The Warrior and the Wildflower

by Gregg, Everley

  Mathieu had just finished his first course—a rich mushroom and barley pottage spiced with pepper and cloves—when he heard La Laing call his name from the dais above him.

  “Are you familiar with the horse breeder, Pierre Barrau?” the admiral called over the din.

  Mathieu stood and leaned on the elevated dais so he could hear La Laing better. “I am not, my lord. Where are his stables?”

  La Laing wiped his mouth with the linen beside his trencher. “North of Rouen, near Le Havre. It’s a four-day ride, three if you ride hard. He’s got a new crop of young colts I’d like to see. We could use some fresh blood in our stables.”

  That’s certainly true, Mathieu thought. Germaine had to have been at least twenty-five winters old when she dropped dead on his trip back from Ghent, and Jannis wasn’t far behind. Mathieu loved training the horses as well as the hunting birds. For the past three years, however, the only young, strong stock in his stable were La Laing’s destrier and the knights’ chargers.

  Of course.

  “Are you up for a ride this coming week?” La Laing pressed.

  Mathieu shrugged, struggling to hide his excitement at the thought of new, young horses to train.

  “As you wish, Admiral. ’Twould be my honor.”

  *

  Eva had never seen such an elaborate—nor plentiful—banquet in all of her life. After nibbling on the dried fruit platter nearest her, her belly was near to full even before the pottage arrived. She had laid a hand across her middle when Alys leaned and spoke into her ear.

  “Are you feeling better now, milady?” The older girl’s freckled skin puckered across her brow.

  “Aye. ’Twas just the excitement, and the heat this afternoon. For now, I think I should not have eaten so many apricots,” she moaned.

  “Nay, you should not. After the pottage comes the meats—swan, grouse, venison, and wild boar with roasted vegetables.” Alys grinned before sipping from her bowl of steaming soup. “And then come the sweets and tarts.”

  Eva raised her eyebrows and moaned. “’Tis fortunate this kirtle fits loosely.”

  “Don’t worry, sister.” From her other side, Beverielle laid a hand on her arm. “You will need all of your energy for the dancing later.”

  The dancing. Eva’s heart stilled. Although she’d found the new slippers Isabella had fashioned for her made walking much easier, she wasn’t so sure about dancing. The painful memory of hitting the grass in the garden during her “lesson” rose to the top of her mind. She glanced around the room, searching for Mathieu.

  “You can dance, milady, and you will. I will make it my personal mission to ensure it happens.”

  Mathieu’s words echoed in her memory, and she wondered if he would, in fact, make good on his promise.

  Her eyes found him standing beneath the dais, deep in conversation with Admiral La Laing. He looked dashing tonight, dressed in a crisp, ivory tunic belted with braided leather. His hair was loose, falling well past his shoulders in shiny waves. Laughing at something La Laing said, he combed back the long strands from his face with one hand.

  Again, feelings Eva did not quite understand stirred in her belly. She was physically attracted to the ostler, she knew. But ’twas more than that, she feared. Although he was not a mighty warrior, there was something quietly appealing about the man that spoke to her heart. His love for the animals. His caring nature. His patience.

  Her gaze drifted to the dais, where Gaspard was speaking animatedly with Knape. He had bathed and his hair was still wet, molding to his head in a dark mass. He was still unshaven, though, and just the sight of his sparse, pathetic excuse for a mustache turned her stomach. She recalled how it scalded her skin when he’d kissed her.

  She slid her eyes back to Mathieu.

  One very handsome man, indeed. And of the two, there was no doubt which man sparked a fire in her belly—mayhap in her heart as well. No matter what his station.

  Would Mathieu really come through on his pledge to dance with her this eve?

  Gaspard had not said one word to her since the embarrassing end to his victory embrace. Her sisters had all come running to her aid and hurried her away to clean her up, rest and recover. Surely, whatever interest the young knight had for her was quelled after that disaster.

  She could only hope.

  By the time the sweets and tarts were laid upon the tables, Eva thought her belly would surely burst. The food was magnificent—decadent, far richer and more extravagant than anything she’d ever dined upon. Although she only sipped a little mead with her meal, she felt drunk from overindulgence.

  She was gazing off, sleepy and distracted, when suddenly everyone stood. A great bustling commenced, with servants moving all the tables to the sides of the Great Hall. Others appeared with rakes to clear away the rushes covering the floors. The tiled floor was now bare—perfect for dancing. The minstrels in the corner were joined by other musicians, including a harpist, another with a fiddle, and two men carrying a hammer dulcimer.

  The more lively, festive music for the evening was about to begin. Again, a flutter of nerves overcame Eva as she huddled with her sisters in a corner of the hall. The other girls were highly agitated, squealing with excitement. Eva watched as Philip and Isabella rose and descended the dais, the duke holding his lady’s hand high.

  They would be the first to dance, she realized. Only after the nobles claimed the dance floor would others be allowed to join in.

  The minstrels began playing a lilting melody that made Eva’s heart sing. She’d often watched, from her stall in the Market Square, the dancing during festivals in Ghent. The activity always struck her as an expression of freedom, of joy. Of course, even if she’d been able to join the others, she knew she could not.

  Isabella, in a long, flowing kirtle of purple brocade, wore an expression of unbridled happiness as she stepped down onto the floor. Ermine edged her elegant gown, with wide, pointed sleeves that hung nearly to the floor. The duchess wore a single-horned hennin this eve, one extravagantly embroidered and bejeweled. A short, sheer veil flowed from the headpiece.

  Philip, also in royal purple, smiled at his wife as they bowed toward each other before the dance. Then they began, bobbing and stepping in time to the music, hands joined, down the length of the Great Hall. When they neared the end, they parted, each spinning away to reverse direction and dance gracefully, separately, to where they’d begun.

  Three times the noble couple made their way down the length of the room before bowing to each other, then toward the crowd. Immediately, couples joined them, following the duke and duchess to dance in like fashion.

  Eva sighed. The dance did not look nearly as difficult as she’d feared, especially the part where the lady held her partner’s hand. The solo jaunt back, however, worried her.

  She shrank back into the group of her sisters, trying as she might to become invisible. She’d not seen Mathieu since the feast began. Mayhap he’d forgotten all about his vow to dance with her tonight. And although improbable, the thought of Gaspard asking her to dance sent the meal in her belly roiling.

  After the initial round, the minstrels kicked up the tempo of their song. Couples began a much livelier dance, with hops and raised knees that made Eva’s stomach clench. Nay, this was a move she was not capable of performing—at least not without incident. Eyeing the doorway just behind where she stood, Eva considered slipping away. Surely returning to her quarters was a safer choice than risking the embarrassment of being asked to dance—and failing.

  She didn’t get the chance.

  As she turned to flee, a firm hand on her elbow halted her. Her breath ceased. She looked up to see Mathieu beside her, one eyebrow raised.

  “Leaving so soon, milady? I thought you promised me a bassadance.” His eyes sparkled bright in the flickering light from the wall torches, and his voice was a low rumble.

  Eva swallowed. “I . . . I did, my lord. But the bassa is a slow dance, one I might be able to perform. The mu
sic the minstrels play now is very fast—”

  “Their next song will be a bassa. I personally requested it.” Mathieu’s smile crinkled his eyes at the corners. “I made you a promise, milady, and I shall keep it.”

  He spoke the truth. Within moments, the tempo of the music returned to its leisurely pace. Many of the dancers, disappointed the faster music had ceased, wandered off the floor to refill their mugs or goblets.

  Mathieu took her hand and bowed toward her. “Milady? Let us dance.”

  As they neared the edge of the dance floor, Eva’s heart seized to realize that not only some of the dancers had left, but all of them had. She and Mathieu were the only ones left on the floor.

  Panicked, she shot a glance up at the dais, where Isabella watched. With a soft smile and nod of her head, Eva knew she had little choice. There was no backing out now.

  Mathieu led her to the center of the room, where the many-candled fixtures flickered overhead. He bowed toward her again, then stepped back, his eyes never leaving hers. His right hand clasped her left, his other hand tucked behind his back.

  His grip was firm on hers, and he raised their clasped hands high. He tipped his head as if to say, follow me.

  Then, Mathieu began the steps of the bassa.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Eva’s heart felt lodged in her throat, making breathing a bit of a challenge. At first, her galloping heart, the clamor of voices around her, and the flickering candlelight made her head spin, further threatening her delicate balance. She concentrated on the warmth and firmness of Mathieu’s fingers around her own and his riveting gaze to steady her.

  When he nodded with such complete confidence, her fluttering heart calmed. In that moment, Eva knew this: even if she herself lacked the courage to perform this night, Mathieu possessed enough for both of them.

  They moved forward, one measured step at a time. At first, she focused intently on moving her feet, not only in the right rhythm, but in a way to keep from wobbling on her twisted, weak ankle. It didn’t take long for her confidence to soar. After the first few steps, the music wrapped itself around her heart, as did the expression with which Mathieu watched her. Eva let go, and allowed the magic of the moment buoy her.

  Her sisters, watching from the edge of the room, whispered excitedly to one another. But when she and Mathieu reached the end of the Great Hall and it came time for her to break away from him and turn to go on alone, all of their youthful voices fell into a hush. It was as if they were all, as was Eva, holding their breath.

  She shot a worried glance in Mathieu’s direction, who was still watching her intently. He nodded his head briefly before the moment of truth arrived. Their hands parted. As her fingers slipped free, the chill radiated up her entire arm.

  Eva was glad her long skirts hid her feet from view. She was sure she was not performing the steps correctly, but merely moving forward the best she could with one crooked foot. It added a certain sway to her movement. The gentle waving of her arms may have looked deliberate, part of the dance, but they served only to keep her body upright. With a sideways glance to keep up with Mathieu, she proceeded back down the floor toward the dais. Joy wrapped itself around her heart, a lightness and freedom she’d never experienced.

  She’d almost made it when her ankle, fatigued from holding it so stiffly, wobbled.

  Mathieu’s hand was there, wrapping itself warmly around her clammy fingers. With his support, she quickly regained her balance. His reaction was seamless. Gracefully, he led her in a circle around him until they were at the very place where the dance began. Then, bowing first toward her and then to the audience, they proceeded. Mathieu’s eyes shone upon her with so much pride, quick tears sprang to her own.

  Eva was shocked to hear soft clapping coming not only from her group of sisters, but from up on the dais. She turned to see Isabella standing, Philip at her side. They were applauding her seemingly small, yet personally monumental, accomplishment.

  Captain Knape, along with Gaspard, remained seated.

  Alys and Rutger then joined them on the dance floor, following behind as they made their way down the room again. Several other couples followed suit. It wasn’t until they’d made this second pass down the entire length of the Great Hall and back that the bubble of magic surrounding Eva burst.

  Mathieu paused as they made their turn near the dais, he stopped. His head jerked around, and Eva spied Gaspard behind him. The young knight was tapping on the ostler’s shoulder, asking silent permission to take over the dance.

  A wave of panic clutched Eva’s chest. Mathieu’s flattened lips and furrowed brow frightened her even more. Was the young knight challenging the ostler, here, in front of the entire court? And what was his purpose? To establish his superior rank? Or to test Eva’s true abilities?

  *

  Mathieu could barely contain his fury at Gaspard’s interference.

  ’Twas true, the victor of the joust traditionally danced with his lady. But the simple act of accepting her token did not, by any means, entitle the knight to Eva exclusively. And the Frenchman was fully aware of Eva’s condition—he’d been there this morning when she’d lifted her skirts for all to see her affliction. He had to realize how frightening, and challenging, it was for the girl to even attempt a dance.

  Apparently, the Frenchman did not care.

  Eva had fared well with Mathieu by her side, but surely the knight had seen her waver without his hand to support her. Did he mean to shame her? Or was he simply declaring his superiority over Mathieu—a lowly ostler—in public?

  A glance back at the dais told the tale. Captain Knape was on his feet, although swaying somewhat, his face flushed from overabundance of drink. He was clapping, motioning wildly toward the young knight, cheering him on. The image brought a memory to flash back into Mathieu’s mind that sent rage pulsing through him. Rage, and horror, and sickness.

  This scene happened once before, at a time when the ostler, then just a stable hand in Liège, was himself a witness. ’Twas not just a simple dance he’d observed. Being alone, and only seventeen winters old at the time, there had been nothing he could do to stop the horror.

  He’d tried to forget that night, yet it returned to his dreams time and again, even now.

  ’Twas the reason Mathieu, although supported by La Laing and urged by the duke himself, refused to accept his sword and spurs. If knighthood turned men into the animals he’d watched that night in his stepfather’s tavern, Mathieu would sooner die than to be dubbed a knight.

  Mathieu stiffened, knowing he had no choice but to turn the lady over to Gaspard. He flashed a glance at Eva, whose eyes were as round and wild as those of Kleine Uil. Even though it was one of the hardest things he’d ever done, Mathieu allowed Eva’s fingers to slide free from his own and stepped back, bowing stiffly to the young knight who took his place.

  Gaspard did not smile as he took Eva’s hand, his expression hooded. Mathieu wondered then if ’twas not his idea to dance with the lady at all, but a command pressed upon him. By Knape, his captain. The more he considered the notion, the more Mathieu felt certain of it.

  He crossed his arms and watched as the music resumed, and the line of dancers made their way down the floor. A bolus of anguish welled up within him, worrying over Eva. Shaking with frustration, he could not watch this unfold. He had to get out of the hall. Mathieu slid into the deep crowd of onlookers without a glance back. Reaching a side door to the keep’s hallway, he made his escape unnoticed.

  When he burst through the doors into the bailey, a blast of cool air fairly sizzled against the sweat coating his skin. He was glad he was alone in the darkness, until he realized he was not. A small fire burned over near the knights’ encampment, and several men stood around it, their voices low. Mathieu lengthened his stride, heading directly for the stables, hoping to escape their notice.

  He was not quick enough. One of the men called to him, though not by name.

  “Hark thee! Ostler! Is the feast wind
ing down so soon?”

  Mathieu continued walking, not even hesitating in his step. “Nay. ’Tis done for me, though,” he called. “Goedenacht, sir knight.” He hoped by bidding the man goodnight in Dutch, the man would back off. He knew most of the duke’s knights spoke little of his native tongue.

  His strategy failed.

  “Een moment, alstublieft.” The knight answered him in perfect Dutch, asking him to wait. The monstrously large man wearing chainmail over his tunic and leather braies came stomping across the bailey toward him in heavy boots. Mathieu tensed and stopped to face the man.

  He recognized him as another who’d accompanied them on the hunt this morn—as well as one who’d competed in the joust. His destrier was one of the handsomest of the knight’s mounts, a tall strawberry roan with a chest as wide as a drawbridge. Studying the massive man, Mathieu’s brow lifted.

  How could this giant warrior have gone down under Gaspard’s lance in the final round?

  “Ostler . . . Mathieu, is it not?” The knight stopped an arm’s distance away and held out his hand. “I’m Ròidh Keegan. A Scottish import to the duke’s Royal Guard.”

  The ostler extended his hand. “Mathieu of Liège. What is it I can do for you, Sir Keegan?” he asked.

  “Admiral La Laing tells of your expertise with the horses. My charger, Dirck, seemed a little off in his step when I returned from the games. I was wondering if you might take a look.”

  Mathieu clenched his teeth. He did not trust this knight. In truth, any knight. Was this some kind of ploy to humiliate him?

  “The horses’ foot care belongs to the blacksmith, sir knight. ’Tis not my specialty.”

  Keegan shook his head. “Nay, I’ve already had the blacksmith take a look. He says ’tis naught wrong with the hoof nor the shoe.”

  The man motioned toward the stables. “I can bring Dirck out for you to see, my lord. I would be much obliged if you would give me your opinion.”

  Reluctantly, Mathieu fell into step beside the giant warrior. He looked to be not much older than himself—mayhap younger. He did not possess the grizzled hardness of eye and manner Mathieu had come to expect of Knape’s men. He accompanied Keegan into the stable and followed him to the stall of his charger, the majestic roan stallion.