by Rue Allyn
The laughing men fell silent. So he had hit home. Roger had written no such thing. Haven had gambled on what he knew to be true of most men in service to another man.
“Bah,” Owain snorted. “As the loyal retainers of a traitor we are already condemned and outlawed. What difference does it make if we kill you or not?”
“If that’s what you believe, very little. But have you seen the order outlawing any or all of you? I doubt that Edward wrote such a thing. He’s more interested in finding the source of Roger’s treason than in the men who followed him because they vowed to do him service.”
“Just because I have not seen it does not mean such an order does not exist.”
“True, but what if you could prove that you were not vassals to a dead traitor but to a living, trusted servant of the king?”
“Are you offering us places in your retinue?”
“I am.”
“Why?”
“Many reasons. Most chief among them is that I do not believe Roger would accept fealty from men who would betray their overlord, no matter who he was. That means you are trustworthy. Second, Edward needs experienced men to fight against the Welsh.” Haven decided not to mention as a reason the guilt he felt for his own part in their former lord’s death.
“A moment, Sir Haven, I would confer with the others.” Owain turned his mount to face the circle of men. “Each man must make his own decision to accept or reject this knight’s offer. Each man must agree to abide by the majority decision. Consider carefully; tell your yeas or nays to Blacksund. He will state the tally after each man has had his say.”
Owain then turned his mount about again. “I will watch you while the men make their decision.”
They waited, Owain with unparalleled patience, Haven with barely leashed worry.
Shortly Blacksund came forward and whispered in Owain’s ear. The knight gave a shout of laughter and slapped his thigh. “You just might get what you want, sir.”
Haven smiled and started to rise. “I knew you and your men could recognize the wiser course.”
“But first I get what I want.”
Haven straightened. Keeping Thomas well behind him, he focused on Owain. “What do you mean?”
“The men are split evenly, seven for and seven against. They want the matter decided by combat. You and I will fight. If you win, we all swear fealty to you. If I win, Thomas comes with us, and you…well, you’ll probably be dead.”
Haven kept his face carefully blank. He did not want Owain to know how much he wanted this fight. The man deserved a drubbing for his conceit, if naught else. Haven prayed he could beat the man.
“What’s the matter?” Owain taunted. “Afraid you’ll discover how true and perfect you are not?”
Nay.” Haven bent and spoke quietly to Thomas. “I will fight you. But only under terms.”
“Terms. You think to offer terms when we could kill you and not suffer a blow?”
“I doubt it would be that easy, but yes, I offer terms. Thomas will sit in this oak tree where I put him. No man will touch him until I breathe my last or Owain yields to me. Agreed?” Suiting action to word, Haven placed Thomas securely in the tree.
Every man, Owain included, nodded his agreement. Haven picked up his sword, flexed his arms and shoulders to loosen his muscles, and saluted Owain. “Shall we begin, my friend?”
Chapter Ten
The sun had already marked midmorning before Gennie heard a shout rise up from the guards posted near the river. The noise swelled, was picked up and echoed at each guard post between the ford and the camp. Gennie had not realized that so few men could make so much noise.
They did not. If she had been able to see Thomas in the throng, she might have found relief in the fact that the noise came from a crowd numbering closer to thirty than ten. But neither Thomas nor de Sessions was visible among the mass of mounted warriors who spilled over the rise and into camp. Nor could she tell for certain if the shouts were of gladness or alarm.
One hand at her throat, Gennie ran forward to where Bergen stood guard opposite the fire. She arrived at the warrior’s side in the same moment as Rebecca and the servants. Knowing how foolish it would be to search for Thomas between the milling men and horses still crowding into camp, she fisted her hands in the folds of her skirt in order to keep herself from doing just that.
“They’ve come back, milady.” Bergen beamed his broad smile her way.
Relieved that the news must be good, Gennie gave a short nod. “So I see.” The dry words forced themselves past her lips. She would not rejoice until she held Thomas safe.
At that moment, the mounted men split. Thomas sat grinning on the shoulders of a bloody and bruised de Sessions. Fear warred with relief at the sight. Gennie felt a tug on her arm pull her backward. She had not even realized she had started forward.
“Nay, milady. ’Tis better you wait for Sir Haven to bring the boy to you.” Bergen’s gruff tones reminded Gennie of her earlier thoughts.
“Yes,” she whispered as de Sessions left the throng of men and carried Thomas to her. A slight hitch marred de Sessions’s stride. Blood still seeped from a nasty gash on his lip, and red splotches adorned his mail. Yet when Gennie turned her attention from Haven to Thomas she found nothing but a dirty, smiling boy.
“Mama, it was wonderful.”
Gennie took Thomas from Haven and hugged her son to her.
Finding himself safely in his mother’s arms, Thomas’s story spilled out unchecked. “I wanted to talk to you, but you were busy kissing Sir Haven.”
Gennie felt her cheeks flame as all eyes turned on her. Rot Haven, she had not sought his kisses. Now all would think she bartered herself for de Sessions’s favor. She glared at the man. He lifted a brow in silent challenge, as Thomas’s tale took center stage once more.
“So, I went looking for more quail eggs and got lost. But I was only a little scared. When I heard all those noises I hid. But Sir Haven said the noises were only…”
Gennie’s heart twisted. Public knowledge of de Sessions’s kiss was a small price to pay for Thomas’s safety. Over her son’s shoulder she met Haven’s gaze. “Thank you, sir.” She could think of naught else to say and felt herself blush again. She clutched Thomas tighter and hid her face in his neck.
“…said I was a good warrior. Mama, you are squeezing me too tight…”
Gennie set Thomas on the ground and eased her arms away. Kneeling beside him, she placed her hands in his hair and ran them slowly up and down his small frame, searching for injuries.
“…and then I woke up, because Owain was there with Father’s guard. They looked very angry, and they wanted to kill Haven. I wanted to go to Owain and explain, but Haven said I must not. So Haven and Owain had a fight.”
“Sir Haven,” Gennie corrected. Assured that Thomas remained uninjured, she listened in appalled silence to her son’s account of the events since his disappearance.
“…and I was in the tree. And Owain thrust his sword at Sir Haven, but he pushed it away. And then they both walked around in a circle and made snarly noises. And they ran at each other, and Sir Haven tried to hit Owain with his sword, and Owain did the same, and they did it over and over. Then Owain slashed at Sir Haven. But Sir Haven jumped back and twirled around like my spinning toy. Then Sir Haven gave a mighty chop, and Owain’s sword went twisting away like a seed in the wind.”
Gennie turned a worried look on de Sessions.
“He was in no danger, madame.” The words rumbled from de Sessions’s split lip
Thomas tugged at her sleeve, and she gave him her attention once more. “Sir Haven won, Mama, but you know what he told me? He said that Father had taught him how to make that mighty chop with a sword.”
Gennie felt her throat close with tears of confusion. What kind of man betrayed the memory of a dead friend by kissing his widow, then praised that dead and traitorous father to a frightened little boy?
“Then Owain and the other men wanted to ben
d their knees right there in all the blood and make their vows to Haven. But Haven said we should wait.”
She felt herself grow more pale with each gruesome revelation. Thomas was too young to witness such violence. Too young to be abandoned by an irresponsible father’s lust for excitement. Too young to be left alone when his mother was hanged for the sin of being married to a traitor.
“Mama, why are you crying?”
“Because I am so happy to see you safe.”
“I do not cry when I am happy.”
“No, sweetling, you do not.”
“Now that I am a warrior, I will never cry, even if I am sad.”
She looked past Thomas to where de Sessions stood talking to his squire and several other men. He paused in his speech, turned his head to observe her, and then nodded. For a moment she thought she saw kindness in his bruised face. Yet something steely remained beneath that chiseled visage.
“I missed you, Mama.”
Gennie returned her gaze to her son and saw the worry beneath his excitement. She hugged him to her once more and planted a smacking kiss on his ear, then set him at arm’s length so he could see she was not angry with him. “I missed you too, sweetling.”
“Eww.” Thomas rubbed at his ear. “Did you have to kiss me? Now I have to wash my ear.”
Gennie felt her heart clutch. Never before had Thomas objected to a kiss from his mother. Her boy was changing, growing up. She smiled to hide the small hurt. “Oui, off with you. See that you wash a few other places besides your ear.”
“I will melt,” he protested.
“Non, you shall not.” She sniffed loudly. “You might rot if you do not remove that grievous stench from your person. But first promise me that you will never go off alone again.”
Thomas bowed his head and scuffed at the dirt with his foot.
Gennie placed a hand under his chin and lifted his gaze to hers. “Promise me.”
“I promise.” The words dragged out of him.
“Good.” Gennie laughed and slapped a gentle swat on his behind, raising a small cloud of dust. “Now thank Sir Haven for his care of you and be off.”
The boy turned. “Thank you, sir.”
Haven nodded. “You are most welcome, Thomas.”
In a wink, her son disappeared toward the river, with Marie in close pursuit. Gennie watched him go. She forced herself not to follow. It seemed too soon to let him out of her sight, even though she knew he was safe under Marie’s watchful eye.
To keep herself busy, she approached de Sessions. “I thank you for my son’s safe return, and I am sorry that you were hurt. Please allow me to tend your wounds.”
Haven took in her stiff posture and conciliatory words. He could not allow her to touch him. No doubt she was both angry at him and grateful. Angry over that kiss. Grateful for the return of her son.
He had felt the strangest mixture of relief and emptiness at the widow’s tender reunion with her son. As he watched the two embrace, that emptiness rapidly filled with what remained of battle-spawned lust. If he allowed her to touch him, he would spread her legs and thrust himself deep inside her before she could so much as gather breath to protest.
He recognized the feeling as irrational. The woman was a traitor and Roger’s wife to boot, Haven reminded himself. Better not to risk being near enough for her to touch.
“Nay,” he said. “I am not ungrateful for your offer, but Watley will tend to me while I confer with Soames and Owain.”
She had forgotten Owain in her concern for Thomas. “Surely Owain has injuries that need tending.”
Haven gritted his teeth. He would not let her touch his own person. As certain as Hades, he would not allow her hands on anyone else. “Watley will see to Owain as well. You and I will leave as soon after as possible. Go, make your preparations, so that you are ready when I send for you.” Haven turned as if to leave. He forbade himself to act on the desire that seared him whenever she was near. What matter if the witch sought another man’s caress? The possible answers were so ridiculous that he rejected them. It was enough that she was in his charge. He did not want her to touch other men, so she would not.
Gennie goggled at him. “You cannot mean to leave now.’
Haven swung back to face her, determination in the set of his jaw. “Without fail, madame. I mean to have you thirty leagues closer to Chester ’er we stop this day.”
“But I have only just regained my son. He needs me.”
“Thomas will survive without you, and the king demands your presence.”
“But…”
“This is not a matter for argument. Will you, nil you, we depart anon. Best say your farewells.”
Shoulders back and fists clenched before her, Gennie watched him stride away, for all the world as if he did not have a pain in his leg that caused him to limp.
Gennie turned in the opposite direction. She let her fists fall and her shoulders slump. He was right; she would have to say her farewells to Thomas. But how could she? How could she say she loved him and then leave him with only Marie and Rebecca to care for him? Gennie shook her head as she walked through the trees toward the riverside and the sound of Thomas’s laughter.
Much though she wanted things otherwise, she had no choice but to bid Thomas goodbye and ride posthaste to the king. She prayed that God might forgive her sins and allow her to see her son once more before she died. She knew King Edward would not.
Haven knew when she had left the clearing. That subtle perfume of lavender and woman was gone. The very air felt somehow flat and stagnant without her presence to stir it to life. He shook his head. What foolishness was this, imagining that the widow made breathing easier? Owain’s lucky blow must have done more damage than Haven had originally thought.
He stood before the tent and moved his jaw from side to side. It still pained him. His whole body hurt. But he knew Owain hurt more. The memory of the man-at-arms sprawled in the dirt rose before Haven. He smiled, then winced. The smile resplit Haven’s barely healed lip. He swiped at the trickle of blood and entered the tent, bellowing for Watley.
The squire jumped, spilling soapy water down the front of Owain’s jerkin. Watley hurried to rise from where he bent over the man-at-arms and managed to slam the now empty bowl into the older man’s chin.
“Ow.” Owain threw Watley a hostile look.
In the opposite corner, Soames hid a chuckle under a cough.
Haven remembered not to smile and sat himself on a pile of bedding.
Watley left to get clean water and rags.
“Sir Haven, I almost feel sorry for you with such a clumsy squire.”
Haven ignored Owain’s dig.
“Can you ride as you mend?”
“Aye, sir.”
“I’ve very little time. Will your men accept your oath to me as surety for themselves as well?”
“Aye, sir.”
“Soames, call two of the men who were with Owain this morning to stand witness to his oath. On your way back fetch me quill, ink and parchment.”
“Aye, sir.”
His second-in-command left. Haven studied Owain for several moments, wondering how much faith to put in his new vassal. “You and the men with you pursued Dreyford’s family out of loyalty to Roger?”
“Out of loyalty to the Dreyford family, sir. Roger was a changed man since he returned from the crusade.”
“Not since his marriage?”
“He grew wilder after marrying Lady Genvieve, but the changes began before he wed.”
“So you did not follow him into treason?”
“We did not betray our king.”
“Why were you not at the Dreyford holding when the new owners arrived?”
Owain looked away. His throat worked before he spoke. “I had tried to keep Sir Roger from his treasonous companions on other occasions. This time, I was given false information that took me far from Dreyford lands. By the time I learned of the deception and returned, Sir Roger was dead, and you had ta
ken Lady Genvieve and her son with you.”
Haven watched the man as he told his halting tale. Did Owain’s difficulty speaking his story come from grief and regret over his own failure or from an innate difficulty with lies? “Who gave you this false information?”
Owain’s face took on a stricken aspect. “Lady Genvieve,” he said quietly.
“Could she have been misinformed herself?”
Soames returned, forestalling further discussion. Haven took the parchment, ink and quill. He wrote as he instructed the men in their duty as witnesses. “Do you understand what you are to do?”
“Aye, sir, we’re t’watch Owain swear fealty to you and make our mark on the paper after he does.”
“Good.”
Owain knelt before Haven, his hands raised in front of him as if in prayer. Haven placed his hands around Owain’s.
I, Owain Langdon, banneret and knight of Yorkshire, do pledge my fealty to Sir Haven de Sessions and his overlord King Edward of England and acknowledge that I owe homage and service to you both as the troth between us commands. This I swear in the presence of these witnesses, on this day anno domine MCCLXXXII.
Watley entered as Owain and the other two men exited.
“Soames have the horses made ready,” Haven ordered.
Watley dabbed at Haven’s face with a damp cloth.
“Ow.” Haven grabbed the cloth from Watley’s hands. “You’ve the touch of a goat. I will do this myself. Go and practice your swordplay. When you are able to slice an onion with a single stroke of your blade and the halves remain standing as if whole, then you may tend my person again.”
Watley flushed. “I try to please your lordship in all things,” he said backing out of the tent.
The squire’s hero worship put Haven on edge. Good thing Watley would have to stay behind with Thomas. Haven could use a few days’ respite from the young man’s nervous care. In fact, this whole business with the widow made Haven short-tempered. He would be glad to have the journey over and the widow off his hands.
Alone, finished with the water and rags, Haven let out a groan as he stood. Owain could fight well. Haven prayed that he was right to trust the man.
