Loving the Knight: Book 2: Eryndal & Andrew (The Hansen Series: Rydar & Grier and Eryndal & Andrew)

by Kris Tualla

  Lord Andrew Drummond wrapped a scarf around his throat and tucked the scrap of wool into the collar of his cloak. It formed a slight barrier to the snow that was beginning to fall harder and at a distinctly unfriendly angle.

  Hermitage Castle rose on the horizon, a formidable square of wood standing forty feet tall. Drew couldn’t see any evidence of habitation; no activity around the structure, no smoke rising on this frigid afternoon.

  “Shite. It appears deserted. This might very well be the longest and most miserable day of the past year,” he grumbled to his vassal. Melted snowflakes ran into his eyes and snot dripped from his nose. He couldn’t feel his toes.

  Kennan steered his huge brown gelding closer to Drew’s gray stallion. “If no one’s there, we’ll ride on, aye?”

  “Aye. There’s no reason to bide in that overgrown tomb otherwise.” He wiped his nose on the end of the scarf. “It’s five miles to Castleton. If we push, we can be there in an hour.”

  “The horses are done in, I’m afraid,” Kennan said.

  “Hour and a half, then.”

  The castle was, indeed, uninhabited. Victim of both the endless border wars with England and the half decade of plague, no one—so it seemed—deemed this fortification important enough to winter here. They were on to Castleton, then.

  Lord Andrew Drummond was done in as well.

  For a year and a half he and Kennan had traversed Scotland on behalf of King David II. Held in the Tower of London since 1346 as prisoner of England’s King Edward III, Drew was his Scottish king’s main connection with the country he reigned over. Frequent trips to London had been deferred until Drew could assess the condition of Scotland following the Black Death.

  The news was grim at best, horrifying most often.

  Bodies rotting in overfull graves. Villages devoid of any living being. Empty houses with fallen roofs. Animals, wandering and starving. Children’s cries echoing in the night.

  More than half of the Scottish countryside lay dead. England as well. And it was worse in the cities, where people lived in each other’s pockets and disease scuttled without mercy.

  After his visit to Castleton, it would fall to Lord Andrew Drummond to ride to London and explain all this to a king who witnessed none of it. To explain to his sovereign why Scotland was unable to raise a ransom to secure his freedom. Why the world he once knew was irrevocably altered.

  It was not a pleasant proposition. He shivered.

  Drew truly was done in.

  “There it is. And it’s got people,” Kennan said, rousing him from his lethargic contemplation.

  Visible through the quickening snow, the sight of the lit manor, smoke leaning from her chimneys and bodies scurrying in her yard, sent waves of relieved exhaustion pulsing through Drew’s tense body.

  His cheeks were stiff with cold and the scarf only served to act as a wick, dripping melted snow inside his cloak. Perhaps the time to quit his vocation was upon him.

  “Thank God,” he muttered. He pulled back on the reins as his warhorse strained forward, eager to reach shelter of his own. “Easy. We mustn’t charge in or they’ll mistake our intent.”

  “Aye, sir.” Kennan guided his mount behind Drew. “I’ll follow ye.”

    

  “Riders are approaching, my lady.”

  Eryn looked up from her needle. “How many?”

  “Only two,” Jamie said.

  “Have they a banner?”

  “No.”

  She set aside the tunic she was making for William and followed her steward to the window. If there were just two of them, they were not likely to be reivers or thieves. But who would be out so late on such a violent day? The sun was buried behind thick gray clouds and her light was dying quickly.

  Eryn leaned against the small window panes and tried to discern what sort of problem might be advancing toward her home. All she could make out were two enormous warhorses. The riders carried no colors that she could see, but then the snowfall turned everything into dark splotches on shifting white.

  “Are they English or Scots, do ye think?” Jamie asked.

  “It doesn’t matter. If they come in peace, I’ll shelter them.” Eryn turned to her steward. They were the same height—five feet and nine inches—but his lean frame was deceptively strong. “Have the hands ride out to meet them. Watch for signs of aggression. If there are none, bring them inside and stable their horses. I’ll meet them in the Hall.”

  “Yes, lady.”

  “And if they are suspect, kill them.”

  Jamie nodded and hurried to do her bidding.

  Eryn looked back out the window. Ordering men put to death was not an act her conscience rested with, but at times it must be done even so. If she meant to hold her position, she had to give orders without fear. She had to do what was necessary to protect the estate, her serfs, and William.

  Please, God, spare their lives, she prayed silently. Let them be friends, not foes.

    

  As the traveling pair neared the estate they were met by a very small contingent of heavily armed men. “State your business!” the forward rider called out.

  “I’m an emissary from King David!” Drew answered. “We’re hoping for a warm welcome from our countrymen on this miserable afternoon.”

  He pulled back his cloak to display both his sword’s jeweled scabbard and dagger. He intended to prove his wealth and show that he, too, was armed. Even in the gloom the jewels sparkled and drew the men’s eyes.

  “Is he armed as well?”

  Drew glanced back at Kennan. “He’s my vassal. Of course he’s armed. He protects my backside. But we are on a peaceful mission for the king. We’ll harm no man unless he harms one of us first.”

  The forward rider nodded, then. “Come on then.”

  Drew followed the man, Kennan followed him, and the rest of the little guard closed rank around them.

  Good, Drew thought. This estate is well protected.

  In the courtyard, he and Kennan surrendered their exhausted mounts to a pair of grooms. They climbed the steps to the front door where a wiry, well-dressed man waited.

  “Welcome. Please come in out of the weather.” He stepped aside and gave room.

  Drew followed the man into the manor’s entry then to the Great Hall, and Kennan followed him. Heat from the fire washed his cheeks and his nose began to run again.

  “Please wait here.” The man quit the room.

  Drew perused the Hall, evaluating its furnishings: simple but sturdy chairs and tables. A few tapestries. No paintings. No rushes on the floors, though that practice seemed to be a matter of taste. Everything was very clean and polished.

  Clipped footsteps approached, the sound of wooden soles on stone. He turned to face the master of the estate, but it was a striking woman that came through the door instead.

  She captured his attention immediately, more than most women did. First off, she was unusually tall—Drew guessed three finger-widths shy of six feet. But unlike other tall women, she didn’t slouch. She carried herself straight, exuding confidence. As if to challenge anyone who might think to challenge her.

  A headpiece embroidered with gold held her hair back from her face. In the candlelight, the light brown tresses glinted with golden threads of their own. She wore her hair braided and hanging down her back in a thick, twisted column that hugged her rigid backbone.

  He bowed from the waist as she came close, then straightened.

  “Greetings, my lady.”

  “Greetings to you as well, my lord. Whom have I the honor of sheltering on this inhospitable night?”

  Her accent was a surprise. Southern England, to be sure. What was she doing on the Scottish border?

  But it was her eyes that arrested him. They were a clear pale green, the color of newly sprouted thistle leaves, and edged all around by the softest moss-colored border. Gold flecks surrounded her pupils. Andrew stared at her, transfixed and disbelieving. He had never met anyone i
n all his travels with eyes like that.

  Except for one lonely place that he chose not to think about.

  Speak, fool.

  “I am Lord Andrew Drummond, a knight and courtier of King David II of Scotland.” He gestured toward Kennan, standing a ways off. “This is my vassal, Kennan MacKennan.”

  “My pleasure, sir.”

  She turned toward the man that had greeted him, pulling her eyes from his sight and allowing him to breathe again. He hadn’t noticed the man’s return—and that showed just how tired he truly was. He would never let his guard down so quickly otherwise.

  “This is my steward, Jamie Wallace. Jamie, will you see that Lord Andrew’s man is settled? And prepare the master’s chamber for Lord Andrew.” Her tone was clear, articulated, educated.

  “Of course, my lady.” The steward led Kennan from the room.

  “I appreciate the gesture, Lady—” Startled, Drew realized he did not yet know her name.

  She faced him again. “I am the Lady Eryndal Smythe Bell of Castleton.”

  Eryndal? Even her name was unusual. He tipped his head forward in deference. “I am honored, Lady Bell. But please do no’ feel the need to displace the master of this estate on my behalf.”

  She smiled then, a soft smile of condescension that twisted his ego. Her jade gaze swept him from head to toe and set an unwelcome fire low in his belly. “The master of the estate is nine years old and I doubt you would find his bed accommodating. I am the mistress and I act alone.”

  Her gaze fell to the puddle of melted snow that grew around his boots, darkening the spotless stone floor. “Please make yourself comfortable. I’ll send in food and something warm to drink. Jamie will fetch you when the room is ready.”

  Drew followed her gaze, and looked up from the offending moisture. “Thank ye, my lady.”

  “Supper will be informal; there are only the two of us this night. Jamie will fetch you for that as well.” She turned to leave him.

  “Thank ye, again, Lady Bell.” It was all that Drew could think of to say.

  Once she was gone, he sat in the closest chair and wrestled his wet boots from his feet. His stockings were also soaked but appearing barefooted wasn’t seemly. He stretched his feet toward the blazing hearth and winced as the fire’s heat made them sting.

  A middle-aged woman brought him a tray of pastries and a jug of warm spiced wine. Famished, he ate each delicious pastry in one bite. Then he swallowed a goblet of the drink and leaned back in his seat. The wine flowed through him warming his muscles and soothing his aching bones. His nose stopped running. He was beginning to feel his toes.

  He closed his eyes.

    

  Eryn walked through the kitchen, quickly ordered refreshment for the knight, and rushed out the back door into the darkened snowstorm. Her heart bashed her ribs and blood roared in her ears.

  A knight. Of the king.

  In the manor.

  She was so taken aback by his identity that she didn’t even ask why he was here. Eryn bent over and rested her hands on her knees, gulping sharp, snowy air in hopes that it would cool the flush of fear burning through her veins.

  It wasn’t only the shock of his appearance on the estate… it was the shock of his appearance.

  The crow-black hair tied at his nape was completely free of gray, and his eyes shifted from green to gold to brown and back again as firelight played over them. Broad-shouldered and tall—at least half a foot taller than she—he was powerfully built and finely dressed. It required every bit of Eryn’s self control to remain aloof in his startling presence.

  She straightened and walked in circles, hands on her hips. She pulled calming lungfuls of the icy night. Her breath billowed and dissipated in the rushing air. She mashed a solid ring in the new snow.

  What was his business in Castleton?

  How long might he stay?

  Eryn stopped walking. She closed her eyes and focused her memory on any nearby trouble she might have heard of. Was there fresh word of border thieves? New laws or taxes which the landed lords needed to be formally informed of?

  Eryn introduced herself as a landed lady, but in truth she was a usurper. A pretender to the title. What if he found out? What might he do to her?

  “He mustn’t find out, and that’s the only way.” She resumed her circular path, ignoring the cold air and the flakes that melted in dribbles down her neck. “I’ll need to be certain that Jamie gives the order that no servants are to speak to him. None of them. Not at all.”

  Not until she had a chance to convince him of what she desperately needed him to believe.

    

  “Sir?”

  Drew’s eyelids felt heavy as horseshoes.

  “Lord Drummond? Sir?”

  With a rush, he remembered where he was. He sat up straight and turned toward the voice. The lady’s steward—Jamie? Yes, that was his name—faced him with an expectant expression.

  “Yes?” Drew’s voice cracked and he cleared his throat. “What is it?”

  “Your room is ready. Will you follow me?”

  He nodded, grabbed his boots and stood. He followed the steward out of the Great Hall and across the entryway, past a long hallway and open doors of smaller chambers seemingly intended for business or informal meetings.

  Drew’s perusal of the manor was swift and evaluative. He found it all as clean, neat, and simply adorned as the Hall. No poverty here; but no overt wealth, either. He smelled food cooking; the kitchens must not be far away.

  “I hope ye’ll find everything acceptable, but please ask if there is anything ye need,” Jamie said as they climbed the stone steps to the upper level. He opened the door to a chamber dominated by a huge bed draped in heavy tapestries against the winter’s chill.

  A fire danced in the hearth and Drew could feel its warmth from the doorway. His saddle bags rested on the polished wood floor and a stout middle-aged man was laying his clothes on the bed.

  “This is Ian and he’ll be yer valet while ye bide with us. Supper will be served in half an hour. I’ll come back for ye.” Jamie backed out of the room and pulled the door closed.

  Ian faced Drew and gestured toward the hearth. “There’s hot water, soap and towels by the fire for ye to wash. I’ve laid out yer cleanest shirt, doublet and hose, my lord. I’ll take the rest to be laundered. Gi’ me yer boots and I’ll clean them up as well.”

  Drew looked down at the soggy footwear he still held. “I’ve a soft pair in my bags. I’ll wear them tonight.”

  “Very well, sir.” Ian dug in the bag and pulled out the low cuffed boots. “Tomorrow there’ll be time for a proper shave. I’ll wash yer hair then as well. Wouldn’t want ye to take a chill on this cold night, aye?”

  Drew chuckled silently at the thought that sporting wet hair one evening indoors was worse for his health than the uncountable months he spent trudging through Scotland’s skittish elements. He nodded and handed the tall boots to Ian. Then item by item he stripped off his travel-grimed clothing until he stood naked in front of the fire.

  Laving with the hot water and spice-scented soap seemed to bring him back to himself. His skin puckered; the black hairs covering his arms and legs stood and curled in response. Once he was dressed in his clean linen shirt, gold silk tunic and dark-brown woolen hose he felt able to be the courtier knight once again. He slipped on the low cuffed leather boots and looked forward to Jamie’s return.

  He found his enigmatic hostess far too fascinating for supper to be in any way laborious.

  Chapter Three

  Drew followed the steward to a room in the long hallway, one with a long, heavy table. Three brass candleholders lit the room with inviting warmth. Lady Bell waited, seated in the table’s head chair. She wore a green satin gown that made her eyes resemble pale emeralds. They glowed unsettlingly, prompting unwelcome memories from Drew’s recent past.

  A place to her right was set, presumably for him. She offered a small smile. Her voice float
ed toward him, soft but not subservient.

  “Good evening, Lord Drummond. I trust you’ve had a chance to refresh yourself?”

  “Yes, thank ye,” he said as he approached. “The chamber is quite comfortable.”

  “And Ian? Is his service satisfactory?”

  “Very.”

  “Good.”

  Once he sat, servants carried in roasted lamb draped in mint leaves, boiled turnips mashed with butter, small loaves of hot brown bread, a pot of honey, and a bowl of carrots cooked with herbs. The combined aromas made his belly rumble and his mouth water.

  Lady Bell dipped her head and crossed herself, then waved permission for him to begin the meal. He stabbed a thick slice of the meat with his knife and plopped it on his pewter plate. He quickly followed with generous portions of all the offerings.

  “My thanks for such a bountiful spread, my lady,” he said. “Though I fear my hunger would do justice to but a crust of bread and a goblet of water!”

  She smiled. “I’m honored to have such a distinguished visitor. I hope everything is to your liking.”

  Drew chewed a bite of the lamb. It was perfection. He told her so.

  “Might I inquire as to your journey?” she asked in a pleasant tone; one contradicted by the wary set of her eyes.

  Drew shook his head and decided to appeal to her softer side—assuming she had one. “That’s a long sad story, I’m afraid.”

  Her brows twitched; he had gained her curiosity. “Oh? How so?”

  “For the last year and a half or more—I’ve lost count of the months, to be honest with ye—‘tis been my task to visit every corner of Scotland on behalf of King David and discern the condition of the country after the Death.”

  “And have you? Visited every corner, I mean?” She was either incredulous or impressed; he hoped for impressed as that would ease his purpose.

  He let a deep sigh. “Aye, lady. I have.”

  She lowered her spoon, bite uneaten. “You’ve covered a considerable distance, I should think.”

  “I have.”