Medieval Rogues

by Catherine Kean

  Behind her, the hoofbeats accelerated to a trot. The destrier’s bridle chimed. Brant was drawing nearer.

  Stronger flutters teased her now—like butterflies trapped within an orb, beating their wings against the iridescent sides in a frantic bid to escape.

  She fought the overwhelming urge to spur her horse to a canter. Bolting would reveal that he unsettled her. ’Twould prove her indifference was a fragile illusion. Brant must never know how his touch affected her. Or that when his hand had clenched into her mantle, and his face had contorted with an inner struggle, she’d understood exactly that sense of torment.

  Brant’s mount came alongside hers. Faye forced her hands to relax on the reins. Brant’s angry gaze raked over her, a demand to acknowledge him. A command so strong, he might well have reached over and grabbed her chin.

  She suppressed a shudder. Forcing a neutral smile, she glanced at him.

  His expression was positively ferocious. His brow creased into a forbidding scowl, while his lips pressed into an ominous line. Fury flashed in his eyes. He didn’t like being ordered about by a woman. The warrior in him clearly objected.

  Sensing another gaze upon her, Faye glanced lower, to the front of Brant’s saddle. The sight of Val’s fuzzy head peeking from the leather bag brought a startled grin to her lips. She longed to giggle, but Brant might interpret her laughter as an insult to his pride. If she angered him too much—

  “Will you at least tell me where we are going?” he growled.

  His tone quelled her bloom of humor. “I thought to begin our search at the river, where the goblet was found.”

  He looked away, at the ancient Roman road which ran straight as a sword for miles ahead. “A good start.”

  “I am glad we agree.”

  The faintest tick of a muscle in his jaw warned that his temper was barely leashed.

  “I thought if we returned there, I might remember more details of that day. Of the circumstances when A . . . when the vessel was unearthed.”

  His head turned. His cool, assessing stare told her he realized she had omitted some information. Yet, he didn’t need to know Angeline had discovered the goblet. Reaching down, avoiding his scrutiny, she pulled a twig from her horse’s mane.

  “How long ago was the vessel found?”

  “Nigh four weeks.”

  “You kept it hidden all that time?” He sounded astonished.

  She couldn’t resist glancing at him. Did he wonder why she hadn’t sold it and used the coin to start a new life? Mayhap he was surprised because he hadn’t expected her to be able to keep such a treasure secret.

  “I found the loose wall stone not long after I came to live at Caldstowe,” Faye said. “Until several days ago, a tapestry hung on that wall, concealing the stone. The tapestry had been there for years. None of the servants bothered to move my linen chest and peer behind it.”

  “Mmm,” Brant said, shifting his reins to his other hand. He scratched Val’s head with lazy strokes that roused an odd warmth in Faye’s belly.

  “The tapestry was very dusty,” she continued, hating her breathless tone. “’Twas giving me sneezing fits whenever I drew it aside. I told one of the maidservants it needed a good airing, so she had it taken down. After ’tis cleaned, the tapestry will be returned to my chamber.”

  “And your secret niche again hidden,” he said.

  “Not really a secret. ’Tis there for any man to find—as you did—if he searches in the right place.”

  “Most secrets are.”

  A note in his voice made her pause. Was there a hidden meaning to his words? An element of prying, mayhap? She narrowed her gaze, but before she could say one word, his lips eased into a roguish, breath-snatching grin.

  “You look worried, Faye. Do you have other secrets, pray tell?”

  Aye, a foolish desire for you. “Of course not,” she said, a little too quickly.

  “No shameful vices? Stealing a drop or two of Torr’s best liqueurs, now and again? Or a lover who slips into your chamber on those nights when—”

  “Cease! Your pestering is most annoying.”

  To her dismay, he threw back his head and laughed.

  They rode for several miles, past the last trees fringing the forest, frost-hardened fields, and farmers’ cottages wreathed in wood smoke. The sun had risen well into the sky when Faye pointed to the river ahead. “There.”

  “’Tis still Torr’s land,” Brant said. His attention shifted from the water to the distant village, where the church steeple glinted in the sunlight.

  Faye nodded. “How do you know?”

  Brant shrugged. She sensed he was withholding information from her.

  Part of her urged her to ask him not just what he knew about Torr’s lands, but the nature of his and Torr’s acquaintance. That he referred to Torr by first name, rather than “Lord Lorvais,” implied a friendship, reinforcing what she’d noted when she’d seen them talking in Caldstowe’s bailey.

  Yet, as they rode nearer the water, memories poured into her thoughts like water streaming from a broken jar: the journeys she and Elayne had made to the market to buy toys and shoes for Angeline; the private thoughts she’d shared with Elayne, her closest friend, while the little girl had played by the shallows; and the morning they’d journeyed to the riverbank for a picnic, when Angeline had found the gold.

  “—you all right?” Brant’s voice cut into her thoughts.

  “Pardon?” With a startled jolt, Faye saw they were almost at the river’s edge. The earthy scents of wet rock, slow-moving water, and mud carried on the breeze. How vividly she remembered that smell, not only from past journeys here, but that terrible day months ago. The day her babe had perished.

  “Are you all right?” Brant repeated.

  She swallowed past the knot in her throat. “Aye.”

  “You did not answer when I spoke to you. You seemed lost in your own thoughts.”

  Faye struggled to tamp down her grief. Memories were just memories. She mustn’t let the painful remembrances drown her in anguish, or she could jeopardize her agreement with Brant. “You are right,” she said, sitting straighter in her saddle. “I was trying to remember exactly what happened that morn.”

  Frustration darkened Brant’s expression before he slowed his destrier. He paused at the bank’s grassy edge to look down at the river.

  Ears pricked up, Val barked. Three ducks waddling in the mud pushed off into the water. The ripples of their startled paddling distorted the reflection of Brant upon his horse. His image was obliterated.

  Faye shivered. Water had that power, to transform. To give—as well as take—at will.

  The ache inside her grew more piercing. Tearing her gaze away from the river, she rode the last few yards to the intersecting road which crossed the bridge in its winding route to the village. Her mare’s hooves clipped on the new wooden planks, lain just sennights ago. When Brant’s destrier walked onto the bridge, its hoofbeats bore an eerie hollowness that echoed inside her, down in that lonely place in her soul.

  “The bridge is new,” Brant said from behind her.

  Turning her horse, she faced him while he approached. “Last winter, with all the heavy rains, the river overflowed its banks. The old bridge was destroyed. When folk complained they could no longer travel to the village, Torr ordered the bridge rebuilt, stronger and better than the previous one.”

  “How kind of him.” Brant’s gritty reply implied he didn’t consider the action generous.

  “Many of the local people depend on the town market for food, clothing, and other goods.” She shrugged. “The herbalist who makes Torr’s medicinal drafts lives on the outskirts of the village. That may have influenced his decision.”

  With a curt nod, Brant drew his horse beside hers. He looked again at the river, his gaze intense. “Is it much further?”

  “Nay. That day, we planned to have a picnic on this side of the bank. We brought a blanket
and set it out along with our lunch in the shade of that tree.” She gestured to the sprawling willow. “Angeline and I . . .” Faye’s voice trailed off as her gaze slid down to the bank. Down there, amongst the weeds, mud and rocks, was the spot where the little girl had found the goblet.

  Somewhere.

  “I will water the horses,” Brant said. “If you go down to the bank, I will join you in a moment.”

  Faye fought a rising sense of dread. She stared down at her hands, curled tightly around her mare’s reins. They looked like another woman’s. As though somehow, she’d become trapped in another lady’s destiny.

  “Do you need help dismounting?” Brant asked.

  His sharpened gaze held many questions. She hadn’t realized he watched her so closely. The thought of being vulnerable, of seeming weak, sent a harsh shudder rippling through her. Shaking her head, she said, “I can manage.”

  She slid to the ground. After stroking her horse’s muzzle, she handed him the reins.

  Thawing grasses crunched under her shoes while she strode down to the river bank. Stones lined the water’s muddy edge and clattered as she walked. In assorted shapes and sizes, the sea of rocks all looked the same, an endless pattern of muted browns and grays.

  She hesitated in the shadow cast by the willow. Disquiet clawed into her mind, turning her thoughts blank. Clasping her hands together, forcing herself to concentrate, she tried to envision the events of that November morning.

  A week before, the unseasonably mild weather had melted the first snowfall and brought torrential rains. The river had swelled over its banks—a disaster that hadn’t occurred in well over one hundred years. The old bridge, suffering from disrepair, had disintegrated. The floodwaters had quickly receded, but the riverbank was forever transformed.

  Hugging her arms across her chest, Faye again breathed in the essence of water and stone. In the river’s hushed gurgle, she caught the echo of Angeline’s laughter.

  That morning, basking in the sun’s warmth, they’d shed their heavy mantles.

  There, by the willows, she and Elayne had spread the wool blanket, a place to set the picnic lunch along with Angeline’s cherished toy ewe.

  Here, from this large, flat boulder, she’d helped Angeline jump down. As the little girl leapt, the toy lamb clutched in one hand, Faye had caught her around the waist. She’d swung the child around several times before gently setting her on the ground and straightening her yellow gown.

  Squealing with delight, Angeline jumped up and down, making her blond curls bounce. “’Gain!”

  Faye laughed. “You liked that, did you?”

  Angeline grinned. Fisting her free hand, she darted back toward the big rock.

  “Oh, where has she gone?” Faye cried in mock distress, pretending not to see the child. “Elayne, have you seen Angeline?” Glancing over at her friend, Faye tried not to chuckle and give the game away.

  Seated on the blanket, braiding a length of her golden hair, Elayne smiled, then waved her slender hand. The rings on her fingers caught the light. “Oh, nay. Has my little lamb disappeared?”

  “Vanished.” Faye pressed her hand to her brow and scanned the stretch of riverbank. “Wherever could she be?”

  Angeline giggled. Rocks rolled down by Faye’s feet, and she glanced down. Giving a dramatic cry, she said, “The ground is moving.”

  Another cheeky giggle from Angeline.

  “Is that you laughing, Elayne?” Faye said.

  “Nay,” Elayne answered, with a hint of boredom.

  “Here yam!”

  Faye swung around. She gasped again, then pointed at Angeline standing proudly on the boulder. “How did you get back up there?”

  The little girl smiled, stretching out her pudgy arms. “’Gain!”

  Faye couldn’t refuse that beautiful grin, which brought the dimples to Angeline’s cheeks. The child’s blue eyes gleamed with excitement. “All right. One last time.”

  “Wheee!” Angeline jumped from the stone into Faye’s waiting arms. Laughing, swinging her around, Faye kissed the child’s flushed cheek and stood her on the ground. “Why don’t we let your mother have a rest, and we will go put our hands in the river?” She linked her fingers through the little girl’s.

  “’Tick,” Angeline said, pointing with the lamb.

  “Pardon?”

  “’Tick.” Angeline tugged as though to lead Faye away from the bank.

  “Show me.” She followed the child’s lead. A few yards ahead, Faye saw a stick lying among the stones, a small branch broken from a nearby tree.

  “Stick,” she murmured. “I understand now.”

  Angeline shifted the lamb to her left hand, before her fat fingers closed around the stick. She waved it in the air and pointed to the water. “Go?”

  Faye nodded and walked her down to the river’s edge.

  Bending at the knees, the little girl poked the stick into the water, trying to reach a leaf gliding on the sluggish current. Small fish darted away from the shore, toward the reeds fringing the opposite bank. Plop, the stick went again. Faye lowered to a crouch, near enough to help Angeline if necessary, but content to let the child play undisturbed.

  Such a beautiful little girl.

  Flaxen curls framed her round face and brought out the vivid blue of her eyes. Her rosy cheeks softened into a sweetly-formed mouth. With a wistful smile, Faye trailed her fingers in the cool shallows. If her babe had lived, she would have been as winsome as Angeline.

  Lips pursed in concentration, the little girl swiped again at the leaf. Overextending her reach, she wobbled on unsteady legs. Faye caught her around the waist. At the same time, Elayne called, “Faye, do not let her fall in. We must not spoil this lovely morning with tears.”

  Her gaze uncertain, Angeline looked at Faye. As if, having regained her balance, she wanted permission to explore the water again.

  “Faye, did you hear me?” Elayne called.

  Faye sighed. Part of the joy of childhood was exploring nature, of reaching for new experiences even if that meant stumbling on the way. Angeline hadn’t fallen into the river. Nor was there a drop of water on her gown. Even if there were, what was the harm in it?

  Still, Angeline was Elayne’s child, to be raised as she and Torr wished. Faye, a guest at Caldstowe, must abide by their wishes.

  Turning, she smiled at Elayne, reclining on the blanket, nibbling on a pastry from the packed lunch. “Aye, I heard.” Rubbing a gentle hand down Angeline’s arm, Faye said, “Would you like to see what is further down the bank? We can come back here later.”

  Angeline pouted. “’Tick.” She pointed at the water. Disappointed tears welled in her eyes.

  “Bring your stick. We can turn over stones with it.” Faye winked. “Maybe we will find a treasure.”

  The little girl’s head bobbed. “Go.”

  Hand in hand, they walked along the riverbank. Six, seven, eight paces. A portion of wooden plank, part of the washed away bridge, lay wedged in a mound of stones and dirt, probably flung there by cresting water. Angeline tapped the wood with her stick, then poked at the rocks around it. Smaller stones fell away, revealing more embedded in mud.

  Clearly fascinated, Angeline thrust her toy lamb into Faye’s hands, hunched down and continued to dig with the end of her stick.

  Faye sat on a nearby rock, the toy lamb in her lap. Leaning her head on one hand, she watched Angeline and listened to the child’s happy chatter. Moments later, the little girl let out an excited “Ooo!”

  “Did you find a treasure?”

  “Goad,” Angeline said.

  Faye laughed. “Gold? That would be a treasure indeed.”

  Bouncing on her bent legs, Angeline pointed. “Look.”

  Her elbows on her knees, Faye leaned forward. Metal glinted within the pile of mud.

  “Angeline,” she whispered. “May I borrow your stick?”

  The little girl sucked her bottom lip betw
een her teeth. Disappointment shadowed her gaze. “My ’tick.”

  “Only for a moment,” Faye promised, trying not to show impatience. “I will give it right back to you.”

  Angeline handed over the stick. With shaking hands, Faye dug away the dirt around the object. Little by little, the treasure revealed itself. Leaning forward, she picked it up.

  A goblet.

  It was dented on one side, where it had been tossed against a rock. Nonetheless, it was an exquisite cup. A beautiful object forged many years ago by a talented craftsman.