by Julia Latham
The seamstress’s amusement faded, and she gave Sarah a curious look. “Why are ye so against them?”
She wanted to wring her hands together, but stopped herself. “I do not know,” she said in a low voice. “He said he was on the king’s business, and I do not know if ’tis here or somewhere else. But if he’s not leaving, then that is an ominous sign.”
“Ye don’t know that, dearie.” Margery’s voice was kind. “Be patient.”
Francis ran to Sarah and did his usual skid to a stop. “May I go to the tiltyard with the men?”
She frowned. “’Tis a dangerous place to be, my lord. You know that.”
“But Sir Robert said I could watch him, if I was quiet and respe—respe—”
“Respectful?”
“Respec’ful of the dangers.”
So the knight had thought of everything.
“Regardless, you must wait for me,” she said. How could she tell the boy that they didn’t know this stranger? How could she even know if Sir Robert were telling the truth about having the king’s ear?
Oh, she would make herself crazy with all of these thoughts.
But a session at the tiltyard would tell her more about him, so after wishing Margery a good day, she only made a wiggling Francis wait a few minutes before following him out into the courtyard.
Sarah gave the boy some freedom, not forcing him to remain at her side. He showed good judgment, staying well back as the men began to don partial armor and helms for protection before beginning their sword work.
She told herself to pay attention to the armor that concealed Sir Robert, but she didn’t need to. He wore only chest and back plates, leaving his arms unprotected—and bare, since the leather jerkin he’d donned was sleeveless. Was he trying to say he thought no one here could harm him?
She’d seen many a man’s arms; it should not bother her. But he was so tall, so impressively muscled that she felt flushed. And she had to look his way, because there was Francis, bringing Sir Robert his helm although he had to drag it behind him, offering a horn of ale before they’d even begun to train. Sir Robert grinned and accepted it.
She thought Sir Robert would spar with one of the Drayton men, test his skill against theirs, and several looked rather hopeful for that, even stepping forward, ready to call him out. But instead Sir Robert’s and Sir Walter’s gazes met and held. Sir Walter squared to face him, Sir Robert’s grin hardened, and then both lowered their helms and lifted their swords.
Sarah realized she was holding her breath, even as the Drayton knights and soldiers paused to watch.
The clash of two swords meeting high in the air was impressive, ringing on for a long moment, breaking the stillness. Both men’s arms held, vibrating, then the men jumped back and began a slow circling. Sarah couldn’t see their faces, but she could see the grace in Sir Robert’s light step, and the deliberate, careful tread of Sir Walter.
She realized she’d almost forgotten Francis, but he was standing on a bench away from the combat, his hands clasped together, his mouth open in awe, as if he’d never seen men spar before.
But he hadn’t seen these men, she thought with a shiver, for suddenly they both attacked, hacking, thrusting, parrying each other’s sword aside. When Sir Robert jumped over a low slash across his legs, she gasped aloud, thinking this was far too dangerous for training.
And both men seemed to realize the same, for they took a step back.
Sir Walter raised his helm. “My apologies, Sir Robert,” he said, breathing a little heavier. “Challenging your impressive skill made me far too competitive.”
Sir Robert lifted his own helm to reveal his sweating, grinning face. “I’ll accept your apology if you accept mine. Shall we go at it again?”
They attacked with renewed, ferocious vigor, as if they hadn’t even apologized. Sarah found herself wincing, stiffening, even beginning to duck once as if she were the one fighting. Sunlight reflected off a particular slash of Walter’s sword, dazzling her eyes. By the time she could see again, she saw the small drip of blood on Sir Robert’s upper arm, beginning a slow trek to his elbow from a thin gash.
Sir Robert tipped off his helmet again, bowing to his opponent. “I concede defeat,” he said.
His voice implied anything but, yet Sir Walter bowed and accepted the concession.
“There are other disciplines at which you might excel,” Sir Walter said graciously, with a bit of gruffness.
“Age and wisdom would still win out.”
Sir Walter arched a brow. “Then shall we get on with the testing of that theory?”
Sir Robert’s grin was wolfish, and Sarah felt a sudden chill sweep across her skin.
“But you’re hurt!” Francis cried, jumping from the bench and running toward the two men.
Sarah gasped and dashed across the tiltyard, seeing the men fighting on all sides. But all were watchful of Francis, and moved aside when they saw him coming. Both Sir Walter and Sir Robert turned to face the boy.
“Fear not, Lord Drayton,” Sir Robert said. “’Tis but a scratch.”
“Mistress Sarah says we cannot let wounds get dirty,” Francis insisted. He reached for Sir Robert’s gauntleted hand and began to pull.
“Where are we going?” Sir Robert asked, grinning back at Sir Walter, who only shook his head in amusement.
“To Mistress Sarah, of course.”
Sarah came up short in surprise. Her gaze met Sir Robert’s.
“Now that you mention it, it does sting,” he said.
Several nearby knights stifled their laughter.
Sarah felt herself blushing again, something easily noticeable with her fair complexion. Why didn’t Sir Robert bluster a refusal, like any normal man with such a paltry injury? But he allowed Francis to lead him to a bench, where he sat down so the little boy could peer at the cut, which had already stopped bleeding.
“It doesn’t truly hurt,” Sir Robert offered.
“Good.” Francis turned his head. “Mistress Sarah?”
She felt foolish still rooted to the spot, and briskly approached the bench. Sir Robert’s gaze seemed to move up her body far too slowly before reaching her face.
“Mistress Sarah!” Francis poked her arm. “You must bandage his wound.”
“I do not have my tray of medicines with me,” she said, trying not to look at the patient man before her.
Francis put his hands on his hips. “Do you not have a clean handkerchief up your sleeve?”
She closed her eyes for a moment. “Aye, I do.”
“Can you not use that?”
She produced the handkerchief in resignation, then bent forward to look at the cut. She felt the heat of exertion coming off Sir Robert. “The sword made a clean slice, of course.”
“But a sword isn’t clean!” the boy said.
Sir Robert was silently laughing now, his face too close, his gaze as heated as his body.
Francis looked around him, as if her healing supplies would magically appear. “We need something to wash the wound with, too.”
Sir Robert plucked the handkerchief from her hand and neatly tore it in two. Francis grinned and took one piece over to the bucket set aside to quench the men’s thirst.
In a low voice, Sir Robert said, “I am sorry my clumsiness at training has caused you such problems.”
“’Tis no problem,” she said, trying to sound indifferent. “Francis is a caring boy.”
“Does he keep you on hand to bandage every injured knight?”
She sighed. “Nay, he is usually at his studies with the chaplain this time of day.”
“Ah, then I am fortunate to be receiving such tender ministrations.”
“We shall see if you think the same after I have bandaged you,” she said dryly. “I will probably have to use great pressure to stop the flow of blood.”
“And here I thought the bleeding had stopped.” He chuckled. “I look forward to your care.”
Thankfully, for her composure, Franci
s returned to hand her the dripping handkerchief. She wrung it out and bent to wipe the blood from the wound. As she’d discovered the previous night dancing in his arms, Sir Robert was in fine training form. With his head turned, he watched her, making her far too uncomfortable. She scrubbed a bit harder. He only arched a brow and smirked.
She straightened, wearing a frown. Usually she employed a leather hair tie to hold impromptu bandages on a little boy, but for some reason today she’d chosen a pretty blue ribbon to hold back her curls.
Francis looked from one to the other in confusion. “Mistress Sarah?”
“I have nothing to hold a bandage in place,” she said. “Is there a piece of rope or leather somewhere about, Sir Robert?” She expected him to get her out of this mess by refusing to use such a clumsy, awkward restraint.
“I know not, mistress.”
He innocently blinked those big blue eyes at her. She told herself to remember to breathe. She wanted to give him a shake, to tell him to stop behaving like this.
Why did he not play along with her instead of dragging out this farce?
Francis pointed at her head. “You can always fetch another hair ribbon, mistress.”
She glanced at Sir Robert from beneath raised eyebrows. “Do you want a blue ribbon wrapped about your arm, sir?”
She expected him to defer on account of his partner, Sir Walter, or the other knights loitering nearby.
But he only looked at Francis. “Whatever you think is best, my lord.”
She rolled her eyes when she knew Francis wasn’t looking, then yanked the ribbon from her hair. The morning heat had already sent her curls into a frenzy, and soon they would be plastered against her neck and cheeks.
“I think her hair looks like fire,” Francis commented to Sir Robert.
She stiffened.
“A very different hue, ’tis true,” Sir Robert answered back.
Sarah frowned at the two of them. “’Tis not appropriate to discuss a woman as if she’s not here, Francis.”
Francis winced. “I’m sorry, mistress.”
Sir Robert showed no repentance as he said, “’Tis not the boy’s fault.”
She wanted to be finished with his foolish playacting. She brusquely lifted the knight’s arm up so that the bandage wouldn’t slide down, pressed the dry half of the handkerchief into place, and neatly tied a blue bow around the whole thing. The ribbon was barely long enough to fit around his arm muscles.
She put her trembling hands on her hips. “When you are ready to travel today, I will replace this with a more appropriate bandage.”
He rose up before her until she was forced to tilt her head back. He stood too close to her, saying quietly, “But we are not leaving today, Mistress Sarah. I hope this will not inconvenience you.”
His breath touched her face softly, the heat of his body still bathed hers, and he didn’t move away, as if he didn’t care who saw him.
She took a step back. “You have decided to rest from your travels, Sir Robert?”
He cocked his head. “You might say that, Mistress Sarah.”
She cursed silently to herself, the effect of his nearness forgotten. He definitely had another reason for being at Drayton Hall. Was he challenging her to discover it?
“My thanks for your healing abilities, mistress.”
She wanted to scoff at him and his secrets.
He gave her a polite nod of his head, then held out his arm to Francis. “How do I look, my lord?”
“Silly, but better. We don’t want you sick in bed, Sir Robert, do we, Mistress Sarah? Then you’d have to tend him.”
Surely she could blame her red face on the sun, she thought miserably, folding her arms across her chest.
But she could not escape the fact that her last hope that he was leaving today had died.
“What are you doing next, Sir Robert?” Francis asked.
He tousled the boy’s hair. “So I have your permission to continue training? Then I imagine I shall practice jousting.”
“You will ride Dragon?” Francis said eagerly, clapping his hands together.
“What is the name of your pony?”
Sarah saw the boy’s hesitation and felt pity for him. He had not taken to horseback riding like other boys his age. That was why she was so surprised he was interested in Sir Robert’s horse.
“I do not have my own pony,” Francis confessed, glancing at the group of boys on the far side of the courtyard, who were using sticks to roll a hoop to each other. “But I’m practicing, so that I get better and deserve my own.”
“While I’m here, if you ever want to practice with me, I will be glad to help you.”
“Oh, aye, we could do that!”
Sarah closed her eyes. It sounded like he meant to stay for a long time. That was something that would have to be taken up with the steward, of course, and through him, Sir Anthony. If only she could demand the truth from Sir Robert!
Now that her eyes were briefly closed, Robert took a moment to study Sarah. He’d flustered and teased her, and she bore it all with an innocent reluctance. She did not seem like an evil woman, but the League’s theory was that she’d committed murder when highly emotional.
Emotional? She seemed like a woman in such control of everything except the blushes she could not hide. Yet a woman so normally composed would behave far differently when provoked too far.
After he’d saddled Dragon, he went to the lists at the far end of the tiltyard, where the knights rode their horses and practiced piercing metal rings with their lances. Francis was already there, standing on a bench, jumping up and down as each horseman took his turn at the joust.
Simon Chapman was ahead of him in line, and if Robert expected the other man to maneuver as slowly as he did when courting a woman, he was surprised. Chapman moved as one with the horse, and his lance perfectly speared several rings in a row. Young Francis cheered each knight so loudly that Robert could almost hear him as he galloped down the lists.
Later, Sarah allowed the boy to ride one of the Drayton ponies with Robert walking at his side. Francis was obviously nervous, and naturally the pony could feel that, which didn’t help his learning.
Francis said, “My father used to walk with me like this.”
Now Robert understood. “You must miss that.”
Francis lowered his gaze to the pony’s mane. “I never worried that I would fall when he was here. But after he died, one of the grooms made me try again, and I fell.”
Why would anyone insist that a grieving boy ride? Robert knew he himself had not been raised as other people, but it didn’t make sense to him.
“Everyone falls,” Robert said.
“You do, too?”
“Of course. When I was younger, I once hurt my leg so badly in a fall that I couldn’t walk for days. My foster father put me back on the horse as soon as I was able, because if one lets the fear take over, one might never want to ride again.”
Francis seemed to be considering this. “So the groom wasn’t being mean to me?”
“I was not there, my lord, but I would assume not.”
After that, Francis’s worry seemed to ease, and he allowed Robert to gradually increase his pace.
Robert was amused by his own behavior with the young lord. He’d already discovered much about the relationship between Sarah and Francis. But the more time he spent with the little boy, the more Robert laughed. That bit with the bandage, and the look on Sarah’s face when she realized that Francis meant her to tend him—Robert had almost guffawed out loud. But it hadn’t been so funny when she’d been touching him with those warm, smooth fingers, and he’d had to pretend that he wasn’t feeling more than amusement. She’d smelled like sweet lavender. And he still sported the feminine ribbon on his arm for Francis’s benefit—and Sarah’s.
He glanced at her where she sat primly on a bench, having searched for shade to protect her skin. She was focused on Francis, which meant focused on Robert.
But Rob
ert found himself studying the boy almost as much as Sarah. There was something about this little orphan, left alone in the world with great responsibilities he didn’t understand, that made one feel protective. He was much like Adam, Robert’s brother who’d known from childhood that he was the true earl of Keswick. Unlike Francis’s circumstances, Adam’s identity had to be kept a secret. A killer had also taken Robert’s parents, so he and his brothers had even more in common with Francis.
At last Sarah took the young lord inside for his studies, leaving Robert near the stables. He watched the nursemaid and her charge disappear into the great hall.
Walter approached him.
“Come for a rematch?” Robert said idly, his mind still on Sarah and the boy.
“Only if you insist on proving yourself.”
Robert glanced at the older man, whose look was bland, as if there was no deeper meaning beneath his words. Or was this his attempt at humor? Robert chuckled, and then said, “Our sparring will have to wait, although I regret it. I have our regular duty to perform.”
“You will leave now?”
“I will return quickly.”
After retrieving the small leather packet from his bedchamber, Robert crossed the courtyard again and went out through the gatehouse. The Oxfordshire countryside was wooded between rolling hills, with plenty of streams. He chose the nearest to the castle, then followed it into the forest.
He knew almost immediately that someone was following him, and after backtracking once through a series of trees, he saw the red of Sarah Audley’s hair. Intrigued, he wished he could deal with her immediately, but he first had to finish his mission. He increased his pace into the woodland, following the stream into the first clearing, as every Bladesman was taught to do. He left the message between rocks, positioning sticks, leaves and pebbles in the League method to subtly point out the hiding place for his first report to his superiors.
And then he blended back into the trees and waited for Sarah’s approach.
Chapter 5
Sarah felt like a fool as she worked her way slowly into the forest, not following a path, only following her ridiculous intuition and Sir Robert. Sticks poked at her hair, yanking strands of it, slapping her in the face if she let go of them too quickly. Her gown kept getting caught on prickly bushes, and more than once she thought she’d lost sight of him.
