The Warrior and the Wildflower

by Gregg, Everley

  Her worries leapt anew, though, when she heard the clip-clop of hooves approaching from within the stable.

  Weers was not a tall man, but next to the chocolate-brown beast to which he was tethered, he appeared no bigger than Eva’s five-year-old brother. Her eyes widened and she staggered back a step. Andries tightened his hold on her arm.

  Andries had no patience for his stepdaughter, no matter what the circumstance.

  “This is Tyrion,” Weers said, shifting the straw from one side of his mouth to the other. He studied Eva, his gaze sweeping her from head to hem. His expression softened. “I see you are afraid, lass. You’re but a wisp of a girl. I know Tyrion must look to you like a giant from the land of dragons. But be assured, milady, he is as gentle as a kitten.”

  “A very big kitten,” Andries said through a chuckle. He turned to look down at her. “Do not worry, Eva. Weers is to be trusted. If he says the palfrey will do you no harm, then it will be as he says.”

  As if the beast understood their words, Tyrion bobbed his gigantic head up and down, then stomped the ground with a massive hoof.

  “Oh, my. Papa, his head is bigger than I am,” she murmured. Her whole body was trembling now, and she wished she had relieved herself once more before leaving home. Terror of climbing atop the great beast only added to the embarrassment she knew was imminent: lifting her skirts to reveal her twisted foot.

  Weers went on to explain the contraption strapped to Tyrion’s back. To her, the contraption looked like a small, padded chair.

  “You won’t be riding astride like a man, milady. You’ll sit here, sideways, with your feet resting on this shelf.” He patted a small wooden step laying against the horse’s side. It looked like the stool her mother used to reach cloth on the upper shelves in the storeroom.

  Andries urged Eva closer to the animal. “Pat Tyrion on the nose so he gets to know the smell of you. Then let’s get you aboard,” he barked impatiently.

  The horse’s nose was as soft as the brushed underside of leather. Tyrion lowered his head and peered at her. His eye was as big around as her fist. A sudden calm came over her as she ran her fingers over the horse’s warm muzzle. She lifted her chin.

  I can do this.

  Weers led Tryion to the mounting block, a chunk of tree trunk standing near the stable door. He offered Eva his hand.

  “Come on, milady. Step up on the block, then up onto the saddle.”

  Eva shot her stepfather a wary glance. Climbing stairs were a challenge for her, since her one foot was unable to turn flat. Balancing on the outer edge had become second nature for her at home, with one hand on the railing. But here, out in the open and beside this giant creature—

  Andries did not give her time to think twice. In one swift movement he wrapped an arm about her waist and lifted her until both feet perched on top of the block. Instinctively Eva grappled for something to hold onto, latching one hand on the front edge of the chair-like seat above her. Before she could suck in another breath, she felt a firm hand on her backside, and up she went.

  Eva gasped as she settled into the worn, tapestry-covered seat. She was suddenly higher up in the air than she’d ever been—even higher, she was sure, than when she peered out of the windows of their second floor living quarters. Dizziness overcame her and panic rose in her throat like a spoiled meal.

  “You’re fine, just fine, milady,” Weers murmured as he held tightly onto her leg through her heavy woolen skirt. “Now pick up the reins. Don’t worry, I’ll be holding on to Tyrion’s head for this first ride. You won’t need to do the steering until next time.”

  On their way back from the stables, Eva was so excited she fairly bounced along at her stepfather’s side. Gone was her terror, her stomach had settled, and even her gait seemed surer. She chattered to Andries the whole way back to the tailor shop.

  “Did you see me, Andries? Way up high on that gigantic palfrey?”

  “You did well, Eva,” he mumbled, his voice flat. “And yes, the mount was large. My guess is, Tyrion was once a knight’s horse, a charger in his younger days. I would wager the mount your escort brings to carry you to Coudenburg will be a sight smaller.”

  As usual, her stepfather regarded her with little more interest than he would a perfect stranger. Stiffening, Eva straightened her shoulders and went silent, bottling her enthusiasm within.

  She was a bastard, and a crippled one at that. Eva had come to accept her position in this life, masking her low esteem with pride she had no right to own. ’Twas her only means of survival.

  When they returned, Marisse was waiting for them in the shop in conversation with a very somber-faced Stefano. The apprentice had come to make a cloth delivery from his master, Giovanni Arnolfini. The Italian turned soulful eyes on Eva, taking her hand and bowing.

  “Greetings, Stefano.” She greeted the merchant’s apprentice civilly, but without warmth.

  “I hear you have been to the stable,” Stefano replied flatly. “I am affronted. I have offered to take you riding in the past.”

  “’Tis more urgent now. Did Maman not tell you? I’m going to the May Day festival at Coudenburg castle. I need to learn to balance atop a horse for the journey.”

  Stefano worried his cloth cap against his chest, his brows knitting together. “Your maman told me. You are going to this festival . . . alone?” His dark eyes flitted back and forth between Marisse and Andries, who remained silent for a long moment.

  Finally, Marisse spoke up. “Eva’s father sent a missive, requesting her attendance. An escort will be arriving—”

  “That is not only improper, but unsafe,” Stefano snapped. “How can you allow such a thing?” His tone escalated from indignant to angry.

  How dare he? Eva thought as she squinted at the pompous apprentice. He has no claims on me.

  Marisse laid a hand on Stefano’s shoulder and spoke quietly. “It is her father’s will. He is the duke. We cannot deny his wishes. Besides, I am certain she will be safe and properly cared for.”

  Stefano fisted his hands at his sides, glaring now at Andries. “You have no say in this, Geretsz?”

  Andries lowered his gaze and shook his head. “I have none,” he said flatly. “I am not the girl’s father.”

  Eva watched the banter between her parents and Stefano in disbelief. Why should a cloth merchant’s apprentice care so much about this invitation?

  Stefano’s shoulders rose and fell. “So, ’twill be the duke himself I need to address, when the time comes. Is that right?”

  Andries nodded, then turned and disappeared into the back room.

  Eva’s gaze snapped to her mother. “Time for what?”

  Stefano, still tense with anger, bowed stiffly to Marisse before lifting Eva’s hand to brush his lips across it. He held her gaze and murmured, “I will visit again, milady, before you take your leave.”

  Eva’s stomach roiled.

  *

  The lady duchess, Philip’s third wife, Isabella of Portugal, arrived at Coudenburg Castle almost a moon early. She brought with her wagonloads of provisions for the great banquet, dozens of house staff to cook and clean, as well as a veritable army of the duke’s knights for protection.

  Mathieu watched as the cavalrymen filed in past the gatehouse and into the bailey. Led by their captain, Sir Engel Knape, the men wore minimal protective gear beyond a simple chainmail vest over their woolen tunics. Mathieu studied Knape’s broadsword, bobbing in its scabbard at his charger’s side, its bronzed pommel bearing the coat of arms of Phillip the Good. Yet he wore no insignia on his mail-covered chest.

  So. The good knight had not yet been indoctrinated into Philip’s elite Order. A secret satisfaction slithered into Mathieu’s belly.

  Mathieu knew Knape’s history. The man may have grappled his way up through Phillip’s ranks to lead his personal escort of knights, but there was no way he deserved to wear the emblem of the Golden Fleece. Knape’s conduct throughout his thirty-odd winters put him far below the high Chri
stian standards of Phillip’s distinguished Order.

  Why was it only Mathieu who seemed cognizant of the fact? In truth, he knew why. Engel Knape was Captain of the Duke’s Royal Guard. Who would dare question the integrity of such a man? Surely not a lowly ostler.

  Knape saw him watching, and the Captain’s mouth twisted into a sneer. Mathieu swore someday he and Knape would come to terms. The man himself was one reason Mathieu had abandoned his journey toward knighthood. The Captain would rule him if he were knighted. Knowing Knape as he did, Mathieu wasn’t sure if he was a strong enough man to swallow that many of his principles and that much of his pride.

  Absently, he lifted his hand to run a finger down the puckered scar on his cheek. It had healed well—on the outside. ’Twas hardly noticeable, but one of the reasons he wore his hair long.

  On the inside, however, the wound still ran deep. It had changed him—irrevocably.

  The ostler no longer believed the title of knighthood signified all of the virtues listed on Duke Philip’s Order of the Golden Fleece. They were empty words, broken promises. When a man was dubbed a knight, it gifted him with a sword and golden spurs, along with prestige and power. He’d always believed, like his father, the title raised a knight above that of a common man.

  Mathieu also knew now the weapons and power, in reality, merely granted a man permission to live above the law. Above the code of honor to which knights were supposed to adhere. Twelve years ago, at the age of sixteen, Mathieu decided he didn’t want to hide behind a title and weaponry.

  He wanted to live the life of a decent, honest, and virtuous man. Mayhap he would find a lady who might appreciate him for these values, marry him, and gift him with children. Living in the shadow of the gallant knights, however, always placed Mathieu at a disadvantage. He may be the admiral’s ostler and falconer, but to most his status remained little above that of a peasant.

  Mathieu turned his back on the men as his pages scurried to take their horses. As Admiral La Laing’s squire, he enjoyed his life, caring for the horses, the dogs, and the hunting birds. He worked hard, remained focused on his duties, and did his best to control his temper. ’Twas a flaw he recognized and struggled to control, though not always successfully.

  In the meantime, he had plenty to keep him busy in the weeks before the festival. Although preparations inside the walls of the keep were laid upon the servants, everything between its massive doors and the curtain wall fell on Mathieu’s shoulders. The mounts must be fit and well groomed, as riding and hunting would be among the activities offered to the guests. The dogs must be well-fed, yet hungry enough to scout out quarry. The falcons must be properly maintained and handled often to ensure their suitability for the hunt.

  The horses were still shedding their wooly winter coats, and he spent hours every day scrubbing them. The wooden stable doors and windows were flung wide to air out the stale, foul odor of urine from the animals wintering long hours indoors. His aviary, where the hunting birds were kept, must also be stripped and scrubbed. After a long, dreary winter, the falcons seemed to relish their outdoor perches, preening and sunning themselves while Mathieu worked.

  All of this had now to be completed early, as well. Mathieu bristled at the thought he alone had to work ahead of schedule, since he would be departing in less than a fortnight for Ghent. One fine spring morning, he was grumbling to himself about the lot he’d drawn. Courier. Escort. ’Twas an insult not only to his position, but to his pride.

  He was sweeping down the stable aisle when a servant appeared before him.

  “A message from the duchess, my lord. She wishes to go on the hunt this noon. Her highness asks you to saddle her mare, and prepare Cornelijs for the hunt.” After delivering his message in quick and nervous words, the servant bowed and scooted out the stable door.

  Mathieu brightened. He loved the hunt, and ’twould would be good for the horses, dogs, and falcons as well. It had been a wet, rainy spring, and Mathieu had not had as much opportunity to exercise the animals outside the castle walls as he would have liked. Seeing the sun rising high over the keep already, he set about to groom and saddle his own as well as the duchess’ mounts.

  He knew, being the lady requested Cornelijs, they would be hunting pigeons, doves, waterfowl, and grouse. Cornelijs was one of Isabella’s most cherished peregrines, whose high speed and amazing accuracy always ensured the party would return with a bevy of fowl. She carried the bird with her whenever she traveled between the various Burgundian castles. Mathieu himself had carefully unloaded Cornelijs’ traveling crate when the caravan had arrived.

  But which bird should Mathieu take out this noon? His gaze swept over the yard before the aviary where the falcons and hawks stretched their wings in the morning sun. His gaze landed on a smaller, younger bird, speckled brown with a dark-banded tail.

  Magda, he thought. He’d been training the young goshawk Simon had brought him from the Netherlands for over two moons. This would be Magda’s first real outing. He was anxious to see how the goshawk would fare. He also hoped this would serve to impress the duchess with his falconry training skills.

  His mood suddenly lighter, Mathieu made his way to the stalls to retrieve the palfreys.

  Chapter Three

  Eva’s escort arrived just after first light on a chilly, dreary spring morning. From upstairs, in the room she shared with her two younger siblings, Eva heard the pounding on the front door of the tailor shop. It was well before the hour of opening. But Marisse had warned Eva to be ready to depart at any time. Her small traveling bag had been packed and ready, tucked into a corner of the workshop downstairs, for several days.

  Logistically, she was ready to leave. Emotionally, she was a mess. Her insides felt like a quivering mass of fat sliced from a butchered pig. She braced herself. The time had arrived. Responding to her stepfather’s call, Eva bent to place kisses on both of her sleeping siblings’ cheeks. Then she smoothed her woolen kirtle, took a deep breath for courage, and made her way down the narrow staircase.

  The man standing inside the door was younger than she’d expected. In her mind’s eye, she’d been imagining her escort would resemble the likes of Weers, the town’s ostler. This man was far from short and stocky. He was tall and broad-shouldered—very tall, standing a least a head above her stepfather, who was not a small man. Dressed in very practical traveling clothes, a simple cloak over braies, one could mistake him for any other merchant or vendor in the market square.

  Except that Eva had never seen such a handsome man in her entire life. His formidable height was enhanced by the ramrod straight carriage of nobility. As he conversed with her stepfather in eloquent Dutch, she could sense a gentleness in the deep timbre of his voice.

  Andries turned toward her as she carefully descended the last step. Her knees were so wobbly, she remained, clutching the railing, afraid to cross the open space to the door. Her stepfather pinched the bridge of his nose and turned away. His embarrassment caused Eva’s eyes to sting with the threat of tears.

  “Mathieu of Liège, this is Eva of Utrecht. We have been expecting you,” her maman said.

  Eva’s mouth had gone dry, and her tongue didn’t seem to work either. Blinking rapidly, she suddenly remembered her manners and bobbed a quick curtsy, still clinging to the railing. Her heart fluttered in her chest like a captive bird.

  Mathieu of Liège looked like a knight—at least, what Eva’s imaginings of an ideal knight should be—only without the armor. Long hair fell over massive shoulders in waves the color of burnished oak. His eyes, dark and warm brown as well, were bracketed with only the tiniest of lines. The man’s only flaw she could see was a scar on his right cheek, one that traced a puckered line from his eyebrow to the corner of his mouth.

  Although his lips did not curve, his gaze upon her held a smile all on its own.

  Eva’s breath caught in her throat and for a moment, she feared she would crumple to the floor.

  “I have been sent by Philip, Good Duke of B
urgundy, to retrieve you, milady.” Mathieu offered her a small bow before taking from Andries her small satchel of clothing. “The journey to Coudenburg shall take two days. The duke has secured us lodgings at the Chateau Alst for this evening. The lady duchess has also sent with me her handmaiden, Blanche, to act as chaperone.” Her escort patted what she assumed to be a sheathed dagger strapped to his leather belt as he addressed Marisse. “I assure you, madame, your daughter will be safe with me.”

  Eva’s heart leapt. She’d worried so over this journey, she’d never considered the possibility of danger from outlaws. Studying her face, Mathieu continued, his voice gentler.

  “These are peaceful times, since Philip’s reign. The road between Ghent and Coudenburg is well-traveled. You have no need for worry, milady. Come. We have a long journey ahead.” He offered his arm.

  Marisse stepped between them. “Mathieu of Liège, I must inform you. My daughter suffers from a . . . disfigurement. She is not creple, but her gait can be slow and unsteady at times.”

  Eva cringed and dropped her gaze to the floor. She wasn’t sure if she was relieved her maman had made excuses for her impairment, or was mortally embarrassed by it. Until she heard the warm rumble of her escort’s voice.

  “I have been apprised,” he said with a nod. “Have no worry. I will care for the maiden.”

  The next few moments passed in a dreamlike haze for Eva. Saying goodbye to her mother, Eva felt as though she should battle tears. She could not. Instead, she felt numb.

  ’Twas her wall. Eva learned early on in her life to protect the vulnerable, more sensitive parts inside of her heart by constructing a battlement of her own. Like the cold stone of a castle’s outer walls, Eva’s inner guard came up and encased her. As long as she kept her emotions behind this barrier, she could soldier on.