A Lord for Haughmond

by K. C. Helms

  “My imbecile squire lost it. I am Rhys of St. Quintin.”

  “A knight of Sir Richard?”

  “Aye.”

  “Never heard of you,” came the knight’s abrupt and testy reply. His hand moved to the hilt of his sword.

  Rhys tamped down his rising alarm, knowing he must convince the knight he was no threat. “I am unlanded and in service to Sir Richard.” He spread his gloved hands well away from his own broad sword. “But you are known to me, Sir Charles. You are a true knight of the realm. Has your son yet won his spurs?”

  Sir Charles removed his helm, tucking it beneath his left arm. “Yea, two months agone.” His scored brow wrinkled as he pondered Rhys. “Is he acquainted with you?”

  “Nay. I watched him joust a year past and thought him worthy of knighthood. I am pleased for you, ’tis so.”

  “Matthew’s a good lad and will champion the crown with honor. I instructed him myself.” The knight’s scowl deepened. “Why do you not remove your helm?” He nudged his mount closer. His companions did likewise. “’Tis improper to address me thus.”

  Seized by a greater foreboding, Rhys stifled the groan rushing from his gut. He hadn’t placated the knight’s skepticism. God’s bones, but he harbored too many secrets to be found out. Along with Katherine and Anne, he must remain concealed. Moreover, Sir Charles must not be allowed to engage him. Edward wasn’t of a disposition to forbear the slaying of a knight without due cause.

  “Your pardon, Sir Charles.” Rhys inclined his head. “I am grievously disfigured from the pox and would not disturb your peace.”

  Sir Charles pursed his lips a long moment before asking, “Have you chanced on any brigands in your journey?”

  “We have seen nothing untoward but a ragtag pack of thieves who fled at the sight of us.” Rhys’s voice whistled through the air holes of his helm.

  “Must be Welsh renegades,” Sir Charles observed with another lowering of his brow. “There’s been trouble near Chester. Once again the cursed Welsh spill over the border. Edward needs be informed so he can trounce the devil’s spawn once and for all.”

  The knight peered toward the nearby woods then swung his sharp attention to the individual members of Rhys’s party, checking each carefully. “Have you come across two women? Sisters have been kidnapped, mayhap by Welsh renegades.”

  Within his leather gauntlets, Rhys’s palms broke into a sweat. He didn’t appreciate the old fox’s scrutiny. Beneath his chain mail and his worn hauberk, a trail of moisture wormed its way down his spine.

  “There’s a hefty reward for their return,” Sir Charles continued.

  Rhys grunted as his breath was cut short by a hand at his back twisting his leather belt. He could well imagine Lady Katherine’s alarm, for his own was nigh threatening to send him over the edge of reason. They were trapped like a hind run aground by a pack of wolves. This interrogation must end, before he was found out, before he must abandon a quest he had vowed to see accomplished.

  “The Welsh hit and run. They don’t bother with baggage that slows them,” he advised, keeping his voice calm and measured.

  “Mayhap they seek recompense. A ransom would help ease Llywelyn’s defeat.” Sir Charles shrugged and sat back in his saddle. “In any case, we are warned to watch for two damsels.”

  “You seek the—reward for yourselves?” He gulped for air beneath his constricting belt.

  “Ah, only if the task does not inconvenience us.” Sir Charles lifted his shoulders. “Where are you bound?”

  “Warwick. These lads are—being sent to Sir William—for training.”

  His belt tightened anew. Did the lady know he sympathized with her, though she sought to suffocate him? His hand moved, touched a cross-gartered thigh and squeezed. Katherine emitted a muffled grunt and, praise be, the stranglehold at his waist ceased.

  Much to his apprehension, Sir Charles gave the “lads” another close inspection. “Har-rump, skin and bones! They’ll never amount to much. You make them soft, giving them ease upon your cattle.”

  “Sir William is demanding. He desires that they arrive in one piece.” Rhys answered with care, keeping his voice steady while he scrutinized the knights and the position of their sword hands.

  “Yea, he is that.” Sir Charles looked down the road. “Well, the king awaits.”

  “You needs be away, God speed your journey.” Rhys raised his hand in a farewell salute.

  Thankfully, Sir Charles followed his example. The four knights swept past and disappeared down the road.

  Katherine slid from the rump of the destrier and landed nimbly on the ground. “Warwick? The king is not at Warwick!” She fixed Rhys with a belligerent stare.

  Behind the iron helm, Rhys heaved a weary sigh and took his time in removing it. “Yea, Warwick.” He bestowed his own hard glare on the damsel with the shapeliest legs he’d ever chanced to see. Once again she ruined the titillating effect with her sharp tongue.

  He could scarcely contain his frustration. And disappointment. “’Tis the closest sanctuary, my lady. If it eases your torment, the king journeys there as we speak.”

  Lady Katherine’s clenched jaw relented, but her bunched fists at her sides did not.

  Rhys turned to Simon. “Unfurl St. Quintin’s banner. I want no more such engagements.” He turned back to Katherine, his own anger rising. “Tell me why it is you must masquerade as peasants? Truly, I am prepared to do battle. But, Lady Katherine, I require an explanation for the inconvenience.”

  She threw an angry scowl at him. “And I would know why you deceived the good knight with your untruths? You are not disfigured.”

  If only she knew the whole of it, she would flee, thinking him the most disfigured knight in the realm. “You do yourself an injustice with your lack of restraint,” he responded sharply, covering his rising torment. “’Tisn’t difficult to fend off your inquiry. You have no right to it, not with a price on your head.”

  Lady Katherine blanched. But as Simon dug out the banner from the satchel slung across his shoulder, her gaze narrowed. “A miracle! Your lost banner is found,” she exclaimed.

  “Lady, you try the patience of a saint.”

  Atop the cob, Anne clung to Simon’s waist, her knuckles white, her eyes wide with fear. “I pray, Sir Rhys, you will show us forbearing. We flee from a man who would do us harm.”

  Lady Anne’s frantic tone gave Rhys pause. “And who is this man who obviously terrorizes you?” His tone was at once kind and gentle.

  “Sir Geoffrey, our mother’s husband. He is a thief and a lecher and—”

  “Tush!” Lady Katherine whirled on her sister with the sharp admonition. “Sir Rhys needs not be burdened with our troubles. He may not wish to champion us once we throw ourselves on the king’s mercy.”

  “On Saint Winifred’s soul, it must not be.” Lady Anne’s panic continued. Edging herself off Simon’s mount, she rushed to her sister.

  “What if the king will not help us, Anne? No unlanded knight seeks to be compromised. He may require the king’s good offices in the future.” While Lady Katherine’s advice sounded laudable, her trepidation was obvious in her worried expression.

  Rhys’s conscience twisted at the painful sight.

  Tears welled up in Anne’s brown eyes. She dashed them away with the heel of her hand. “’Tis hopeless,” she moaned, crossing herself. With a look of misery, she collapsed to the ground.

  “Sir Geoffrey, you say?” He pondered the possibilities. He couldn’t help that rage reared its ugly head. The name elicited his wrath, along with all types of unsavory emotions. How many men by that name abided in this part of Edward’s realm? “Your stepfather is Sir Geoffrey of—?” He stirred the air with an impatient hand.

  Katherine sank to the dirt and gathered her sister in her arms.

  ’Twas easy this time to ignore the long, shapely legs so fetchingly displayed, for he’d begun to suspect an awful truth.

  Katherine threw him a weary look. “Sir Ge
offrey of Myton Castle,” she admitted reluctantly.

  “God’s bones!”

  He swung about in his saddle and fixed a glare on Simon. Sensing his agitation, the destrier pranced nervously along the edge of the road. When had Sir Geoffrey married Constance de la Motte? He knew of no such happenstance. ’Twas but another opportunity when Sir Geoffrey did blight innocent lives.

  Slack-jawed and wide-eyed, Simon returned his gaze.

  Rhys feared his own expression must look similar. Mastering his emotions, he shifted back to the damsels. “When did your mother wed Sir Geoffrey?”

  “Seven years agone.” Anne tore herself from her sister’s arms and leaped to her feet. “Father left Haughmond and all its lands to Katherine. But Sir Geoffrey fancies the holding for himself.”

  “Tush!” Katherine sprang up and yanked on Anne’s arm. “You shan’t speak of our business.”

  “’Twill not change the truth,” Anne said with a frown. “How can Rhys help us if he remains ignorant of the facts?”

  “Sir Rhys, sister,” Katherine corrected. “You cannot suppose a king’s knight wants to embroil himself in our troubles. More pressing matters needs occupy his time than two women attempting to secure their legacy.”

  “Sir Geoffrey claims Haughmond?” Choking on new rage, Rhys struggled to get out the simple question. A trickle of sweat dripped down his temple and into the cowl of his coif.

  Katherine turned toward him. “Yea, though ’twas left me by my father before he went on crusade. He said since he had no sons, his daughter would do.” She shook her head. “But the king’s no fool. He’d rather have a skilled knight defending Haughmond.”

  “To be sure,” he agreed, with grudging admiration for the shrewdness of Sir Geoffrey’s scheme. England was ever troubled with the Marches. Edward would welcome the stability Sir Geoffrey did offer.

  Would Katherine lose Haughmond by default?

  Not while I have breath, he avowed to himself.

  “He shan’t have Haughmond,” interjected Anne. “’Tis our home, by right! ’Twas commanded our stepfather’s authority would endure only until Katherine wed. Could not the king find a suitable husband for my sister, so Haughmond remains with the true and rightful heir?”

  Rhys cocked a skeptical brow at Katherine. “Sir Geoffrey has not found a husband for you?” Her resigned expression and a shake of her head bore the truth of the tale.

  Hope, where none had hitherto existed, blossomed within his breast. “What say you, Lady Katherine?” he inquired more gently, suddenly very much aware of the lady, very much aware of her provocative state of affairs. “These do not pass for ill-founded suspicions. Are you willing to fight for Haughmond?”

  “’Tis my home and everything that is dear to me.” Katherine’s chin jutted up. “Yea, I want Haughmond. Sir Geoffrey is undeserving of it. I’m unable to bear witness against him, and well he knows it, unless I have the king’s ear. He keeps me beneath his thumb to maintain his power. But that charge cannot stand without proof. He would readily deny any wrongdoing as a father. I must gain the king’s sympathy in order to secure my inheritance. In troth, my stepfather will do everything in his power to prevent it.”

  Katherine’s face glowed with emotion, her brown eyes snapping with anger. Her expression held a tension, a force that energized her whole being. Amazed by her bold transformation, Rhys understood the pride behind it. It reminded him of his own, the day he was knighted in the aftermath of battle, and also of another day, when he had laid eyes on his mother for the first time. Pride flamed in this lady’s cheeks. Like a flower opening to the sunlight, her face held a shining dignity, along with her deserved fury.

  An unbidden yearning to banish her ills swept through him.

  “Aye, my lady, ’twould seem so,” he replied at length, struggling to collect his scattered thoughts and yet agreeing with every one of her statements. Simon and he were more ensnared by the de la Motte sisters this day than yester day. They could not abandon Sir Robert’s daughters, not with Geoffrey de Borne hard on their heels.

  Intercepting Simon’s guarded look, he shrugged his shoulders in resignation. Though his squire might wish it otherwise, their own plight deepened in proportion to that of the ladies’.

  “The king metes out impartial justice. Mayhap that is what besets your stepfather.” Rhys hoped Katherine found comfort in his words. “King Edward’s integrity is fully known, and respected.”

  “Sir Geoffrey plies a strong claim to Haughmond because of Wales.” Katherine’s frown betrayed her worry. “’Tis vital to the surety of the shire, and to England. Think you he would have maintained his power all these years, elsewise?”

  Rhys was impressed at her perception, as his own thoughts sped along similar lines. So he was prepared to be amazed once again when she took a breath and continued.

  “Does the king arrive forthwith?” The crease in her forehead deepened.

  He sighed in disappointment. The lady was tenacious. “Within a fortnight, if he is not delayed.”

  “We needs address him with all speed. We must make haste and intercept him.” She tugged on his arm.

  “Nay, my lady.” He regretted the woeful expression on Lady Katherine’s face and his part as its cause. “Your winsome face will not fool many for long, though you do think to disguise it. If Sir Charles is tempted by reward, there will be others. Your stepfather’s spies could already be well nigh upon us. But if he cannot find you, mayhap he will grow weary of the chase?”

  “Or will gain the king’s confidence,” Katherine burst out, fear once again blooming in her dark eyes.

  A sharp pain stabbed through Rhys at her pitiful expression. Already he sought vengeance for one victim. Could he allow another to draw him in? He shook his head in bemusement. But the lady was right on the mark—Sir Geoffrey might well receive the king’s blessing before they could make their case.

  ’Twas one more reason to kill the bastard, as he’d vowed. Yet how could he, with the responsibility of two more women? King Edward might blame Katherine when Sir Geoffrey turned up dead. Imprisonment would be the least of her punishment.

  He wished he weren’t so moved by the lady’s circumstance or by her dark, trusting eyes. He wished he weren’t incited to chivalry, when he’d undertaken another mission.

  But her lively spirit intrigued him, inspired him. Though she’d thrown his world into chaos, he could not turn his back on Katherine de la Motte.

  Chapter Four

  Powerful and impregnable, staunch defender of the crown, the fortress of Warwick Castle stood guardian to the River Avon and the surrounding lands. Enlarged and strengthened in the two hundred years since The Conqueror had established the defensive stockade, the newly constructed stone keep rose high above the curtain wall. Under the snapping silver and azure banner of St. Quintin, Katherine and her fellow travelers were given leave to enter Sir William Beauchamp’s stronghold.

  Making their way across the drawbridge straddling a dry moat, they passed through the new gatehouse. Flanked on either corner by imposing stone towers, archers, with their long bows strung taut, stood poised on the battlements.

  Under the close observation of the porter, with his heavy spiked mace, they rode into the bailey and into a beehive of activity. At the stables a dozen mounts were being readied for the tiltyard. Beyond, the castle wheelwright was refitting a broken cart, pounding loudly with his hammer. The noise prompted a nervous whinny from a lady’s piebald awaiting the smith. Toiling at his anvil, the burly fellow swung a red-hot iron aloft, sending a plume of steam curling into the cold air above his shaved head. Closer to the keep, where the baking ovens stood and the air grew sweet and tantalizing, bustling cooks harried their army of pages.

  Sir William, apprised of the visitors, rode across from the tiltyard where he was overseeing the training of young squires. He bestowed a warm welcome upon the three knights. Mounted behind Simon, Katherine ducked her chin into the cowl of her woolen hood. But she needn’t have w
orried. An earl took no notice of a lowly peasant.

  The knights were to be lodged in chambers within the hall. Eagerly they followed the earl, expecting to be feted with wine and a hearty meal. Simon and “his lads” were given permission to pitch their tent along the curtain wall where they would be dry, if not entirely warm.

  As the knights disappeared into the hall, Katherine experienced, for the first time in her life, what a serf’s miserable existence must be. Earlier, they had been caught in a driving rain and all of them were soaked to the bone. She was as cold and tired and thirsty as those who would enjoy Sir William’s hospitality.

  But ’twas no time for complaint. Under Simon’s supervision, she and Anne found themselves burdened with the unfavorable task of unloading the mule. ’Twas a daunting feat, given the weight under which the small beast had labored.

  Thankfully, the squire pitched in, hefting the more cumbersome baggage. But they were expected to fetch the chain-mail armor that slithered out of their arms like a litter of restive snakes and the long spears and swords and unwieldy shields that clanked loudly with each step. Their clumsy efforts earned them a jeering comment from a passing knight.

  “Such scrawny peasants as ever I spied,” he sneered. “No wonder you needs wait upon them, squire.”

  One of the household knights, overhearing the remark, leered at Simon from atop his warhorse and waggled his eyebrows in invitation. “You appear unusually attentive, squire. Do not hover over your lads. Be gracious and share them with us.”

  In a sudden panic, Katherine tugged the irascible hood further over her head. Unmindful of aught else, she lost her balance and nigh tripped on the rough cobblestones. It took all her fortitude to heft the leather satchel higher in her arms. Staggering forward, she struggled to maintain a steady pace and not draw undue attention to herself.

  Suddenly, her burden was lifted from her grasp, well nigh taking her with it.

  “I am sworn to help damsels in distress,” came Sir Rhys’s whisper as he peered around the unwieldy parcel. Grinning, he started up the narrow curving stairwell.