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

by Kris Tualla

  “Not the constable?” Drew prodded.

  Eryn hesitated, then spoke what she believed could very well be true. “He’d shed a tear or two. But I wouldn’t place money on them being long-lasted.”

  “No?” Drew ran one long finger back and forth along his upper lip. “Certainly your nephew would miss ye.”

  Eryn looked at him from under her brow. “Nephew? Oh! You mean Liam.”

  He paused. “…Aye.”

  She blinked slowly. “I believe you can see exactly how deeply he cares about me.”

  “Ye have no other family?” he asked in a voice so gentle, she wanted to cry.

  The easy answer was the true one. “No. None.”

  The only sound in the room was the snapping of the fire. Drew’s finger kept stroking his lip. Eryn tried not to think about her singular position, nor about the knight sitting so close she could smell the leather of his boots.

  “Are ye lonely, Eryn?”

  She jerked her face toward his. His eyes were pinched at the corners, and he stared at her with such intensity that a thrill of fear shot through her limbs. “Are you?” she countered.

  Drew’s expression went blank, as if an invisible shield slid over it. No emotion or reaction escaped. He rose to his feet and walked toward the doorway.

  “I’ll see ye at supper,” he said without looking back. Then he was gone.

  Eryn stared into the fire and wondered what in the name of God had just happened.

    

  Drew fought his way through the thigh-high snow to reach the stable. The stinging crystals invaded his clothing, melting and flowing in icy rivulets against his skin. But he didn’t pay it any mind; he needed to get away from the manor—and away from Eryn—afore he said something he might regret.

  Was he lonely? Aye.

  So much so that the weight of his isolation pressed against him like heavy iron chains wrapped around his chest.

  He had not been back to his home since the day he left. He was only fourteen. His beloved older brother was dead. Over the last fifteen years he had sent messengers to check on his mother and younger sister. His father, he had no further care for.

  Ah, Danny. Why did ye need to provoke him yet again? The question haunted him and he doubted it would ever be answered, even in Heaven.

  Danny Drummond, four years old when Drew was born, was by all accounts enamored of the babe from the first day. And every memory of Drew’s childhood involved Danny. The boys were inseparable. Until Danny turned twelve, that was.

  “Time to be a man!” their father bellowed. “No more of these soft children’s games!”

  He thrust a sword into Danny’s hand and pulled him out to the yard. He worked the boy endlessly, until Danny sobbed and begged for rest. On more than one occasion, Drew saw his older brother collapse in exhaustion, infuriating their father beyond words. When kicking the boy wouldn’t rouse him, the man stormed away and disappeared for the night. Their mother would cry as well, then. Because Danny’s failure had driven her husband to the taverns.

  It became very clear to Drew what he needed to do.

  When Drew was twelve and the sword was pressed into his hand, he rose to the challenge. He made it his goal to never disappoint his father and thereby drive him away from home. Away from their mother—his wife. He also pulled the tyrant’s attention from Danny, giving his brother respite. But Danny didn’t see things quite that way.

  Instead, Danny argued with their father. Challenged the man at every turn. Drew knew Danny was playing with fire, but he couldn’t make his brother cease. At night in their chamber, Drew begged him to stop. To run away. To protect himself.

  “Why? So ye can be the favored son? Ye already are!” Danny accused.

  It was true that Drew had grown larger than Danny. At fourteen, he was as far over six feet as Danny fell shy of that mark. Working so hard to please their father had hardened his muscles. Given him bulges where Danny had planes. Given him quick reflexes where Danny hesitated. But he was doing it for Danny—didn’t his brother understand?

  When it happened, Drew was near fifteen and Danny was well past eighteen. That day was cold like today. Gray like yesterday. There was a battle and the Scots had won. Even so, their father shouted at Danny when they rode into the yard. Belittling his son for the unacceptable way he fought.

  Drew grabbed the reins of the destriers. Danny jumped down from his mount and threw his helmet to the ground, his steel gauntlets following.

  “Fight yer own battles, old man!” he shouted. “I'm done with ye!”

  “Hush, Danny!” Drew rasped.

  Their father leapt from his horse. He poked one steel-clad finger into Danny’s chest. “Ye will do what I tell ye to do, do ye hear?”

  “Or what?”

  “Danny!” Drew yelped.

  “Or I’ll give ye the back o’ my hand!” Their father’s face was red as berries. His visage angry and cruel. Drew had never seen him so worked up in all his training clashes with Danny. Not in all his fourteen or so years of life.

  “Stop, Danny,” Drew begged, stepping closer.

  Danny shot him a look of complete defeat. He gave a slight shake of his head. Then he turned back to the man.

  “The back o’ yer hand? Is that the best ye’ve got?” he taunted.

  A flash of silver—surprisingly bright on that gray day—arced through the air. A quick series of thick pops followed. Danny’s body dropped to the ground, crumpling with his neck in an impossible position. His eyes stared unseeing toward the sky; his jaw, sliced by his father’s steel gauntlet, hung slack. But it didn’t bleed. He was already dead.

  “Danny!” Drew screamed. The force of it burned his throat. “DANNY!”

  He fell to his brother’s side and shook the body as if somehow it would move. Of course, it did not. His brother’s head hung backward, its link to his body broken apart.

  Drew stood slowly, and turned to face his father.

  “Ye killed my brother,” he growled.

  His father’s face was ashen. But he said not a word.

  “Ye killed my brother you fucking bastard!” Drew unsheathed Danny’s sword. He swung it toward his father, but the battle-savvy man jumped out of the way.

  “If I wanted ye dead, ye would be,” Drew sneered. “Do no’ doubt me.”

  He turned then and walked away from his father.

  From what remained of his family.

  From his home.

  And he never went back.

    

  Drew’s nose itched. He rubbed it and smelt the hay of the stall.

  He opened eyes that were dry and scratchy. He tried to swallow, but his throat was sticky. He tasted the tang of salty tears on his tongue.

  How long had he laid there? How long had he shed silent tears for a grief reopened? Between Liam and Eryn his pain had been made new, as if years could never smother it.

  He had fallen into a fitful doze, dreaming of his knight’s training at Stirling Castle. He moved up in the ranks quickly, thanks to his size and abilities. Those were both good things, since he had no money to pay his own way.

  David Bruce—now King David II—noticed him and took Drew under his care, mentoring the lonely teen. Drew remained loyal to his king for so many reasons, but his personal patronage was the first. And the most important.

  Drew stretched and clambered to his feet. He brushed bits of hay from his clothes, still damp in places from the melted snow. The day had dimmed a bit, but supper was far off yet.

  He felt fuzzy, his thoughts jumbled, and his head ached from both the memories and the persistent pain of their recall.

  With a heavy sigh, he left the shelter of the stables and plunged into the bright ivory landscape. He made his way back to the manor and prayed he would not meet the Lady Bell on the way to his chamber.

  Chapter Ten

  December 10, 1354

  Eryn dipped the boar-hair brush in the soapy water and scrubbed another stone step. With
Drew stuck in the house the two days past, she hadn’t gotten all of the cleaning done. Today he was out somewhere and she was hurrying to complete the work.

  Certainly there were maids whose work loads she might have augmented with the task, but she knew the state of the manor reflected on her ability to manage the household effectively. Some of the younger girls simply did not do the job as well as she wanted it done.

  And after Drew’s comment about how well the manor was kept, Eryn was doubly determined not to let things slide into dishevelment. She coveted the approval he gave.

  She backed down a step and dipped the brush again.

  “Pardon me, miss. Have ye seen the lady of the house?” The words startled her out of her thoughts.

  “Do not tease me so, Geoff!” she said over her shoulder. “You know as well as I that there aren’t enough maids to do it all!”

  “Aye, but there are, Eryn. Ye only have to allow them to do the work,” Geoff countered. He grabbed for the bucket, but she held it tight.

  “What are you wanting, Geoff?” she asked. He released the bucket and she backed down another step. Three more to go.

  “Lord Drummond summoned me,” he said. His tone was light but she knew him well enough to hear the tension he felt. “What do ye suppose he’ll be wanting?”

  Eryn turned to face him. “He summoned you? And you don’t know why?”

  “Aye. That’s the way of it.” Geoff scrabbled his fingers through his hair.

  She considered skipping the last three steps, but her compulsion to complete the job well pushed her to finish. She scrubbed the steps quickly as she silently pondered the knight’s actions. It could not bode well, of that she was certain.

  Eryn stood, dropped the brush into the wash water, and handed Geoff the bucket. “Will you take that to the kitchen for me?” she asked, drying her hands on her apron.

  He cocked one eyebrow. “Aye. And then what?”

  “And then we shall wait for His Highness to appear and enlighten us as to his intentions!” she said, flashing an overly-bright grin.

  “His highness, is it now?” Geoff grumbled as he turned toward the kitchen.

  “I am joking with you, Geoff!” Eryn could not corral her exasperation. She spoke to Geoffrey’s departing back. “He is just a man, no more!”

  “Who is no more than a man?”

  Eryn’s heart thumped. She closed her eyes and pulled a slow breath. Arranging her face in its most pleasing set, she spun slowly. “Lord, um—Drew.”

    

  Drew’s eyes rested on Geoffrey—across the table and over the mid-day meal’s roasted goose—giving Eryn a moment to gather her thoughts. Thus far, the knight hadn’t revealed his purpose in summoning the constable, he only made polite conversation. Eryn tried to thrust her thoughts into Geoff’s head, warning him to be careful of what he said, but her friend seemed impervious to her lowered brows and calfskin-slippered nudges under the table.

  “How long have ye known Lady Bell?” Drew asked.

  Geoffrey wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “She was fifteen when she came here.”

  Eryn kicked him and he coughed. His gray eyes peeked at her from under his lashes.

  “Oh?” Drew’s gaze blinked to hers. “To live?”

  “For a short time, I fostered with my stepbrother and the Lady Bell. My mother was ill.”

  “I see.” He clearly did not.

  “I came here from the Abbey,” she explained.

  “At Elstow.”

  “Yes.”

  “Where were your mother and stepfather?” he pressed.

  Shite. Eryn glanced at Geoff who avoided her gaze and meticulously cut a piece of goose into tiny bits. She hadn’t yet worked out a story for her non-existent parentage. “They went south.”

  One of the knight’s eyebrows lifted. His eyes darkened to the color of ale. “South?”

  “Yes…” Eryn sipped slowly from her pewter goblet and shuffled through mental sheaves, casting ideas aside as quickly as she saw them.

  There it is.

  “Liddel Strength was attacked and destroyed. They feared for their lives.”

  Drew broke a piece of bread and swiped it through the juices on his platter, mercifully withdrawing his piercing consideration. “And yet, they left ye here?”

  Eryn pressed her lips together and looked deliberately sad. “My mother wasn’t well, even still. It was all my stepfather could do to care for her. And, truth be told”—Eryn crossed her fingers and said a quick and silent prayer for forgiveness—“he didn’t like me much.”

  Geoffrey coughed and his face reddened. He pounded his fist against his chest.

  Eryn glared her warning. If he starts laughing, I’ll kill him, I will; King’s knight or no.

  “That was eight years ago.”

  Drew’s deep purr yanked her attention back to him. She frowned. “Eight years? It was more than that…”

  “I beg to differ, Eryn. Ye see, I was there.” Drew leaned toward her. “I helped David Bruce pull the thing down.”

  He was there? He would know if her lies weren’t right. Shite shite shite.

  “And landed him in the Tower as a result!” she snapped, pointing to the obvious failure of the escapade. “How did you manage to remain free?”

  A reluctant smile lit Drew’s face and for a moment Eryn was transfixed. The man was stunningly handsome. His eyes grew mossy and he tucked black waves behind his ear. He slid his gaze to Geoffrey and back to her, tripping her heart.

  “That is itself a tale for another night, I’m afraid. No need to burden our Constable here, is there?”

  Eryn saw Geoff’s jaw muscles tighten. He looked at her and his eyes narrowed slightly. The man could obviously see the knight’s attributes; and Drew’s insinuation of cozy evenings alone with her—where he bragged about his own exploits—seemed intended to provoke.

  “We are betrothed,” Geoffrey blurted.

  “We are not!” Eryn yelped. Geoff’s casually spoken words were worse than the knight’s probing questions. “Why would you say such a thing?”

  Drew rubbed a finger over his upper lip. His cheek twitched. “And which is it?”

  Geoff straightened in his chair. “I have asked for her hand.”

  “Repeatedly,” Eryn grumbled.

  Geoff did not face her. “And she has agreed—”

  “I agreed you might ask me again. That is all.” Eryn would not look at Drew, certain he was highly amused by the display of pique. Instead, she lifted her chin and stared down her nose at Geoffrey. “And you may do so in a brace of months.”

  He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Eryn turned back to Drew. “Was there another matter you wished to discuss with our Constable this day?”

  Drew looked fit to burst, but his mirth remained loosely contained. “No. This has been quite revealing. Thank ye for your forbearance, Constable MacDougal.”

  “Aye,” Geoff grunted. He stood and faced Eryn. “I must get on with my duties, then.”

  Eryn dipped her chin, but did not rise. “Thank you for coming, Geoffrey.”

  Geoffrey bowed slightly. His eyes flicked sideways to Eryn’s and narrowed slightly. “Good day.”

  He retrieved his cloak from a chair and swung it around his shoulders as he left the Hall. Neither Eryn nor Drew spoke until the heavy clank of the manor door signaled that Geoff was safely out of earshot.

  “How old are ye?” Drew asked. That query was unexpected.

  Eryn snorted and considered not answering. But then, she realized, her answer might put him off and he would leave her in peace. “I was born on the winter solstice—an unlucky day, most say.”

  Drew gave her an exasperated look. “And how many years past might that be?”

  “Twenty-seven, in another ten days.” She raised one brow. “And you?” she poked.

  “Thirty—after the next month is eight days old,” he answered without pause. “Is that why, then?”

  She fro
wned. “Why what?”

  Drew pinned her in her chair with a gaze so intent it had weight. “Why are ye considering a man so completely unsuited for ye?”

  Eryn’s jaw dropped at the knight’s audacious words. “And how would you know we didn’t suit? You hardly know either of us!”

  Drew shook his head. “That’s where ye are wrong. I ken, and well, what sort of man he is, and what sort of woman ye are.”

  “Is that so?” Eryn straightened in her chair. “What sort of man is he, then?” she challenged.

  Drew shifted and settled in his seat, as though he prepared to argue a point in front of a magistrate. “He’s a good man; let me say that right off. He’d no’ mistreat ye.”

  “Well now there’s a relief,” she said, sarcasm clearly coloring her tone.

  “He’d only bore ye to death.”

  “What!”

  Drew’s eyes glowed like ancient amber in the day’s light. He leaned forward and raised his voice. “I said, he’d only bore ye to death!”

  “I heard you!” Eryn snapped.

  “Well now there’s a relief.” He echoed both her words and her tone. His lips twitched as if a small animal was trapped in his mouth.

  Eryn was angrier than she could remember being in a very long time. How dare this pompous, self-conceited, ignorant man say such a thing to her? She wanted to scratch his eyes out. Her fingers tightened their grip on the arms of her chair.

  “Explain yourself,” she growled.

  “Ye are an intelligent woman, Eryn. Ye think like a man—no, better than most men. Ye are capable, and ye are fearless.”

  Eryn coughed a chuckle. “That shows exactly how much you know, Lord Knight! I’m not fearless. In point of fact, I’m terrified.”

  He looked surprised. “Terrified? What of?”

  Eryn fought a surge of humiliation. Once again, she said too much. Damn my tongue!

  “Eryn?” Drew pressed gently.

  There was no way out of the issue now. She pulled a long breath, and laid bare her soul.

  “Failing,” she whispered, not able to look at him.

  “Failing at what?”