Once a Knight

by Christina Dodd

  “One suit is mine for one of the squires in my household. He’ll soon earn his spurs, and I outfit all the boys I have fostered.”

  Impressed in spite of himself, David said, “That’s good of you.”

  “The other…Ivo found it.” She watched the road intently. “It’s John’s.”

  Pulling Louis in front of Alisoun’s horse, David grabbed the reins close to the palfrey’s mouth. They halted in the middle of the track, and he said, “There’s foul play.”

  “So I suspect.”

  “John would never leave his armor. Do you know what a full suit costs?”

  “I just said I had purchased one.”

  “It’s too expensive for a landless knight to abandon.”

  “Much too expensive.”

  The serenity of her expression never changed. Her demeanor never changed. She had all the vivacity of a stone statue on Ripon Cathedral, and he swore long and eloquently. “Don’t you care that a good man in your employ has probably been murdered?”

  “’Tis a misdeed I deplore deeply, and I lit candles in his name, praying for his safe return and his soul, should it have departed this earth.” She controlled her horse easily, her gloved hands light on the reins. “What else would you have me do?”

  He didn’t say it, but he thought, Wail a little. Wipe a tear from your eye. At the least, profess terror for your own safety. But that was stupid, and he knew it. He abhorred women who behaved so melodramatically, and he didn’t want to be saddled with one now.

  “The carts will be on us if we don’t proceed,” Alisoun reminded him.

  He released her horse and they moved along the road. It wound upward now, going deeper into the wilds of Northumbria. Englishmen spoke of this area—the looming Cumbrian Mountains, the wild strips of beach along the coast—as barren, frightful, forbidding. While it could be harsh, given to sudden fogs and ocean storms, it also gave great gifts to those who dared to challenge it. Lofty moors fed herds of sheep, the forest provided game and fuel, and the sea gave up its bounty on a regular basis. Until the drought, David had been adding comforts to his tiny castle, bringing new breeding stock in for his peasants. Now his crops were withered, his stock and his peasants dead or dying, his daughter…he couldn’t think of his daughter and her pinched cheeks.

  “Why didn’t you hire someone else when your men disappeared?” he demanded.

  She flashed him a look of disdain. “I thought I had.”

  Gaining sympathy for the missing mercenaries, David wished again another post had presented itself. Still, he was lucky to have one at all, so he applied his equanimity with Herculean restraint. “I meant three days ago. True, you hired me, but surely even you can see that one knight is insufficient to defend three carts and a marriageable widow.”

  “No other knights were available.”

  He couldn’t believe she would use such a lame excuse. “No other knights? Lady, there are always younger sons, men who seek employment to fill their bellies lest they starve.” They reached the top of the rise, and he used the height to look both forward and back. “I know. I was one.”

  “None were interested in coming to George’s Cross,” she answered steadily.

  In a hurry to reclaim their positions as defenders of their mistress, Ivo and Gunnewate galloped up the road after the carts. David grinned, knowing how their defeat, especially to him, must eat at them. Satisfied that this stretch of road, at least, was safe, David turned back to Alisoun. “You must not have asked the right men.”

  “Perhaps not.”

  As before, her expression never changed, her voice retained its calm, low vibrancy, but somehow, he thought she was…worried? Afraid? Straightening, he studied her again. Why did he think such a thing? What had he seen? She met his gaze confidently, but her eyes…didn’t they have a sheen? Hadn’t the gray color darkened just a little?

  And to think he’d longed for a woman who didn’t wail with every passing emotion. Comprehending this woman took concentration. He had to try and wiggle through the complex byways of her woman’s brain. That was a warrior’s nightmare, but she told him nothing, so he had to think.

  Why would she be apprehensive? She’d lost her men, possibly through foul play. No other knight would hire on with her. Yet she paid well. He knew that from personal experience. He knew, too, that money, freely spread around, eased the sting of working for a woman.

  Something wasn’t right. Only a very influential man could make it impossible for her to hire other mercenaries. Thoughtfully, he observed while she directed Ivo and Gunnewate to ride behind the carts and protect the rear, then instructed him to continue his surveillance.

  She’d never admitted to having a suitor, and no shrewd man who sought a wealthy wife would put her on her guard by stealing and murdering her men one at a time. So perhaps his first surmise had been wrong.

  “You must have offended a dread lord.” He waited for her to explain, knowing that women loved to talk about their troubles.

  She ignored him.

  He tried an unjust accusation. “You were probably flirting with him, then refused him. Women like to make men suffer like that.”

  Glaring, she opened her mouth.

  But some of his triumph must have shone through, for she shut it again and sealed her lips firmly.

  Finally, he appealed to her good sense. “It would help if I knew how and why you were threatened. Are we likely to be overwhelmed by a large force?”

  “Nay.” She gave up that information grudgingly. “If anything, there will be a small force, but usually this creature prefers to perform his deeds alone.”

  “Has he tried to kill you?”

  “If he wished to kill me I would be dead. Nay, this beast stalks for pleasure, to invoke fear and loathing.”

  And she did loathe the man, whoever he was. That slight curl of the lip looked like blatant emotion on Alisoun’s still face, and David congratulated himself on reading her so well. “He’s doing a good job, in sooth, but I still want to know—”

  She interrupted him. “Your job is to keep me safe, not to indulge in ineffectual speculation. If you must know more to properly perform your duties, then return the gold at once and be on your way.”

  By Saint Michael’s arm, she was a cold and ruthless she-demon! But—he fingered the leather pouch which held the precious coins—for this money he would do as bid. At least for the moment.

  Sarcastically, he pulled his forelock. “As you say, my lady. You are always right.”

  4

  Alisoun was awake again. David stared toward the hammock strung between two trees. The hemp creaked as she carefully turned away from him and toward the deeper woods. She’d done the same thing the last two nights, shifting back and forth while taking care not to wake anyone. Unfortunately, as he slipped into his role as guardian, he woke with her every movement. Last night he had blamed her restlessness on discomfort from the saddle or an inability to sleep out-of-doors, but tonight he could no longer deceive himself. She didn’t trust him to keep watch.

  She lifted her head. He lifted his, too, and scanned the area. Nothing. Just darkness filled with the creak of windblown trees, the growls and squeaks of nocturnal creatures, and the rumble of Ivo’s snoring.

  Cautiously, she sat up. He sat up, too. No moon lightened the night, the trees’ canopy masked the starlight, yet he could still make out the glow of her hair. He had been surprised to discover that she removed her wimple and loosened her braids to sleep. His wife had been most insistent that ladies never revealed their crowning glory. Of course, Mary had quickly discovered that a woman’s unfettered locks brought on his lustful desires, and she’d done anything to avoid that.

  After they had conceived their daughter, he’d done everything to avoid it, too. Not even the prospect of another baby to cherish could overcome his distaste for bedding a woman who increasingly looked like a molting duck and smelled like its favorite grub.

  Alisoun had simply rubbed her bare head with her h
ands as if she reveled in the freedom, and after all, who could see her in the dark? Only David, and he’d had to strain.

  Swinging her legs out of the hammock, she stood, facing away from him. He called softly, “What do you fear, Lady Alisoun?”

  She jumped and turned, tangling in her own skirt and stumbling into the hammock.

  He rose and walked toward her. “I assure you, I’ve kept my ear to the ground and heard nothing.”

  She righted herself, then with a composure he couldn’t help but admire, she whispered, “I’m worried about my carts.”

  He didn’t believe that for a moment. Because of their weight, the carts couldn’t be moved far from the road, yet she left only Gunnewate to guard them, bringing Ivo and David with her to the site deeper in the forest. She forbade a fire, preferring to eat a cold meal of wheat cakes and cheese. And now she couldn’t sleep.

  No matter that he’d observed no sign of pursuit. No matter that the only faces he’d seen were those of the people in his party. Alisoun’s increasing tension had honed his infirm skills. If only she would trust him to do his job, but already he realized the lady Alisoun of George’s Cross perpetually took responsibility for everything and everybody.

  “I thought I heard a branch crack,” she admitted.

  This sign of weakness in her reassured him. She was a woman like any other, then. She imagined threats where none existed and required reassurance when there was no need. He barely realized what he did when he reached out and patted her hair, then smoothed it as he would have a dog’s. “My lady, dangerous beasts inhabit this wood, but no men. I’ve been alert. I’ll protect you.”

  Her fist knocked his hand away, and her voice cracked like a whip over his head. “Do you think this is amusing?”

  Bringing his arm close against his chest, he rubbed the sting of her blow. “Nay, my lady, I simply sought to allay your alarm.”

  “Don’t patronize me.”

  He jerked in reaction. He didn’t doubt her animosity. He’d learned, more than once in these last two days, that she could strip a man of pride, of dignity, of sense with a few well-chosen words. Ivo and Gunnewate remained stoic under the lash of her tongue. The oxen drivers seemed to expect insult. But a pox on her! She couldn’t talk to him, the king’s former champion, that way.

  He turned away and walked back toward his mat. “Fretful and nervous,” he muttered, loudly enough for her to hear. She didn’t reply, and he kicked the mat and ruffled the blankets in a blatant display of annoyance. Shoving the log he used as a pillow into place, he lay down, turned his back to her, and closed his eyes.

  The silence assaulted his ears. Their conversation and his noisy displeasure had quelled the sounds of nighttime creatures and woken Ivo, who no longer snored, but breathed long and regularly. Ivo waited, no doubt, to hear any further quarrel between his mistress and the man he clearly considered unworthy to serve her.

  They were all waiting. What was Alisoun doing? David didn’t hear a sound from her hammock.

  He didn’t hear her move at all. Did she still stand where he’d left her? Was she still looking, straining to hear the sound of attack? What kind of man would make a woman so afraid? For afraid she was, and as the silence continued, David began to make excuses for her.

  So what if she stripped a man of his pride? She was a woman, and a woman’s only weapon was words. And in a way, he could understand her displeasure. She’d accused him of patronizing her, and he had. He’d treated her like a child in need of comfort, when she was a woman who sought an honest resolution for her worries. Moreover, he was strong, dignified, made in God’s image. A real man didn’t flinch when a woman pouted or reproached. A real man reassured a woman, made her feel safe. David was a real man.

  Opening his pack, he found the length of rope he kept with him always, then stood and walked back toward the hammock. Kneeling, he tied a knot around one of the smaller trees at about knee height. Then, uncoiling the rope as he walked backward, he circled another one of the trees that surrounded her. Taking a right angle from the first side, he crossed to another tree, then another, forming a square around the hammock where she slept.

  “What are you doing?” Alisoun’s perfectly modulated voice sounded only distantly curious.

  “Any man who tries to reach you will fail to see this rope. He’ll trip and wake everyone, and I’ll be on him at once. It’s an old trick, one I’ve used to protect myself for years.”

  “I see. That is clever.”

  He tied the last knot, then stood up. Straining to see the expression on her face, he said, “So won’t you lie down and sleep, my lady? You’ll be safe now.”

  Carefully, she lowered herself onto the hammock.

  He watched her and brushed his hands in satisfaction. “Nothing can get you now.”

  “I feel safe,” she acknowledged.

  She reached for the rug which had previously covered her. It had fallen to the ground, a dark lump beyond her reach, and the hammock teetered precariously as she strained for it. He reached for it, too, grabbing it before she could topple, and shook it out. “If I may?” He didn’t wait for permission, but spread the rug over her legs and tucked it around her feet. Her hand groped for the edge to bring it around her shoulders, and he brushed her fingers aside. Slowly, taking care to respect her person, he carried the fine woven wool up and over. Her skin warmed him when he folded it over her neck. The scars and calluses of his palm snagged her hair and clung when he tried to free himself.

  She stayed still, her breath regular and deep. He could see her eyes glistening as he stood over her, and they widened when he gathered the wandering strands of hair into a bunch. He strained to see the color. Blond, he supposed. It had to be blond—pale, washed out, colorless.

  But each strand seemed dyed with fire.

  He looked back at her. Red? He dropped the hair as if it burned him. Not red, surely. No doubt, the feeble starlight tricked his eye. He cleared his throat. He ought to go back to bed, but he liked this sensation of accomplishment. “It took a real man to make it so safe for you.”

  “God bless you for your kind thought.”

  He warmed, wondering if God responded to her request with the same esteem everyone else showed her. Then he laughed at himself for his nonsense. The woman might have her men-at-arms completely cowed, but she’d had no mystical effect on God—or on him. “Aye.” He plucked the rope to make sure the tension would indeed snag a man. “I only use this when I sleep alone or with men I have reason to distrust. The rest of the time I credit my senses, but I can see that a woman would gain comfort from the rope. I’m glad I thought of it.”

  “I’m glad, too,” she said.

  “So just go to sleep—”

  Ivo snorted, a huge, moist explosion of exasperation. “How can m’lady go t’ sleep wi’ ye blatherin’ on? Stop praisin’ yerself an’ get back t’ yer pallet.”

  David was insulted. “I’m not answerable to you, my man. Lady Alisoun extends her thanks for my protection and I gratefully accept them.”

  He’d lifted one foot over the rope to step away when Ivo snapped, “Aye, that rope’ll preserve her if she’s attacked, but it’ll do naught against another arrow aimed at her heart, will it?”

  David’s foot dipped, caught, and tangled, and he went over with a crash that shook the very earth.

  The village of George’s Cross looked like heaven to Alisoun. Nestled in a valley not far from the sea, it surrounded a square big enough to hold a market every Lammas Day. Her people cheered as she rode through the streets, and she knew without conceit they cheered more than the contents of the carts which followed far behind. Her people loved her—unlike a certain mercenary who clearly had violence on his mind.

  As she entered the square, the people crowded in on them. Ivo and Gunnewate dropped back. The carts appeared to be dots on the road behind them. Only David clung close as a burr on a wool fringe as her people surrounded her. He even tried to block Fenchel when he made his way forward,
but she laid her hand on David’s arm and shook her head.

  “You know him?” David asked.

  “He’s the village reeve,” she answered. David considered the skinny, balding little man and apparently decided he exuded no threat, for he moved aside and allowed Fenchel to approach.

  “Fenchel, how goes the shearing?” she asked in English, her tone warm to make up for David’s rude challenge.

  Fenchel snatched his hat from his head and bowed almost double, replying in English also. “’Tis just over, m’lady. The fleeces are breathin’ in the wool rooms all over the village.”

  “The fleeces are still warm after shearing,” she explained to David. “If the night is cold, the fleeces may stir all night long.”

  “I know, Lady Alisoun. I, also, produce wool on my small estate.”

  “Of course. I meant no offense,” she replied.

  David scowled, but he had been scowling for a whole day now, ever since Ivo had opened his big, dumb mouth and plainly told him that an arrow had been shot at her. Lady Alisoun loved Ivo, but he’d created trouble this time, and she’d had to rebuke him. He’d hung his head and not tried to defend himself, and she’d released him after one sharp phrase. How could she not? She understood Ivo’s impatience with David much better than she understood David’s unexpected nocturnal eloquence. She would have called it moon madness, but there’d been no moon. There’d been no warning that the taciturn man who had taken her to task for leaving herself undefended would suddenly develop such a high opinion of himself. If she didn’t know better, she would have thought he had wanted to linger in her vicinity; but why, she couldn’t imagine. By Saint Ethelred, he’d even covered her with her rug.

  She glanced at his impatient expression. Usually she understood men only too well, and it fretted her to have one who occasionally escaped definition.

  Worse, she didn’t quite understand herself. There had been a stirring in her when he covered her with the rug. A stirring she’d experienced so seldom in her life, she didn’t quite know how to define it. She thought it might be tenderness. Maybe even a tendril of errant affection.