by K. C. Helms
“God’s mercy!”
While the knight hauled on the reins, his bellow in her ear nigh deafened Katherine. The horse lunged to a stop. Betwixt Sir Rhys’s long arms, she jerked upright and rubbed the back of her head where she had met unforgiving armor.
“Sit aright, else I’ll be off my horse’s ars—rump!” he commanded.
Katherine shifted her hips, trying to shimmy closer to the leather saddle. But with her legs dangling on either side of the destrier’s haunches and her wounded hand useless, she found no leverage.
In the next instant, powerful hands encircled her waist, lifted her as though she were a feather, took her breath away as she was settled up against the high-backed saddle. Sir Rhys pressed behind her, his sinewy thighs cradling her buttocks and legs.
She resented the pain where the saddle cut into her breasts, resented as well the disturbing apposition of the knight. “’Twas unnecessary to manhandle me,” she muttered. Her skin tingled where his armor rubbed against her spine, while her cheeks flushed with heat.
He slapped the reins and his mount moved into a walk. “’Twas most necessary, Lady Katherine.” His murmured breath tickled her ear. “A horse has a limited magnitude. You would not wish me to fall onto my—the ground. ’Twould be most ungracious of you when I have rescued you this day.” His voice lowered all the more. “And ’tis possible more Welshmen do lurk hereabouts. You would not have me attacked and left for dead, would you? Particularly when I have been most chivalrous?”
Was he mocking her? Katherine bit her lip. She inhaled raggedly and winced in sudden pain, her breasts crushed betwixt hard leather and impudent knight.
“I’d have found a way to escape the brigands,” she replied in a tight voice.
“Mayhap.” Sir Rhys leaned closer so that his lips all but touched her ear. “But ’twas I who saved you from starvation, if you do recall.”
Nonplussed by the taunting assertion, Katherine twisted an irritated glance at his profile.
He grinned and threw her a wink. “You are safe for the nonce, damsel.”
“I am ever in your debt,” she replied reluctantly, knowing he’d maneuvered her into the compliment.
“Ah, but what becomes of you on the morrow?”
She caught her breath. What, indeed? The knight baited her with her own fears, made light of their predicament. But she could not. On the morrow, would Sir Rhys pry the truth from them? Anne could not dissemble. It made them ever vulnerable.
The light of a campfire flickering through the trees whipped her fears higher. She felt like an ensnared cony. Mayhap they could flee during the night and she could rid herself of this disconcerting champion, who frustrated her and menaced her peace of mind.
Trembling, thoroughly vexed at her predicament, she feared her own misgivings forestalled such a plan. Though he seemed to amuse himself with their pain and the twinkle in his eyes belied a seemingly uncharitable bent, her shattered confidence in the wake of the day’s events was more the deterrent. Dangers existed betwixt them and the king—wild beasts, outlaws, knights with deadly sabers. But mostly, Sir Geoffrey.
She trembled anew.
“What becomes of you, Lady Katherine?” the knight repeated, his warm breath stirring the loose strands of hair on her cheek, stirring her emotions into a frenzy.
Exasperated, she tossed out the first thought that came to mind. “By all that is right, you needs escort us to the king.”
Chapter Three
She did not trust these mercenaries. She had no desire to be in their debt. She intended to remain alert, to escape with her sister at the first possible moment. But Katherine didn’t consider her own exhaustion or the warmth she shared with Anne beneath their bed of borrowed wolf pelts.
In the midst of the night, amid fitful dreams of rugged warriors pounding at the gates of Haughmond, the sound of a loud and snarling sound jolted her awake.
Sir Geoffrey had discovered them!
Sitting up with a gasp, convinced an attack was upon them, she swept the camp with a frantic gaze.
But ’twas merely Zeus, growling into the dark of the forest. With his shaggy head lowered and bared teeth, one rumble followed another from deep in his throat. Beside him stood the three knights, poised for battle. Bareheaded, Sir Rhys crouched with his sword in hand, his blond hair glowing like spun gold in the reflection of the dying campfire. His hand swept the air and the hound raced away, his baying shivering eerily down the valley. When no threat was discovered, a whistle brought the hound back.
The piercing sound awakened Anne. She bolted upright with a frightened cry.
“Tush,” Katherine soothed, wiping beads of sweat from her own brow. Feeling the bite of the cold, she eased herself back under the warm pelt and pulled her sister down with her. Yet she could not resist a fleeting glance toward the forest—and freedom.
The knight gave her a sidelong look. “’Tis far better to abide here with Zeus as guard than to flee heedlessly into the forest,” he advised in a low murmur, carefully setting his unsheathed sword on the ground beside him. “’Twould not be long before Zeus would track you down. Rest well, Lady Katherine.” Without another glance in her direction, he lay down. The great alan curled up beside him.
Faith, did the knight read her every thought? Katherine closed her eyes. But she could not relax, her mind made restless with broad shoulders and a brooding scowl, and by blond tousled hair, dark from the sweat of a metal helm. ’Twas confusing to be so discomposed by a man.
But such a man!
The night was half spent before she could thrust aside her roiling thoughts, and ’twas to the steady breathing of the knight-of-the-broad-shoulders that she finally gained her rest.
* * *
The following day Katherine found herself riding in the midst of an armed escort bound for King Edward’s court. One knight rode at the fore, followed by Sir Rhys and the third knight. Simon and the pack mule trailed in their wake.
She couldn’t help but be relieved at the turn of events, for Anne was more herself, bestowing a multitude of smiles upon her companions, as was her wont. They had awakened to bright sunshine and to the sounds of camp being struck. A chunk of bread and a flask of ale were thrust into her hands. By the time they completed their ablutions the horses were saddled.
From atop his mount, Sir Rhys donned his coif of chain mail. She felt the loss. His sheared locks, shining like strands of gold, were his best feature.
“’Tis our pleasure to await you, ladies,” he said, settling his sword in place and eyeing her with a narrowed gaze.
His sweeter-than-honey tone set her on edge, made her feel less charitable toward the knight and his golden pate. He feigned politeness, yet impatience cloaked his every word.
Vexation blossomed anew when the knight beckoned to Anne and hefted her up one-handed onto his horse’s broad rump. Katherine recognized the slight to herself, but she could not blame him. A waspish tongue was never appreciated.
Alas, she found herself relegated to his squire’s escort. Stuffing her hair into the grimy hood and with a wary eye on Simon’s unsavory mount, she climbed up behind him. Sitting astride, she squared her shoulders and gripped the leather thong tied about the squire’s waist.
At midday they chanced on a cottage near the road. Sir Rhys pulled rein and dismounted. Approaching the old woman who scrutinized them from behind the cracked doorway, he withdrew a silver coin from his purse and negotiated payment for whatever fare she could offer.
She set her teeth to the silver coins then gave them a black-toothed grin and bade them enter. Soon the six of them had crowded into the small hovel, where bread baked on a hot stone and a simmering pottage sent steam curling up to a thatched roof rotting from past leaks. Amid the humble surroundings, they shared bowls of pease porridge, sopping up the broth with chunks of warm brown bread.
Though the peasant woman most likely went hungry this mealtime, she and her family would feast on the morrow. They left her counting her newfoun
d wealth and marveling aloud at God’s grace.
Katherine grit her teeth and mounted the old cob once more. Throughout the afternoon she ate dust at the rear of the troupe and silently cursed sweeter-than-honey speeches.
Clearly feeling secure, Anne grew verbose as the hours passed, laughing often and chatting amiably with her escort. Straining unsuccessfully to catch her sister’s conversation, she prayed Anne would not impart their troubles. Sir Rhys, for all he appeared kind and good, was a stranger and should not be trusted with their tale.
“Do not fret, sister,” Anne said in response to Katherine’s concern that evenfall after they had set up camp. “’Twas Sir Rhys who did more the talking.”
Anne’s growing peace of mind shone in her dark eyes and her happy smile. “He shared tales of his days as page and squire. He was entertaining. I like him, Katherine. His eyes are kind.”
With a frown, Katherine unwound her bloody bandage to inspect the gash on her palm. ’Twas deep and painful and would be slow to heal. How vexing that one nick so constricted her movements. Sir Rhys’s eyes were not merely kind. She frowned. They were—what? Biting her lip, she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, then suddenly rounded on her sister.
“Whenever someone is nice to you, you think him kind,” she scolded.
“Not everyone.” Anne’s dark eyes lost some of their sparkle. She bent and gathered up the long bloody cloth.
The wound irritated Katherine, for she couldn’t grip a thing without stabbing pain and more bloodletting. Her backside smarted as well. Maintaining her seat throughout the day had been a daunting task. Her whole body ached from the effort. But for her sister’s sake she felt she must endeavor a pleasant humor, lest she deserved the appellation of shrew.
“I like Simon and Sir Rhys. I feel safe with them.” Anne began wrapping her hand with a clean strip of linen.
Katherine held her tongue. Were they indeed safe? Could these knights be trusted? She doubted their purpose in befriending two women. Most people expected reward for their efforts. Fears of Sir Geoffrey and their vulnerability brought renewed caution.
“Then we shall be ever kind and repay them for their chivalry,” Katherine replied with sarcasm, letting a moue form on her lips at the unsavory notion.
Anne threw her an anxious glance. “You will be polite?”
Knowing it would gratify her sister she nodded.
Simon’s arrows had brought down three conies. Gutted and skinned, the rabbits had been tossed into a small iron cooking pot and set over a fire to cook. Eyeing the insipid fare, Katherine quickly set about improving it. She found flour in a satchel, added ale and turned the mixture into dough. Dropped by spoonfuls into the boiling broth, they soon swelled into plump dumplings. The air filled with the tempting aroma of a veritable feast. The four men devoured the pottage with relish.
She was annoyed to realize she’d been watching Sir Rhys out of the corner of her eye, seeking his approval. It was automatic to look for a sign of affirmation. Aunt Matilda had always been generous with her compliments. But the knight ignored her. Katherine glanced away, chiding herself for caring about his good opinion.
The second day she was invited to join Sir Rhys on his warhorse. Surmising that he sought to ply her with questions, she gained her seat with a sour expression. The knight bestowed her with a frown.
She mustn’t care about his precepts. These men had no province knowing their affairs. Doubtless, Sir Rhys was eager for secrets, what with that bold gleam in his blue eyes—eyes that dazzled, that set her nerves aquiver.
As the morning progressed, the pale winter sun little warmed the bitter air as the horses pounded the turf and chewed up the miles.
“You are taciturn this day,” Sir Rhys commented over his shoulder. “How fare you?”
“I am well.” So surprised was Katherine by his unexpected kindness her answer was out of her mouth before she realized she had spoken.
“Does your wound distress you much, Lady Katherine?”
“Nay.” A moment later she reconsidered, encouraged by the knight’s pleasant tone. “Well, mayhap. ’Tis clumsy, the bandage. I can only grasp your belt one-handed. ’Tis more tiresome than painful.”
“Aye, I comprehend your plight.” The knight presented his profile to her, the better for conversation. “I have had my own troubles. When I was a page learning to carve a joint of roast, I had much difficulty wielding a knife—nicked myself time and again.”
Astonished by the knight’s admission, she was rendered speechless. The sound of thudding hooves on the frozen road was all that broke the silence as she weighed a shifting opinion of the knight. Mayhap he was more gallant than she presumed. Mayhap more approachable?
“’Tis gratifying to know your art bears improvement,” she murmured, waving her bandaged hand beside his face.
Sir Rhys threw her a scowl. “Lady, in truth you are a shr—”
“’Twas a jest,” Katherine exclaimed, leaning into him. “Pray, forgive my rudeness. You needs tell me, if it pleases you, how exactly you did learn to skewer properly, once you became a squire.”
The knight shook his head as though driving away a bothersome gnat.
Disappointment filled Katherine. She sat back with a sigh and lapsed into silence, nursing her frustration that this champion possessed no humor. Alack, ’twas rare the man who accepted a gibe with good grace.
Rhys shuddered in response to the titillating breath against his ear and tried to strike from his mind the image of long, glorious locks framing the most beauteous of faces.
Alas, ’twas a beauty marred by a barbed tongue.
Why must a sweet morsel of womanhood own such spite, while uncomely damsels abounded? What wretched humor did the Divine Father possess, to endow such unwarranted punishment upon decent and deserving men? Could not a woman embrace a gentle, honest spirit and have it yet mix with beauty? Couldn’t pleasure and virtue exist in sweet accord? Sir Robert’s daughter would be expected to embody the de la Motte fortitude, yet her appeal could be undeniable, were she as soft and beguiling as other damsels.
Rhys shook his head in disappointment. Had she been another female he would not have bedeviled himself by proffering his escort. He had his own problems to consider and he didn’t fancy more entanglements.
Yet they had found him—in the guise of Sir Robert’s daughters. Out of respect for that revered warrior he couldn’t ignore their plight.
Neither could he ignore the feel of the damsel seated behind him. Her every move tested his stamina, reminded him how long it had been since he had lain with a woman. It was impossible to dismiss her, not with her hand tucked in the belt of his hauberk, not with her short serf’s tunic exposing long, shapely legs—legs that brushed against his thighs and enticed his thoughts.
With a growl of frustration, Rhys urged his mount onward, riding as though Satan himself were trying to pluck his soul.
During their midday respite he settled himself well away from where the sisters sat on a thick pelt and shared pleasantries with his fellow knights, wolfing down his portion of bread and mutton and staunchly setting his back to the beautiful harpy.
But he was not so easily freed of his torment. An hour into the afternoon ride, he felt a gentle tap on his shoulder and Lady Katherine leaned against him.
“Anne says you were to Canterbury. She enjoyed your tale. Would that you share it with me, for I have never been to that sacred shrine.”
Rhys groaned inwardly and tried to maintain his concentration. Her lips must have touched his mail coif, for her soft, breathy voice filling his ear was devilishly distracting. He cleared his throat, totally confounded by his reaction to the waspish shrew. Such women were best avoided.
He cleared his throat again. “Yea, I did escort a group of nuns on pilgrimage. Never have I seen such devoted servants to God, so steadfast and pure.” An unintended chuckle burst from him. “And so utterly prayerful.”
Katherine leaned close, canting her head to pic
k up his voice in the wind. He sobered instantly.
“You enjoyed your sojourn?” she said, resting her cheek on his shoulder when he fell silent.
With difficulty, he found his voice. “’Tis astonishing how oft we were required to halt for prayer. I feared my knees would be rubbed to the bone before I had concluded the adventure.”
Katherine chuckled. “Indeed, mayhap the good sisters did it apurpose, thinking the tutelage necessary?” Her laughter enlarged. “’Twas purposeful tyranny, mayhap?”
Heartened by the lilting sound, Rhys smiled. “Aye, I daresay they deemed prayer a significant art.”
“How fortunate to be gifted with such deserving guidance.”
“I thought you likened it to tyranny?”
“Forsooth, some may feel they are one and the same.” Katherine’s ring of laughter filled his ear and her teasing tone drew forth his own brief chortle.
On they pressed through the afternoon. Coming nigh to the lands of Kenilworth, Rhys swung as far afield as he dared without losing the London road. It was not beyond the king’s old nemesis to delay their journey, if given the opportunity.
As they slogged through fenland, where a small tributary to the River Avon had turned the road into a pottage of mud, a party of four horsemen overtook them.
The first glimpse of their banner set Rhys’s heart racing. He’d been resting his arm on the flat top of his helm but now swept it off the saddle’s pommel and thrust it over his head before wheeling his charger to face the knights, his apprehension increasing the closer they came. Would these men see through the damsels’ disguises? Would they ferret out his own? As though he’d fetched a punch to his gut, a startled breath escaped him. For everyone’s sake he must bide with the limited field of vision.
The newly arrived mounts, blowing hard and steaming in the cold air, were reined in with a cautious measure of space to separate the two parties.
“Hold, friend!” the lead knight called out. “We are knights of Whitford Castle. Identify yourselves, that we would know you are loyal to the king. Where is your banner? I would know with whom I speak.”
