by Rue Allyn
“I am glad you realize that. Because you just saved your own neck.” Haven lowered the sword. “There will not be a next time, will there, Sutherland?”
“No, Sir Haven.”
“Good. As a punishment for neglecting your duty, you will cook dinner for myself and the rest of the men.”
“Nay, sir. Anything but that. The men. They will kill me.”
“Aye, none shall be happy that you do the cooking. We all know you need more practice. And if the men remember why you practice your cooking this eve, they shall also remember to see to it that you do not place your cock higher than your duty ever again. You will not forget either, will you, Sutherland?”
The man hung his head. “Nay, sir. I will not let a pretty wench lead me astray again.”
“Excellent. Now get back to camp and start cooking. Tell Soames to send up your relief.”
“Aye, sir.” Sutherland dragged his feet to the hill and started downward.”
“And walk like a warrior,” Haven shouted after him. Before he disappeared from view, Haven saw the man’s head come up and his shoulders straighten.
Much better. Haven turned the sword in his hand, examining the blade for nicks and scratches. He found none.
The condition of the sword told him that Sutherland cared for his equipment. Haven thought back over the weeks that the Yorkshire man had served with him. Sutherland was a good man. No doubt it was Therese who lay at the bottom of all this. The woman caused nearly as much trouble as the girl, Rebecca.
Were the maid and the girl truly annoying, he wondered, or did the widow encourage them to keep suspicion from herself? Haven shook his head, confused as much by the widow’s actions as by his own fascination with her. He could not get to Chester and be rid of her soon enough.
The guard arrived, and Haven descended to the camp. Satisfied that for the time being, peace and calm would reign, he sought out his second-in-command. When he found Soames, they walked a little away from the fire, talking quietly.
“Did the men have a successful hunt?”
“Aye, Sir Haven, five plump partridges and four hares.”
“And has Sutherland taken the food for cooking?”
“Aye. Must you have Sutherland cook, sir? The men will not thank you.”
“They need not thank me. It is Sutherland, and his neglect of duty, to whom they should show their gratitude. Make sure they know that.”
“I will, sir.”
“Did you tell Sutherland to give some of the meat to the widow’s cook?”
“I did.”
“Good. I like it not that she is so thin.”
Soames remained silent.
“What else have you to tell me, besides of a successful hunt?”
“We found no evidence of any other riders nearby. We should be safe enough with a minimal guard for the night.”
Haven nodded. For a few more moments he discussed the safety of the camp with Soames and assigned the necessary duties and watches.
That done, he turned his attention to where the widow sat under Watley’s watchful eye.
As Haven approached he saw the squire hand her a cup. She took it in both hands and blew steam from the rim, then sipped cautiously. Her eyes squeezed shut, and her mouth formed a frown around clenched teeth.
Haven knew the brew he had ordered had a bitter flavor, but it was not that awful. Despite the pleasing odors wafting from that direction of the camp, perhaps her cook did not know his craft.
“Allow me, madame.” He held out his hand for her cup.
She stared at him for a moment, as if uncertain what he wanted. Then she shook herself. “Oui,” she whispered and placed the cup in his grasp. Her hand dropped away. The thin shoulders slumped, and her chin sank to her chest.
Haven lifted the vessel to his lips and tasted the brew. From that single sip, bitterness filled his mouth and parched his throat. He turned and spit the vile stuff toward the fire, “Pah.” He looked back at the widow. She seemed to fade and waver before his eyes. “Watley, fetch some cool water and get mint from that cook. If he has none, take some from my saddle’s pack.”
“Aye, sir.”
Haven hunkered down to study the widow’s face. Unable to force himself to look at her, he took up her hand instead. That fragile assemblage of long bones and delicate skin bore signs of unaccustomed work. Blisters and bruises dotted her palm, reminding him of her feet. She trembled slightly in his grip. Her small hurts inspired an odd ache in his chest. He thrust the cup back at her, as if the action could thrust away the unaccustomed feelings. “Does your cook not possess the skill to brew a healing posset?”
The widow raised her head, and her hair fell forward curtaining her visage. “I had your squire prepare the drink.”
“Watley is not in the habit of taking orders from anyone but me. Pray, how did you manage to convince him to disobey me?” Haven spoke with a politeness he was far from feeling.
“’Twasn’t difficult. He’s a squire, with the usual aspirations to be a knight. I simply pointed out that you would be displeased if he did not behave in a knightly fashion and honor a lady’s request.” She looked across the camp to where Watley searched among Haven’s gear.
Haven allowed his glance to follow hers. To prevent his anger from blasting her, he chewed the inside of his cheek. “Did it occur to you, madame, that having my orders obeyed pleases me?”
She snapped her head back. “Of course not. Why would you prefer that the hungry people in this camp wait upon my posset?”
As she continued, Haven frowned at the ground. He didn’t like the storm he felt brewing within himself.
“Your squire must be taught how to prepare such things. Rene is very busy. Watley had nothing to do. I knew you would be angry if I did not get the potion. I did not believe that you would care about the manner of it.”
Frustrated beyond measure, Haven clutched a fistful of his own hair and tugged. The gesture caused his eyes to water, but he held his temper. “I don’t care if you dance naked with the king of the fairies in order to get the posset. I do care that the tent is put up where I order it put, so that you, madame, may sleep in comfort. I care that the horses remain where I order them. I care that the fire is built where I order it built. And I much prefer that you cease giving orders to any of my men without my express permission. Is that clear?”
Behind damp strings of hair, she stared at him, open-mouthed, then turned her focus to the ground. “Quite. I am sorry, sir, if I caused any problems with my instructions to your men. Such was not my intention.”
That small speech seemed to exhaust her. Haven felt a queer pang at her humble words. What care I if the widow’s pride is hurt? ’Tis better she know her place. He gave himself a mental shake and turned his attention to her feet.
Noticing the bowl, salve, rags, and shoes that sat by the widow’s side, Haven tested the water. Finding it sufficiently warm, he grasped one of the widow’s feet and set to cleaning the sole.
“Please. You must not.” Her voice sounded high-pitched, robbing the protest of any real force.
He continued to soothe her foot. “Should I do less than sweet Jesu did for his disciples?”
From the corner of his eye he saw her shake her head.
“Good.” He spread salve on her foot, top, bottom and ankle. Then he swaddled the entire appendage in clean strips torn from more of the rags. He slipped one of Watley’s spare shoes over her bandaged foot and placed it gently on the ground before he picked up her other foot and repeated the action.
Watley returned as Haven finished. He removed the cup from Gennie’s slackened grip and dumped half the cup’s contents on the ground. He took the water from Watley and diluted the remainder of the posset. Then he crumbled some of the mint his squire gave him and sampled the brew. “There.” He returned the cup to the widow’s clasp. “You should be able to drink that without frightening the camp with your grimace.”
Genvieve drank.
Watley departed.
Haven sat on a nearby stone and watched. “We must talk of Rebecca’s maid, Therese,” he said.
The widow nodded. “Marie brought her here and told me what happened. Therese admits that it was her fault. She was bored and angry with me for turning her into a scullery wench. She understands now that such was not my intention.”
“You are too softhearted. Even was it your intention to so demote Therese, as a servant, she must accept your decisions in good grace. She must be punished for her impudence and thoughtlessness.”
“You mistake me, sir. Therese has been punished for her behavior.”
“How so, madame? I hear no weeping and wailing.”
“Precisely so. Therese loves to talk and does not hesitate to make her opinions known. I have made her swear an oath not to speak for the next se’enight. I gave her one exception for tomorrow morning, when she shall apologize to you and your men.”
Haven smiled. “You are an evil woman, madame.”
A small answering smile flickered across her mouth—as if she were too weary even to bend her lips upward. “I have my moments.”
He watched as she raised the cup and drained it.
When she had done, she handed him the vessel. “My thanks, sir.” She rose and crossed the camp, spoke to her servants, then retired to the shelter.
Haven stared morosely after her.
All the while, aromas from Rene’s cookfire assailed his nose, making his belly rumble in concert with the empty stomachs of his men. Dark had fallen by the time Sutherland placed half of a burnt and bleeding partridge carcass in front of Haven. He was hungry enough to swallow the unappetizing meal whole.
He stared at the blood-encrusted, semi-charred mass and reminded himself that he had eaten worse many times before. Haven swallowed a lump of revulsion. “One of your best efforts, Sutherland,” he uttered the false praise without a qualm. None of his men would say a word false or true. Haven knew that Sutherland needed encouragement before the man would ever achieve an edible meal.
“Thankee, Sir Haven.” Sutherland stood waiting for Haven to try the bird.
Haven looked up. All his men waited, expecting him to lead the way in this as in all things. So be it. He lifted the poultry to his lips and tore off a huge bite. The meat came away from the bone, dripping bright red juices. “Mmmm,” he managed to mumble as he chewed and chewed.
Sutherland sat down at the opposite side of the fire, and the men began to eat. Before Haven could swallow the first stringy bite, Marie entered the circle of light. In her arms she carried a stack of flat bread. Behind her, Therese struggled into sight lugging a huge pot. A ladle hung from her belt and banged against her leg as she walked.
The contents of the pot smelled like heaven.
The women stopped in front of Haven. “Our lady wishes to share with you all the bounty that you and your men have provided.” Marie beamed the words and leaned forward, offering a round of flat bread.
Haven nearly choked on his lumpy mouthful. What could he say? I hate food cooked in the French style. I prefer poorly cooked partridge to rabbit stew that smells lit for the saints. If he refused, his men would have to refuse. He looked around the fire. He had seen sterner looks on the faces of orphaned babes. Silently he reached out and took the bread.
Marie curtsied and moved on to the next man. Therese approached. She set the pot down, dipped her ladle, and then held it ready over the pot.
Haven thrust the bread forward with both hands. He watched thick brown sauce, great lumps of root vegetables and juicy cubes of meat drip from the ladle onto the bread. Therese dipped the ladle a second time and offered again. But Haven shook his head. He had already folded the bread around the stew and taken his first bite.
It was delicious and totally unexpected.
After Edward’s crusade to the Holy Lands, Haven had spent a month traveling to Paris and back on the king’s business. At every stop the food had been highly spiced and overcooked. Not burnt, just mushy. Nothing that a strong man could sink his teeth into.
This stew was nothing like any French food Haven had experienced. Delicate herbs mixed into the bread accented the flavors of meat and vegetables alike. He wondered if Rene could be hired away from the widow. Mayhap it was time to change his policy about who did the cooking. Potatoes, other roots, even the onions were crisp. His tongue wanted to dance. The only other time he felt like this was in the early stages of bed play. He laughed aloud at the thought.
Several of the men nearby jumped up, reaching for their weapons. Others swiveled their heads in his direction. Startled looks adorned their gravy-stained faces.
“What’s the matter? May a man not laugh at a passing thought?”
His men sat and looked away, all but Soames.
“Why did they start so at my laughter?”
Soames looked at his feet, then back up at Haven. “Sir, it’s just that…well, you have not…that is…”
“Just what is it that I have not and is…?” Haven bellowed, suspecting what Soames feared to say.
“You have not laughed, Sir Haven,” the man blurted. “Not since Roger Dreyford was convicted of treason.”
“Enough.” Haven held up his hand, neither wanting nor needing the reminder. Roger was ever present in Haven’s thoughts. Silently he cursed the marriage that had changed his friend from loyal subject to traitor. “Finish your dinner and set the guard. I am going to sleep.”
He turned his back on his men. Wrapping himself in the cloak that Watley had retrieved from the widow, Haven lay down. He prayed to God for guidance and forgiveness. Then, pushing guilt and regret aside, he forced himself to sleep.
He woke to a morning filled with fog. He could barely see his hand when he lifted it at arm’s length from his face. He called out to the guard and received an answer. Seeking Soames or Watley, Haven moved carefully around the camp, shaking bodies awake as he encountered them. By the time all his men were roused, the fog began to clear. The clang of pots sounded from the direction of the cook’s fire.
Haven could make out the glow and several figures moving near it. Good; the widow’s party was awake. Now he would set down the law with her. This was the only morning they would dawdle over a meal.
He passed Marie and Therese carrying bread and cheese to where his men sat. With one hand, Haven snagged a piece of bread from Marie. He shoved it into his mouth, chewed and strode toward the tent.
He tucked his gloves into his belt and moved through the opening.
Behind him the tent flap muffled Marie’s, “No, no, Sir Haven, you must not.”
But it was the widow who made him halt.
Chapter Five
A worn white sleeping robe draped the widow’s body. A subtle scent, like lavender and cream, tangled in his head, and he stopped, chained in place by the sight before him.
She stood at a right angle to him, her head turned away as she lit a branch of candles. Could this be the same woman? Certainly the form outlined against the translucent cloth was tall and slim, but this woman had curves. Rounded hips swayed beneath a tiny waist. Above that, as she raised her arms, a gentle swell hinted at delicate breasts. Haven’s whole body tightened. And that hair. No dark sodden mass this, but a wild tumble of curls that cascaded like stabled fire over the fine, pale column of her neck—a neck that swans would envy. He should leave, but he knew he would not.
“Une moment, Marie…”
At the sound of her sultry, sloe-eyed voice, lust jolted through him, hard and hot. Visions of twined bodies, limned in fire glow, hazed his head. He felt dizzy, as if a thousand feathers had stroked his skin from top to toe and lingered on the straining flesh between his… This is Roger’s wife, his conscience screamed at him. A thought which prompted him to offer up a prayer, for God help him, he seemed unable to stop the need she inspired in him.
“…I am almost ready for the salve.”
She dropped the robe from her shoulders, and fury choked the words that would have announced his prese
nce.
Her shape was everything her silhouette had promised. But the skin that should have glowed with good health bore ugly purple-green splotches. The injuries looked so painful that he almost failed to notice that her ribs stood out against her skin, bespeaking long-endured hunger.
He grasped her shoulder with the anger-hard fingers of one hand and spun her round to face him. “How did this happen?”
She screamed once, and then stared at him, her body rigid, her eyes wide with some emotion—surprise, fear, anger or pride. He could not say which. She uttered a small gasp and moved to cover herself with her hands.
He looked into her eyes. He had seen too much of her already. More than enough to know that bruises like those on her back covered her front and legs too, just as they covered her face. Yesterday, rain, mist and bias—yes, bias, he admitted to himself—had obscured his vision. Then he had thought her face, beaten though it was, her only claim to beauty. Now he knew better. Did she feel so much guilt over what she had done to Roger that she hurt herself in penance?
“How did this happen?” He repeated through teeth clenched against anger.
From behind him came the sharp whisper of steel. He shot out his free arm from the shoulder in a backward motion. At the same moment that a blade’s tip stung his neck, he grasped the wrist of his attacker with an iron hand. Cold fury threatened his reason. His gaze remained on the widow’s face.
“Get your hands off Milady Genvieve. Else I will sheath this dirk in your neck.” Marie’s cheerful voice had become a defensive growl. Despite his grip on her wrist, the blade never wavered.
Haven dropped his hand from the widow so quickly that she stumbled backward. Yet he stared at her, still. The wounded beauty of the widow was a greater lure than the unsheathed metal behind him.
Curtained by that stunning hair, the widow bent and retrieved her robe. She raised wary eyes to him, then scrambled toward the bedding, the robe shielding her body.
“Now, Sir Haven, please leave me to tend to milady.”
“Put away your dagger, Nurse. You need it not.”
