Endearing (Knight Everlasting Book 1)

by Cassidy Cayman

  “Get back on your horse, son,” Sir Walter said. “Ride beside me and apprise me of what you’ve seen today.”

  Tristan struggled back into his saddle, trying not to feel foolish. “Patrolling the borders. We’ve seen fires to the north and two of my farmers have reported stolen cows. But we saw nothing out of order today. You, sir?”

  “The same,” Sir Walter said with a brisk nod. “Reports of lost livestock on the strip of land that runs west of yours. We thought to take a look, set the farmers at ease if we could. But like you, we’ve seen nothing out of sorts.”

  “Marauders, no doubt,” Tristan said, feeling responsible.

  “You don’t think it’s the Scots?”

  Tristan shook his head. “We’ve had no trouble with them as of late. I can’t see they’d risk a border war over a few cows. These are men without a clan, or deserters from our side. Dangerous, yes, but not organized. No real leadership.”

  He mostly believed what he told Sir Walter and, for a moment, thought about sharing his doubts that they were merely opportunistic thieves looking to survive. He had no proof other than his gut feeling though. With winter coming and promising to be a harsh one, it made sense that it was merely desperation driving the thefts. He decided to keep quiet and they rode along in silence for some time. At the point in the trail where he had to turn in order to head back to his own land, he reined in his horse, clearing his throat uncomfortably. Before he could say he’d be on his way, Sir Walter abruptly spoke up.

  “She gave up an excellent marriage for you.”

  Tristan was stunned. Blinking, he saw the other men were far enough behind that they could speak without being overheard which, at the moment, he considered less than a blessing.

  “I beg your pardon, sir?” was all he could manage.

  “It’s not my pardon you should be begging,” the older knight said, eyes fierce and full of fight. “She told me herself she wanted to marry for love. That’s why she refused Lord Drayton.”

  “She told you she loved me?” Tristan asked, not sure why he wanted to torment himself. He’d heard her say it with her own mouth. A mouth he still longed to kiss.

  Sir Walter snorted. “I didn’t need her to tell me. It was plain on her face how she felt. And just as plain how she felt when you left after the tournament. After all but declaring yourself, no less.”

  “I—that was—” Tristan couldn’t think of a proper answer, because there wasn’t one.

  “Ah yes, the heat of the competition. A foolish gesture. Say what you will about it, but she believed you. And she’s all I’ve got left in this world. I can’t see her suffering.”

  Tristan wanted to say he couldn’t bear to see her suffer either, which was precisely why he ran away. But how could he explain it when her father was in denial of her condition. “I should like to speak plainly, Sir Walter,” he said.

  “Well, I’m not asking you to lie to me, boy,” Sir Walter exploded.

  “I fear for her health.” There. Out in the open. “I’m a coward who fears losing those he loves.”

  Sir Walter slumped in his saddle as if the wind had been knocked out of him. “It is a terrible thing,” he rasped. “Indeed, there is no worse thing. But my Fay is healthy. She does not suffer from what afflicted my dear wife and Anne. She’s never coughed or sneezed that I’ve ever heard. She’s strong. You saw how she recovered from that illness during the summer. She’ll outlive us all, my Fay.”

  Tristan flinched at the desperate pleading. How could Sir Walter be so ignorant of Fay’s affliction? So what if she outlived them all, if she was a raving, drooling lunatic the whole time? He shuddered at the thought of seeing her that way, her delicate beauty twisted by madness.

  Before he could find the right thing to say, he heard the thundering of hooves coming from the rise ahead of them. He turned in his saddle to wave Brom and the others forward, saying to Sir Walter, “Have you other men on the land today?”

  “They’re not mine,” he said, hand on his sword.

  Brom and his men gathered around them, Sir Walter’s men pulling up beside him. “No banner,” Brom said when the newcomers cleared the top of the rise. He gripped the reins as his horse danced beneath him.

  “Hold,” Tristan said. “We don’t know they’re unfriendly.” The words had barely left his mouth when the group gathered at the top of the hill barreled down toward them, screeching blood-curdling war whoops and brandishing their swords. “Sir Walter, take your men and go. We’ll turn them back.”

  Sir Walter’s men looked like they agreed it was a good plan, already circling him protectively. “Nonsense,” Sir Walter yelled gleefully, as if he’d been waiting for the opportunity to cut some people down for a good long time.

  He pulled his sword and kicked his horse toward the hostile men, who Tristan could now clearly see were unkempt and ragged. Marauders. He whipped his bow from behind his back and unleashed an arrow into their midst. A man screamed and fell from his horse, but still they poured over the hill, dozens of them. How had so many of them appeared out of nowhere, with both he and Sir Walter out patrolling and not seeing hide nor hair of them? There had to be a traitor helping them, someone who lived on either his or Sir Walter’s land. He took another one down with his bow, but soon they would be upon them. Brom and two of his men had raced ahead while he tried to get Sir Walter to retreat and, already, their swords clanged against their enemies.

  He saw Sir Walter raise his sword and, with an easy slashing motion, took down one who thought to sneak in on his right side. It seemed the old man could care for himself, which was a good thing, because the next thing he knew, Tristan was surrounded. He relieved one of the scraggly men of his head, swinging his sword around to slice another through the shoulder. The thunk of hitting bone reverberated back up to his wrist and he yanked the blade free. The man gaped and fell to the ground. Tristan had no time to check if Sir Walter was still all right. Two more men flowed like water into the places of their fallen comrades. One of them managed to hack him crudely along the side of his thigh before he swiftly retreated out of Tristan’s reach. The other one grabbed his horse’s reins and tried to pull the animal closer to him, a short but deadly knife in his fist.

  Tristan felt blind rage at the craven man trying to harm his horse and, leaning over, plunged his sword between his ribs and clear out his other side. The momentum of the thrust carried Tristan with it, and he found himself crunching into a patch of snow, alongside the man he’d just skewered. The dead marauder’s horse took off in a panic, but Tristan’s horse stayed by his side, only dancing slightly at the mayhem that surrounded them.

  “That’s a good fellow,” Tristan said. “None of these lawless bastards will lay a finger on you.”

  He tried to pull himself up, but noticed the pool of blood he was lying in wasn’t entirely the marauder’s. The slash to his leg was worse than he’d thought. Now that he was no longer distracted by the battle that still raged above him, he realized how deep the cut was. He lay back, chilled to the bone, finally working up enough strength to wrestle his sword from between the dead man’s ribs.

  Surveying the scene, he saw Brom was still fighting, but only against one man now. Sir Walter and his men were chasing two back over the rise, and his men seemed to have it under control, either chasing or fighting, but no longer outnumbered. Except, there was one sneaking up behind Brom while he fought, ready to cut him down unawares. Tristan felt even more angry than when his horse had been the target and forced himself to his feet, shouting a warning.

  Brom managed to take out the foe he was facing with a dagger to the neck, then whirled around and engaged the sneaky one, their knives clinking against each other. Tristan staggered forward to help put an end to it, catching Brom’s eye as his squire parried against the much less experienced man.

  Brom’s eyes widened, looking beyond Tristan, and he hurriedly put the man he was fighting out of his misery, then raced toward him. Feeling woozy and dizzy, Tristan raised hi
s sword and turned to see who was behind him. The heavy gilded sword hilt hit him directly between the eyes. The last thing he heard was Brom’s howl of rage before everything went dark and silent.

  *

  Peace. That’s what he had wanted and it seemed he had found it at last. Nothing hurt, which was amazing, because he distinctly remembered all the blood that had poured from his leg. And the sword hilt smashing into his face. That should have hurt but, instead, it had sent him to this lovely, quiet place. It was also warm and he was surrounded by softness, whereas it should have been freezing cold and hard. He managed to move his hands around. No crusty patches of snow, no frozen ground. Soft, smooth, warm.

  The only thing that could make this place perfect was Fay. As long as he was in a fantasy realm brought on by his injuries, that was. Deep in his heart, he knew he was either dead or dying, so why not one last glimpse of her? Why couldn’t he hear her voice and feel her touch one last time? He struggled to free his hands from their cozy prison. Whatever lay atop him, warm as it was, also weighed nearly as much as his horse.

  Something grabbed his hand and held it still. Slender fingers interlaced with his and he felt himself smile. His last wish was being granted.

  “Fay?” He tried to speak, was almost sure he had spoken her name aloud.

  “I’m here, Tristan. Don’t strain yourself. You need to rest.”

  His smile grew wider. Yes, that was her voice. He would have known it had he not heard it for fifty years. And she held his hand in hers. Now he only needed to see her lovely face and he could leave this earth. He dragged open his weary lids and was blinded by a blazing, white light. He raised his hand against it and he felt her hand slip away from his.

  “Fay, don’t,” he begged. He hadn’t seen her. He wasn’t ready.

  “Hang on.” Her voice was brisk, not that of a dream. He heard the swish of heavy fabric and the brilliant light dimmed. Footsteps padded back to him and, once again, she wrapped her hand around his. “I closed the curtains.”

  He opened his eyes again and made out her outline, then she slowly came into focus. At the same time, all the pain he thought he should have felt, he felt. It rushed him like a maddened animal, tearing bits of flesh from his thigh and face. He groaned. He was alive and at Sir Walter’s home. He tentatively touched the wound on his leg, recoiled from the hot pain around the many stitches he felt there.

  “Am I dying?” he asked. He wanted to keep his eyes closed, as that seemed to ease the howling agony a bit, but he was hungry to look at Fay. He squeezed her hand and she squeezed it back.

  “I hope not,” she said matter-of-factly. “I don’t think so. We’re trying to keep you from getting a fever.”

  He managed a weak chuckle. “Then why the mountain of blankets? I dreamed I was being cooked.”

  She jumped to her feet and began peeling off covers one by one. “Tell me when you’re more comfortable,” she fretted.

  “I was jesting,” he said, trying to reach for her again. “Sit and hold my hand. That is what will keep me alive.”

  She snorted, but took his hand. “Does your face hurt very much?” she asked after several moments of silence in which he almost fell asleep. “It looks awful.”

  “If it looks as bad as it feels, I don’t know how you remain in the same room with me.”

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured. He was almost asleep again, not sure how long her silence lasted this time, when he heard her say, “I still love you, Tristan.” She sniffled and fell quiet again.

  Feeling like he was back in his dream, he answered. “I love you, too, Fay. I tried not to, but I couldn’t stop. I no longer care about your malady. I will face it. I only want to be with you.”

  She snuffled a combination laugh and cry. “Just get better, will you? Then I’ll prove I’m not mad like you think I am.”

  “I told you it doesn’t matter, love,” he insisted, trying to open his eyes again. The pain in his head was too great and he lay helplessly, his hand in hers.

  “It matters to me,” she said snippily.

  He wasn’t sure if he continued to argue or if it was all a dream. But he knew she continued to hold his hand and that was enough for him.

  Chapter 30

  Fay sat at his bedside, poring over the cumbersome, leather-bound medical tome Great-uncle Edgar had given her after much wheedling. For the week since he’d been brought in, bleeding and unconscious, she had hardly left Tristan’s side. The fear she had felt when she saw him being carried to a room, made worse when Great-uncle Edgar expressed his lack of confidence that Tristan would pull through from such an injury, had led her to realize she’d been fooling herself all those weeks. She wasn’t over Tristan. She still loved him.

  She refused to get her hopes up about him feverishly saying he still loved her as well. It would hurt too much if he came to his senses and took it all back, and she’d had quite enough pain for a while. She was sure it was enough for a lifetime, but was also sure there was plenty more ahead of her, thanks to the damn curse. All she could do was put her head down and power through it all, and cling to the hope that she might save Anne if given the chance.

  She rubbed her eyes and tried the passage in front of her again. The confusing ancient spelling notwithstanding, it still made absolutely no sense. She only had basic secondary school first aid, and still thought she must have more real medical knowledge than any healer in this time. A lot of what she could make out was frightening rubbish, but she refused to give up. Well, she refused to give up overall, just for now she was going to take a break and rest her eyes by gazing at Tristan.

  His face was still a mass of blue and purple bruises, blossoming from an almost perfect oval in the middle of his forehead, seeping down to two black eyes, with his poor crooked nose swollen and tender looking. While he slept, she checked his temperature by resting her palm against the side of his throat, not daring to touch his head. He seemed cool enough, so she flipped aside the blankets and checked his leg. The gash along the side of his left thigh was about ten inches long, and zigzagged with a railroad of black stitches. It was rimmed with yellow-green bruises but, thankfully, the angry red swelling had gone down after the third day. It was a miracle he was alive, without antibiotics or even aspirin. It was a testament to his strength and she felt oddly proud of him. She sighed and tried to push her feelings away. Life was easier without them, but the pesky things wouldn’t leave her alone.

  “Lady Fay,” he said, sounding almost normal. His voice was strong, just a bit muffled from his swollen nose. “Are you reading?” He sat up, scowling at her.

  She closed the huge book and put it on the bedside table. Its edges hung over the side and he looked at it as if it were a rotten pile of offal, complete with flies.

  “Not anymore,” she said, once again feeling the side of his neck for fever.

  He captured her hand, pulling it to his lips for a quick kiss, and then smiled. Even though he was a mess, her heart tugged to see that look she so treasured. The back of her hand tingled, but she couldn’t yank it away. He pulled her closer and she closed her eyes, trying to fight those tenacious feelings.

  “You’re angry with me,” he stated.

  She kept her eyes closed. “No. No, I’m not.”

  She had been, thinking he should have believed her without hesitation, and that true love meant absolute trust. But after putting herself in his shoes and imaging if someone she’d dated for a short time burst out that he was from hundreds of years in the future and that he needed her to fall in love with him to break a curse … she laughed brokenly at the memory. Of course she would have run from such a person. She would have discreetly inquired with his family members if, perhaps, he was off his meds and might need their help.

  “Look at me,” he pleaded. “Am I so hideous that you can’t?”

  Her eyes flew open. “No,” she said hurriedly. “You’re as handsome as ever, bruises and all.” She sighed in defeat at his triumphant smile and tentatively placed her
finger, feather light, against the bridge of his nose. “Does it hurt?”

  “What hurts is the time I’ve wasted without you,” he told her.

  “God, you’re really good at that,” she muttered. Still, she believed him. His pained eyes told the truth. “I don’t blame you for leaving, I really don’t. I wouldn’t have believed me either.”

  He glanced at the medical book again, frowning hard enough to make him wince in discomfort. “I will take the chance you may not recover. Once you’re at Dernier Keep, I will do all in my power to make you well again, starting with banning all books. We’ll find you healthier entertainment, my love. If you can’t stay with me for a lifetime, I’ll take whatever I can. I’ll face the fear of losing you. Living without you at all would be greater, I know that now.”

  She had to go over what he just said before she could respond and, even then, all she could manage was, “What?” She gaped at him, his eyes still staring coldly at Great-uncle Edgar’s book. “What?” she repeated.

  “It’s the reading that’s made you so ill,” he said. “I don’t know why your father allows it, but—”

  She burst out laughing, quickly putting her hand over her mouth at his dismayed look. She didn’t suppose cackling inappropriately was helping prove her sanity. “What?” was still all she could say. “First of all, I’m not ill. I’m not insane and I can prove it to you if you let me. But what in the blazes are you on about with the reading?”

  “It’s harmful to your humors to learn. Your delicate, erm, lady humors.”

  He looked so earnest she tried not to laugh anymore, but she nearly toppled off her chair. She smacked her hand down on the offending book.

  “Ugh, more of this kind of science, I suppose? Where did you hear that?”

  “Brom told me, but I confirmed it with a monk. A healer who saved me when I was grievously ill with fever.” He wrinkled his face up, once again wincing at the effort. “Or did he only tell me your condition would continue to progress? At any rate, I believe it’s better to be safe than sorry.”