“Roger? Any ideas?”
“Sadly, no.”
They shared a barge crossing the Mersey with a small herd of frightened, bleating sheep and lambs. Some primitive animal instinct was telling them only danger lay outside of their pasture. The couple tending the animals chatted with a young woman holding a chicken intent on going anywhere else but with her. The sheep’s fear was contagious.
Roger stretched his legs out and dozed off.
He walked the base of the long, high curtain wall, flattening himself against it when the guards on the battlements passed above him. Other than the impossible—to—enter massive gate and portcullis, he failed to find another door. A heavy mist rose. The ground grew slippery and he fell several times. The mist turned to thick fog and disoriented him. Lost, he followed along the wall with his hands. He rounded one of the towers and unable to stop himself, tumbled down a rocky embankment into the water. The current pulled him farther and farther from the fog-engulfed shadow of the castle, dragging him under. He thrashed and fought his way to the surface. His head barely above the water, the mist cleared. A woman stood in the distance.
Electra.
“Help me.” Her arm outstretched, she beckoned to him. “Help me.”
Oliver shook him awake. “You started thrashing about. What were you dreaming?”
Roger scrubbed his face with his hands. Reaching one hand in the murky Mersey, he filled a cupped palm and splashed the water on his face. “That I was drowning. Electra was there calling for me to help her and I couldn’t.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“You don’t know that.”
Chapter Twenty
Conwy, Wales
The Prince invited Electra to leave the kitchen and eat in the great hall, not at his table but at an adjoining one.
“More wine, milady?” Percival poured and asked after. He sat on Electra’s left and Horatio on her right.
Prior to the Prince’s talk on why she should marry, neither knight said a word to her, let alone referred to her as milady. She wasn’t certain of the protocol but didn’t think she was in the milady category. The Prince never referred to her by that title. He called her by name. The sudden use by the two knights brought new angst. Prince Edward had to have ordered them to refer to her by the title, which she saw for the ploy it was to endear one or both to her.
She liked both. Neither were as coarse as many of the other knights, in front of her at least. A laundress, four kitchen assistants, and the blacksmith’s wife traveled with them. The laundress and two of the kitchen girls had late night assignations with some knights. They were happy to share their personal information the next day with any who’d listen. None of the women spoke ill of Percival or Horatio or any of the Prince’s men. The blacksmith’s wife was strikingly lovely and never complained about any of the knights trying to take liberties. The Prince took his chivalric code to heart and apparently demanded the same of his men.
At the end of the dinner meal, Percival said, “We have a good amount of light left this day. Shall we take a walk through the village?”
“I’d like that,” Electra said honestly.
“I’ll join you,” Horatio said, looking at Percival then winking at Electra.
They walked along the battlements to one of the mighty towers facing the village and down a narrow circular staircase. The entire town was protected behind a high stone wall. Conwy was one of Edward the First’s “iron ring of castles” he built throughout Wales. Any attackers had a daunting task of fighting their way through the villages prior to challenging the castle garrisons.
Electra wanted to see how the village compared to the modern version. Many of the medieval features remained. It would be nice to see them in a newer state. She hadn’t had a chance to see much, setting up the kitchen to her liking took most of her time since they arrived.
The knights asked her about Greenland. She answered from imagination. “Tell me Sir Percival, how did you become one of the Prince’s knights?” she asked, changing the subject.
“My father is a knight in service to the King in London, as was his father before him to the King’s father.”
“Were you knighted automatically when you reached a certain age?”
“No. I was only a squire at the battle of Crecy but I ran errands for the Prince on the battlefield. I was unarmed but unafraid to enter the melee to do his bidding. I caught his attention and when I reached sixteen, he granted me the honor of knighthood.”
“Interesting. If your father served the King wherever the King traveled, what about your mother?”
“She’s one of the Queen’s ladies. She is together with my father only when the Queen and King are together.”
“Do your parents live near the palace?”
“No. The Queen has provided my mother with a chamber in the palace but my father spends most nights in the barracks.”
They didn’t sound like a close couple to Electra. She wondered if theirs was an arranged marriage or one of love.
“What about you, Horatio? How did you become one of the Prince’s knights?” she asked. “Did you have a relative in service to the king as well?”
“No. My family are farmers in Kent. I was seen by the King while he traveled to Canterbury. My village was having a fair. There was a strong man contest and I won. I was only twelve and would’ve lost but the competition included an obstacle course.”
“Like what?”
“I had to cross a stream by means of a floating log. It sounds easy, milady, but it is not. The moment one’s foot touches, the log begins to spin. Many of the challengers got a good dunking.” He mimicked the spin with his hands, talking faster as he retold the events.
“After the log roll, I had to run to a wall twice the size of a man and scale it, then run to and climb a rope three times the height of a man and touch the limb it hung from. I rounded barrels set out in a willy-nilly pattern. The final test was to strike a plate with a hammer sending a weight up to ring a bell at the top.”
Electra’s uncle was in the Royal Marines and had to train on a similar course. Some things never change.
“You won this contest at twelve? That’s impressive,” she told him, receiving a big grin. His cheeks blushed bright pink and he looked younger than twenty-seven. “Then what? How did the King approach you?”
“He spoke to my father and I set off with the royal party that day. When I turned sixteen, I fought with the Prince at Crecy. He knighted many of us after the battle. I was among the chosen.”
They’d reached the village market, which still bustled with activity. Horatio bought an apple from vendor. “I’m very strong. Watch.”
He crushed the apple in his hand, tossed the juicy remains to the ground and wanted to buy another but Electra intervened. “Please, I can see how incredibly strong you are. You needn’t continue the apple carnage.”
“All the Prince’s knights are strong,” Percival said. He took one walnut from the vendor next to the fruit stand and crushed it in his hand. “Voila.”
“I believe both of you. Please no more demonstrations. Clearly, you’re well suited for your position protecting the royal party. Let’s see what else the market offers,” Electra suggested to end the rivalry and show for her benefit.
They continued on chatting and stopping occasionally to talk with different vendors. Towards the edge of the square a young girl sat on a barrel selling a colorful mix of sweet peas, daisies, and buttercups from a basket. Her chin rested in her hand and she busied herself drawing pictures in the dirt with a stick.
“How pretty,” Electra said, admiring the variety.
The girl stopped drawing to watch as Percival quickly gathered every bloom. “How much for all?”
Her eyes widened at the possible sale. Her gaze shifted from him to Electra and back to Percival. “A double groat.”
Electra suspected the girl upped the price, seeing he was one of the Prince’s men.
Percival dug i
nto a pouch on his sword belt and tossed the girl a coin. He handed the bunch of loose flowers to Electra. “For you, milady.”
She’d had a devil of a time trying to hold onto all them. They filled both hands. “Hold them for a moment,” she told him and pulled the ribbon from her braid to tie them all together. “There.”
Her hair now hung wavy and loose over her shoulders. None of the castle folk had seen her hair untied. She braided hers to blend in with the other women.
Percival’s eyes never left her hands as she fingered through the waves freeing the strands. When she finished, he brought her hand to his lips and kissed the back of her fingers. “You’ve lovely hair.”
“Thank you.” Horatio lightly brushed her arm. She turned as he pulled back. “Were you sniffing my hair?”
“I confess. I was.”
“Smell nice?”
“It did, but perhaps another test is necessary.”
“Nice try, but no you cannot have a second sniff. One per knight.”
“Pity.”
She didn’t want to like them as much as she was starting to. The Prince had chosen well, if she were in the market for a husband, which she was not. All she wanted was to go home, marry Roger, and open a small bistro. Barring that, she’d prefer to remain the Prince’s unmarried cook. A status he didn’t approve of and not inclined to change his mind about.
Chapter Twenty-One
Wales
After the barge crossing, a couple of hours on foot, and another short jaunt by fishing boat, Roger and Oliver finally reached Wales.
“When do you want to stop for the night?” a weary looking Oliver asked.
“If you’re up to it, I’d like to keep on as long as the light holds.”
“I’m fine to keep going.”
The hours passed with neither speaking. A multitude of worries, problems, and potentially high risk solutions went through Roger’s head. He looked over at Oliver once in a while to find him breathing hard and red-faced, sweat running from his temples.
Oliver would see Roger staring at him and he’d wave his hand motioning for them to keep moving. They weren’t too far from Rhyl, a modest seaside tourist town in modern times, Oliver had said. Roger planned to spend the night there. A seaside village should have an inn where they could get a cheap, but filling, fish pie. Their meager midday meal and laborious trek had Oliver overcoming the aversion to fish he expressed in Bristol.
A woman’s scream stopped them both. Another came, higher and longer.
“Over there.” Roger took off running toward the water.
In the dark undergrowth of the woods, a woman lay thrashing on the ground. The man on top of her backhanded her, telling her to shut up. He pulled and tore at her skirts, pushing them up as she fought to push him off.
Roger tackled him from the side at a full run knocking him off the woman. From the corner of his eye, Roger saw her scrambling, skirts raised, half crawling, half running away from the fighting men.
Before the attacker could rise, Roger was on him. He rolled him over and hit the man hard on the chin, following the blow with a hard strike to the man’s nose. Noticeably slighter of build than Roger, the attacker was surprisingly strong. They wrestled on the ground. Roger twisted away as the man attempted to gouge his eyes. Roger countered, clamping his hands around the man’s throat, digging his thumbs into the soft flesh of the man’s windpipe. Somehow the man managed to bring his knees up under Roger enough to leverage him off. The attacker staggered to his feet, but Roger recovered fast and already stood. He connected with another powerful punch to the man’s face. The man staggered back, holding his bloody nose.
Roger moved closer to finish him off and send him running. Instead of retreating, the man turned. The move was followed by the familiar rasp of a sword leaving its scabbard. Roger pulled his eating dagger from his boot. Dagger versus sword. Not a good match.
The man yelled and charged Roger, sword extended as far as possible. A foolish move. Fully extended, the position prevented the one wielding the weapon to thrust or stab. Roger feinted left, deflecting the man’s sword with only a dagger and his greater strength.
The man pivoted and charged again, swiping the air with wide arcs. As the first arcing maneuver missed the mark, the man brought the sword backward to strike. The shift in position exposed the attackers whole torso. Before he completed the arc, the woman rushed toward them. Screaming, she plunged a dagger into her attacker’s heart. He grasped the handle in a desperate effort to pull it out. As the man collapsed, Roger snatched the sword from his hand before he hit the ground. Eyes on his intended victim, her attacker dropped to his knees and then toppled to the side.
Roger put his dagger into his boot and then checked the man for a pulse. “He’s dead,” Roger said, fingers on the man’s carotid. The traumatized woman stared at the body. Blood leaked from her nose and a split lip. A large red lump on her cheek would be purple by morning. Roger wondered if she was in shock. He pulled the dagger from the man’s chest and turned to a wide-eyed Oliver. “How’d she get your dagger?”
“I had my arms around her, consoling her. The next minute, she dipped and in a blink yanked it from my boot. Bing, bang, bong, before I could stop her, she dashed for him and well...” he gestured to the body. “...Put an end to his raping days. Who’d have expected that? To say I’m flummoxed would be an understatement.”
The young woman clutched the torn bodice of her dress, pointed to Roger and backed up a few feet. “You’re French.”
“I’m not here in any war capacity.”
She looked to English Oliver for confirmation.
“It’s true. As you can see, I travel with him and I am unscathed.”
Her wary gaze shifted from Oliver to Roger, clearly unconvinced.
Roger stepped away from the body and closer to where the woman stood. He reached for her only to hold her hand and reaffirm he wasn’t her enemy.
“No.” She began to cry, backing farther from Roger. Tears streamed down, and she crossed her free arm tight over her breasts. “Don’t hurt me. Please.”
“We didn’t save you only to hurt you ourselves,” Roger reassured.
“We don’t roll that way,” Oliver added in a cavalier tone.
Roger couldn’t believe his ears. The woman stopped crying and gawked at Oliver, probably much in the same baffled way Roger thought he looked at the moment. “We don’t roll that way. Where do you get this stuff?”
“Telly.”
“You watch way too much television. If we get home, we need to find you a lady friend.” Roger made no attempt to get closer to the woman, returning to the body instead. He worried she’d panic and run off to the village. No good could come of that. She’d bring men back to hunt the Frenchman. Standing by the dead man, he turned to the woman. “Do you know this man?”
She shook her head. “I’ve never seen him around here. The harbor attracts the occasional vagabond seeking day labor.” Fear returned to her eyes. “Are you going to tell everyone I murdered a man? They’ll hang me.”
“No. We’ll bury him and that will be an end to what happened here.” Roger examined the sword. The workmanship was plain, the hilt and pommel simple, but it was adequate. He slid it into his belt. Could the man have been one of the deadly archers Wales was known for? He knelt on one knee and felt the middle two fingers on the dead man’s hands. Not a longbowman.
Do you live nearby?” Roger asked and stood.
“Yes. I’m the local healer. I have a cottage at the edge of the village.”
“Can you lay your hands on a shovel?”
She nodded.
“Good. Bring it. Fast. The light will fade soon.”
****
She brought two shovels and the men made quick work of burying the body.
When they dumped the last spadeful of dirt on the grave, the woman made the sign of the cross. She wrung her hands between nervously touching her bruised face and pacing. “God may punish me for what I’ve
done.” She fixed watery eyes filled with new tears on Roger. “Have you ever killed?”
“Yes. In war.”
“Do you worry for the lives you’ve taken? Do you think God will forgive you?”
“No, I don’t worry for those I’ve killed. They were trying to kill me. As to forgiveness...I don’t know what God has in store. Should I be lucky and find myself at the Gates of Paradise, I only ask for a fair accounting.”
She stared at the grave. Roger thought she might be trying to reconcile what she did with her faith. “He and I weren’t at war. I wasn’t in a battle like you,” she said at last.
“Yes, you were. It was just a different kind of battle. I tell you truthfully, I believe he would’ve killed you after he’d raped you. His kind often do.”
“Thank you, I pray you’re right.”
“Changing the subject, where do you think he got the sword?” Oliver asked Roger.
“Stole it no doubt,” Roger said with a shrug. “He probably was a foot soldier at one point and took it from a dead knight. Pretty common after a battle. The foot soldiers have little armor and poor weapons. They take what they can when the opportunity arises.”
“We’ve been remiss, lovely lady,” Oliver said. “We failed to introduce ourselves. I am Oliver Gordon. My French friend is Roger Marchand.”
“I’m Annie Yarwood.” She returned Roger’s head bob with a wobbly curtsy. “It’s best if you avoid the village. You are welcome to eat your evening meal at my cottage and to sleep there for the night. Not a shared bed,” she added quickly.
Burying her rapist earned her trust, which Roger was grateful for considering how easily things could’ve gone to hell if she still felt a need to report his French presence.
Roger tipped his head in a courtly manner he hadn’t needed in a long time. “We’ll accept your kind offer of the meal and your floor for the night.”
In Time for You Page 20
