate an American football linebacker, and rushed the man holding Robert captive.

  Blood pounded in Robert’s ears as his arms twisted higher against his back. His sword lay so close, only a mere lunge away. But too far now. Mayhap he could use the knight holding him as leverage and plant his feet against de Buche’s chest.

  Before he could determine the most effective, but most likely futile, move, Kaytee was rushing to his side, and his body was knocked off balance, his arms blessedly free. He gained control of his stagger and lurched for his sword. One chance, he had one chance only to turn this situation around.

  Time slowed as his hands reached for the sword. No time. No time to grasp the hilt, which faced away. He wrapped his mailed hands around the blade, spun around, the weight of his sword gaining a satisfying momentum as it whipped around.

  At the end of the sword’s arc, the crossguard crunched into de Buche’s neck. His nemesis fell to the ground, neck broken, still in death.

  But he had no time to ponder the impact of his nemesis’s death. He swung about, ready to combat Powys and the others, but found Kaytee with her arms secured behind her back, struggling in a knight’s grasp. Fierce pride rose in his chest at her warrior’s spirit while dread choked his throat. For five more knights emerged from behind the house and advanced upon him.

  “You’ve done it now, Beucol,” Powys grimly announced.

  Kaytee was captured, but alive. His sister and her family were safe. Robert had better odds with the king’s justice, than with six knights and an archer. He dropped his sword to the ground with a clatter.

  Again, Robert’s arms were yanked behind him. Powys glanced to the advancing knights. “You bore witness to his treachery. He denied Sir Ralph de Buche the right to personal combat for their grievance.”

  The cur! Robert yanked against the restraining hands. So the new Lord of Powys was as dishonorable as de Buche to utter such an untruth.

  Powys sauntered forward. “We’re taking him in for murder of a fellow Norman in our fight against the Welsh. His true nature and allegiance is clear. He is his father’s son, for certes.”

  Heat flooded Robert’s veins. “The sins of the father should not be visited upon his sons.”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not. But when laid against your recent actions, it makes your abduction sound rather interesting. Perhaps a way to exchange information without suspicion? And you were one of the most vocal in your wish to abandon Castell y Bere to the Welsh, I have heard. And this nonsensical accusation against my person for the destruction of that worthless Welsh abbey…”

  Yet another lie to add to the others. Robert had been the most vocal for staying.

  The knight pushed Kaytee toward her mare—the only horse left, he noticed with satisfaction. His sister had shown foresight in the face of fear. But at another shove from Powys, that satisfaction and Robert’s triumph over de Buche turned sour as his insides turned to liquid and then chilled. He’d known fear on the battlefield and in tourney lists, but that was fear he could control, for his actions were his own. This was different. He was powerless.

  Robert’s captors shoved him into the stinking hole they called a cell.

  “Enjoy your new accommodations, for they will be your last ere you’re strung up for murder,” jeered one.

  Robert’s gut clenched, and he stumbled upright, his movements awkward with his hands bound behind him. “I demand the king’s justice!”

  “The king’s justice?” sneered Powys. “Have you forgotten where you are? You’re on the Marches, and here we dispense our own justice. And do you truly wish to risk the king’s justice? For murder is one matter, treason another, and I can make a case for such and thereby see you endure the new punishment King Edward meted out so slowly but efficiently to Dafydd ap Gruffydd nigh on eleven years ago.”

  Cold fear flashed through Robert’s blood. Though he’d been no witness, he remembered well the tales of Dafydd’s death. Hung, revived, his insides pulled out and burned before his eyes, and then his body cut into four parts.

  The scab on a whoreson’s ass laughed as they shoved Robert to the far wall, restrained him, and stripped him to his braies. Amidst random punches, they clapped him into chains, securing his hands and ankles to the slimy wall. They slammed shut his door, leaving him in his prison--dank, filthy, and dark.

  But how could that matter for aught, when Kaytee was without? The only satisfaction he had was that de Buche was dead. He’d not be able to harm her, or his sister, or any other woman again. Sir Hugh’s advice came back to him—clearly he’d foreseen this ambush by de Buche, since he’d practically told him that his nemesis never faced him head-on—de Buche had known only too well how he’d fare if he did.

  Eventually, Robert dozed and woke in fits and starts. A rat ran laps around their small space more times than he could count. As the early morning sun’s rays pierced through the piglet-sized window high above, steps echoed outside his cell door. He stilled.

  The door to his cell banged open, and a slight figure was shoved inside. In the weak light of dawn, he could tell not who it was.

  “Robert?”

  Sweet Jesus. His knees buckled with panic and relief. “Kaytee?”

  They’d been separated when they’d been brought within the castle’s walls. He jerked on his chains, his body thrumming with the need to yank her to him, feel her heart thump against his, confirm she was fine and whole and his. “Are you well? Have you news of my sister?”

  “Yes, I am, and your sister is safe now with her husband.” She shuffled forward, no doubt unable to see well in the dim light. “I don’t know how long they’ll let me have, so we need to focus on the important things first. Plus, they’re debating your case right now, and I want to get back to hear their decision.”

  That was his Kaytee. Calm and focused. Organized.

  “They have not harmed you?”

  She closed the distance, finally, between them, and she bisected the ray of light from the window. His whole body lurched, and he was able to see her fully. She was unharmed. He’d worried so.

  “Oddly, no. They still think I’m your squire. It seems all of that Powys asshole’s energy is directed at bringing you down, and I’m seen as inconsequential. Perhaps he thinks it makes his case seem stronger against you if he treats me nicely.”

  Never had he been more thankful for another man’s manipulations. “What is Powys saying?”

  “Nothing good. He, of course, has a different take on what happened at your sister’s, says your allegiance is with the Welsh and that you denied de Buche the right to personal combat. Leaving the retreating party was so you could rendezvous with the Welsh and pass on troop movements and the like, that you were never a hostage. That you argued fo
r abandoning one of the king’s holdings to your kinsmen. He’s saying you’re a traitor.”

  Robert could plainly see how it would all unfold. Of a sudden, his limbs felt the weight of inevitability. “You need to leave, forget me and get back to your land.”

  “I can’t—”

  He steeled himself. “Associating with me now is poisonous. Today, I proved I cannot keep faith with my king, and even if I escape this alive, I have forfeited any chance of his favor.”

  “How did you fail to keep faith—” and here she bent her two fingers on each hand as if emphasizing those last two words, “—with the king?”

  He frowned. “By killing a fellow knight sworn into his service.”

  “They would have killed you!”

  “It’s their word against a knight of suspicious motives. I cannot prove I challenged and was denied trial by combat by him. No. In their eyes, I am the scoundrel of this affair.”

  “So, I should abandon you to your fate? You’re not worth the effort to save?”

  “Yes,” he ground out. “Even if I get out of this, I’ll be less than nothing.”

  Her face turned mulish. “I’m sorry, Robert, but that’s bullshit. You did the right thing. The honorable thing. Who cares about the king if you can’t stay true to yourself in the process?

  “Careful what you say about the king.”

  “Why? He’s not my king.” She stepped closer and put her hand on his face, her touch warm—Christ—comforting. His arms spasmed with the need to hold her.

  “Robert, you aren’t nothing. Everything you do is with honor. Don’t you see that?”

  “How is defying my king honorable? I killed one of his vassals.” He would not lean his head into her touch. He would not move his head just so and kiss her sweet palm.

  “How can it be honorable to follow him at the expense of your own personal honor? To me, that’s more important. Those men were about to rape your sister. From the moment I met you, your actions were always about serving others, about acting from your own sense of honor and values.

  “Your behavior was above reproach with me when I was most vulnerable. How many knights in your position would have just taken their pleasure with me? How many would have taken a stranger under their care and not abandoned her even when it was most inconvenient?”

  But that was because it had been her.

  She continued. “How many would have saved that woman from de Buche when we first came into Flint? Or delayed his rendezvous with his commander to help those monks? It’s one of the things I…I admire about you. You didn’t abandon me, and I will not abandon you now. You don’t need the trappings of land and title to have honor. Not to me.”

  He shook his head in vehement denial. She was wrong. Staying here with him when he still had honor and the prospects of royal favor was one thing, but…

  She took the last step needed to bring her body flush to his, and they both trembled at the contact. She gripped his face and held his gaze. “Not to me, Robert. Not to me.” Her voice was strong with conviction, and it rang through him, vibrating in the scant space between them.

  God, the way she portrayed him made him ache in a strange way. And the touch of her hand on his face was torture, the feel of her body pressed against his was torture, her sweet breath brushing his face…torture. Torture to be unable to touch her, hold her, be with her. He wasn’t sure if she was right. She was probably mad, but her words, her conviction, touched the hardened kernel within him, the kernel that had read and loved the Arthurian romances and the ideals of knighthood. The kernel that had become starved and desiccated from the realities of knightly life. She fed that kernel, indeed had been feeding it all along, and it expanded and bloomed within, suffusing him with peace and rightness.

  “Here. I brought you something to give you strength.” She opened her palm and revealed his father’s pebble from the Holy Land, which he’d told her about only the night before.

  His heart clenched. His mother’s words came back to him and blended with Kaytee’s. With a clarity that shook him to his damned soul, he saw that he’d denied his own personal honor, believing it had no value, no place in the world. That he’d believed the only honor he could achieve was what could be bestowed by others. By a dishonorable king.

  “Roll it up at my back,” he said hoarsely. “Less likely to be found there.”

  As she tucked his keepsake away, his sole regret was that he’d most likely die now as a traitor, unable to be with her, this woman who beheld his inner self and embraced it, nurtured it.

  His Kaytee, his woman, reached up and placed the sweetest kiss on his lips. She pulled away, her lush lips lingering, just before the door scraped open.

  Katy trailed behind the jailer along the dank stone hallway in one of the castle’s towers. Forty minutes ago, she’d left Robert in his cell. Forty minutes ago now seemed like forever. The new knowledge she held colored every stone she crossed, amplified the stink, distorted every cry and whisper and groan. Chaos gripped her lungs, her throat, and weighted her steps.

  God, Robert.

  Finally, she reached the stout wooden door, and the jailer unlocked it with a metal key. She steeled her shoulders. Don’t show Robert any fear.

  As the door groaned shut behind her, and the keys rattled and clicked in the lock, she let her eyes adjust to the gloom.

  God, Robert.

  Her heart stretched toward him, aching to comfort, he looked so haggard. Even more than last time.

  And then her heart lurched when he straightened for her. My God, so proud.

  “Tell me,” he rasped.

  “How do you know I have news?” Was that her voice? It sounded so small.

  “You were here a short time ago, so your quick return can mean only one thing. They have decided. And your face is grim.”

  God, Robert.

  She couldn’t voice it. She couldn’t. Her throat constricted, swelling with a painful, choking heat. “Couldn’t I just be coming to see you? To comfort you?”

  “Katy. Tell me,” he commanded.

  She stumbled forward and wrapped her arms around his torso, pressing her body to his warm skin. “They…” She pulled in a choking sob. “They mean to hang you for a traitor.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  So he set strong men upon Peredur, who seized him, and cast him into prison. And the maiden went before her father, and asked him, wherefore he had caused the youth from Arthur’s Court to be imprisoned.

  The Mabinogion, an ancient Welsh romance

  Robert’s chains rattled at her news, and Katy ached to feel his arms around her once more. “When?” his voice cracked through the dank surroundings.

  She counted each beat of his heart against her ear, each beat proof he still lived. She squeezed her eyes shut, and hot tears slipped between her cheek and his chest. “I don’t know. We have a few days maybe. Powys is pushing this hard, and with the chaos surrounding Flint, the officials can’t seem to give a damn—are even denying you a right to defense. ‘Let God sort it out,’ one of them said. I don’t understand why they aren’t allowing you a fair trial.”

  Robert’s laugh was bitter. “I’ve been denied the king’s justice.”

  “But why?”

  “Here on the Marches, the lords are allowed to dispense their own justice. They are using the chaos of the revolt to be rid of someone they find troublesome. You heard how they justify it—if I’m innocent, God will reward me in heaven. But what of you?”

  “Honestly, they’ve forgotten about me.”

  At that, his muscles relaxed, and his head came to rest on the top of hers. “Katy, please. Listen to me. I am marked for death. Get away while you can.”

  “I told you, I’m not abandoning you,” she said with a conviction pulled from every cell in her body.

  “There is nothing you can do.” He took a deep breath. “Know that I…what you said, about me, it has given me solace, peace.” His laugh was bitter. “It matters not now, but you are
right. My personal honor is more important.”

  “Robert…” she squeezed him tighter. “This is all my fault.” If she hadn’t come back in time, he wouldn’t have had to save her…

  “No. What is done is done. The confrontation with de Buche was inevitable. If not this opportunity, he would have pounced on another. He lured me to my sister’s knowing how I would react, and I obligingly played into his hands. I should have known he would not have faced me honorably. He did not wish to leave anything to chance when it came to his inheritance.”

  “But there’s got to be someone who will advocate for you.”

  “There is no one.”

  “What about Sir Hugh?”

  He tensed in her arms. “No. Absolutely not. I will not have his honor and allegiance stained by association. Besides, he has been sent to Chester to report to the king. Katy, I am in God’s hands now.”

  She pulled away and gripped his shoulders, gazing with determination into his shuttered eyes. “I’m not resigned to leaving it up to God, thank you very much. Please. I can’t let you die. There must be something I can do. Maybe I can drug the guard and help you escape?”

  He jerked on his chains again, his head dipping close to hers, his eyes blazing. “No. Promise me you will not do something so foolhardy. I will not have you put at risk. Forget me, and return to your land.”

  She couldn’t abandon him. No.

  “Katy, please. Promise me,” his voice laced, for the first time, with true fear. “Go to Wrexham. The villagers are there. Find your token, and return to your land.

  Her heart lifted at the command he’d just given her, the idea he’d planted in her head. “I promise I will go to Wrexham and find my token.” She felt his muscles relax.

  Let him believe what he would, she’d not abandon him. She’d not let him die. This was not over.

  Katy trudged down Wrexham village’s main street, following the directions to The Thirsty Boar where the villagers were staying. Immediately upon leaving Robert, she’d hired a guide. By leaving her non-essential belongings at the inn, and cantering and walking the horses by turns, they’d made the eighteen-mile journey in two hours instead of six and a half. To keep her load light, all she’d taken along was a pouch of coins and the burlap bag containing her purse from her time.