The Warrior and the Wildflower

by Gregg, Everley

  “Your mount is magnificent, Sir Keegan. I was honored to ready him for you this afternoon.”

  “I thank ye for that.” Keegan’s lips flattened and he shook his head. “A fiasco, those games, were they not?”

  The ostler knew to temper his words wisely. “I will admit, I was surprised to see the French knight take you down in the last go.”

  The big knight snorted. “Ye, me, God, and the devil as well.” A hearty laugh burst from him. Then he turned toward Mathieu and fisted huge hands on his hips. He lowered his voice, his gaze darting the area to be sure they were alone. “’Twas Knape’s doing. The Frenchman is a fledgling. Earned his spurs not even a year past. I was told Gaspard would win the joust, deserved or not, or ’twould be my head on the pike.”

  Ah. Now it all came clear. Mathieu couldn’t imagine how Gaspard had gotten as far as he did in the joust, let alone win the thing. His ruffled pride somewhat settled, he motioned for the knight to bring out his horse.

  Sure enough, as Keegan went to back the beast out of its stall, Mathieu spotted the uneven gait immediately. He narrowed his eyes, watching closely as the knight led the stallion out into the bailey. Mathieu grabbed a torch from the entryway.

  “Trot him back and forth for me, Sir Keegan.”

  The knight did as the ostler asked, running beside the horse for twenty paces or so. When he returned, his mouth was set in a grim line.

  “He seems worse this eve, by far,” the knight grumbled. “What do you think is the cause?”

  Mathieu laid the torch on the ground and squatted close to the horse’s left rear leg. The animal favored the leg, allowing only the tip of its hoof to touch the ground. Positioning himself clear should the horse lash out, the ostler ran his hands gently up the leg from the hoof to the hindquarter. When he neared the top, the charger tensed and hopped away.

  Mathieu rose and swept the dust from his hands. He pointed to a spot below the flank. “I believe it’s in the joint here, above the hock, Sir Keegan. He might have stumbled on a root, or caught his hoof in a hole. The length of the lists weren’t exactly level, by any means.”

  Keegan perched his hands on his hips and stared at the horse’s leg. “How bad is it, this injury?”

  Mathieu shook his head. “There’s no swelling . . . If it’s just a strain to the joint, should come right with a poultice for a day or two.” He scratched the back of his head, his mouth grim. “If the tendon is torn . . . ”

  “God’s bones, that’s all I need. I really like this charger. I’ve had him since I was dubbed two years ago. We’ve become a team, Dirck and me.” He patted the horse’s muscular neck.

  “I’ll do what I can, Sir Keegan. I’ll pack the joint in wet mud tonight, and we’ll see how he looks in the morn. I’m leaving in the coming days with Admiral La Laing for Le Havre. We’re going to be looking at some new stock.” Mathieu paused, studying the knight. “You might approach the Admiral, Sir Keegan, and ask if you can come along. Mayhap there’ll be another charger you can look at . . . in case Dirck’s leg doesn’t come right soon enough.”

  *

  At Gaspard’s side, the trip of the bassa down the length of the Great Hall was the longest of Eva’s life. She tensed all over when the knight took her hand, his grip not nearly as firm and reassuring as Mathieu’s had been. He also avoided looking at her, keeping his eyes trained straight ahead. It was as though he didn’t even want to be dancing with her.

  Truth be told, after she’d spilled her guts on his boots just hours earlier, she couldn’t blame him.

  The room held too many people, and the tallow candles overhead as well as the flaming torches on the walls permeated the air with smoky heat. Her cheeks felt flushed, and a trickle of sweat snaked its way down between her breasts. She prayed to God she would not succumb to any more embarrassing displays by her body—displays revealing the truth about how she truly felt about the French knight.

  Struggling to keep her breathing even, Eva made her way to the end of the hall. With every faltering step, she knew what was coming—the turn, and her solo trip back toward the dais. Sure enough, when Gaspard’s fingers slid free from her own, her ankle wobbled. The distance back to the dais was too far off. She knew she’d never make it. Halting with her feet apart and arms held wide to keep her balance, Eva called to her partner to gain his attention.

  “My lord.”

  She curtsied in what she hoped was an acceptable way to signal the end of their dance. He studied her with only a raised eyebrow, then shrugged. Eva limped back over to the sidelines where her sisters stood.

  Soon after, the minstrels again kicked up the pace of the dance, and the floor flooded with gaiety. Eva’s fun, however, was over. The older of the girls, first Alys, then Beverielle, drifted off onto the dance floor on the hand of a partner. Shrinking back, Eva spied once again the doorway leading to her escape.

  Searching the crowd, she could not see Mathieu anywhere.

  To her relief, one of Isabella’s handmaidens approached the girls and motioned for them to follow her. It was time for the younger maids to leave the hall, before the drinking and rowdiness got out of hand. Trailing behind her sisters, Eva slipped out into the hall.

  The air, even in the halls, felt smoky and close. Between the exertion of the dance and pure nerves, Eva was having a hard time breathing anyway. Spying the side door leading out into the bailey, she slipped away from the group and stepped outside.

  The cool night was heavenly, filling her lungs and cooling her sweat-dampened skin. She carefully picked her way down the stone steps. A clear sky shone with twinkling stars, and a full moon cast the bailey in an eerily glowing light.

  A stroll through the gardens would be lovely tonight.

  But alas, Eva was unable to take a walk alone. Not only would she risk a fall, but the flickering campfire and boisterous male laughter from the far end of the bailey reminded her what other dangers might befall her. When she heard a familiar voice, her head whipped around toward the stables.

  It was Mathieu, speaking in Dutch with a giant of a man at the head of a massive charger. Eva recognized the knight as the one who’d ridden out with Knape this morn. Had it truly been earlier this day? To Eva, a lifetime seemed to have whizzed by since sunrise.

  I should thank him. The words echoed in her head like a command from the heavens. She owed Mathieu much for this night’s accomplishment—her first dance. The moment would stand out in her memory for the rest of time as one of the most important of her life.

  She did not want to interrupt his conversation with the knight, however, so she waited. Mathieu finished wrapping what looked like muddy linens around the horse’s leg and finally stood, returning the horse to the stable. Both men reappeared and shook hands before the great knight headed back toward the encampment. Even traveling as fast as her feet would safely carry her, Mathieu had already disappeared inside the stable by the time she reached the entrance.

  “Mathieu?” she called into the darkness. The torches had been extinguished, and the door at the far end of the stalls leading to the ostler’s quarters was closed. Dare she be so bold as to knock on his door? Surely he hadn’t fallen asleep so quickly.

  The scent of fresh hay and warm horseflesh welcomed her. She could hear the horses munching their supper and the occasional stomping of a restless hoof. The stable was a peaceful place, she thought. ’Twas no wonder Mathieu had chosen this vocation.

  She had only taken a few steps into the gloaming before she spotted the tiny owl hopping in the hay toward her. His eyes shone, catching the light of the moon filtering in from outside. She crouched low and smiled.

  “Hello, little owl. Are you having a fine hunt this eve?”

  Gwooihk.

  The bird chirped happily, flapping his wings and jumping up and down. A rustling in the corner caught his attention, and he turned and hopped off in that direction.

  “Happy hunting,” she whispered as she rose to her feet.

  A moment later, Eva
gasped when a strong hand clamped around her upper arm. A scream rose to her throat, but never made its way out. The rough leather of the gauntlet was so large it covered her mouth and even her nose, so she had trouble drawing breath.

  Kweeo . . . kwiff-kwiff-kwiff!

  The last sound Eva heard was the terrified screech of Kleine Uil before her world went black.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Mathieu washed up quickly and was drying his face on a linen towel before hitting his pallet. It had been a very long day begun many hours ago. Even his brief nap hadn’t bolstered his energy enough to withstand any more of the crowd and the clamor inside the Great Hall.

  Truth be told, he simply couldn’t stand by and watch Gaspard—the knight—displace him from Eva’s side on the dance floor. ’Twas a symbolic as well as actual insult, by both the maiden as well as the Frenchman. He should have known better than to even ask her to dance after her championing of the knight on the jousting field today.

  Even though it caused a pain in his heart he neither understood nor welcomed, Mathieu forced himself to face how Eva felt about him then and there: naught. The strange attraction he felt toward her, the tingling of his skin on hers, the wanton longing he felt whenever he was near her—it all meant nothing, if not returned by the lady herself.

  Despite himself, his hopes had risen. She was a lady who not only stirred his blood but also seemed to share his interests. He’d been duly impressed by not only her willingness to handle the falcon this morn, but her lack of fear in doing so.

  A life partner. Alas, ’twas not to be, at least not with the blonde maiden from Ghent.

  Mathieu’s ire simmered still, though, toward the Frenchman for his audacity on the dance floor. He rubbed his knuckles, still healing from the last time he’d taken out his frustrations by punching a stall board. The interruption this evening by Keegan had been a welcome one, to be sure.

  The knight had complimented Mathieu by acknowledging his expertise with the horses. Respect. Unexpected, especially from one of Knape’s group. But welcome, just the same.

  A shame about the knight’s charger, though. He feared the injury to the joint referred to as the stifle would never come right. At least, not right enough to render the stallion capable of the rigors of long-distance travel, let alone battle.

  Mathieu had just folded his tunic over a chair and flopped onto his pallet when he heard a sound from beyond his door. He stilled, straining to hear. Closing his eyes, he sighed. ’Twas Kliene Uil, who seldom made much noise unless he’d gotten himself in trouble. More than once the tiny creature chased a rodent into the far end of a horse’s stall, then found himself unable to escape without risking being crushed under a heavy hoof. Mathieu groaned and heaved himself to his feet.

  The darkness in the stable was blinding, and Mathieu had not lit a candle or torch. He waited a moment to allow his eyes to adjust, training his ear to the sounds the bird made to locate him. Kleine Uil appeared from behind a heap of hay near the front entrance, flapping his wings and hopping up and down.

  Kwiff-kwiff-kwiff. Kwiff-kwiff-kwiff.

  The tiny owl was shrieking his warning call, a shrill sound of fear and fury. ’Twas not often the creature did this . . .

  “What’s wrong with you, silly bird? Encounter a rat twice your size again?” he murmured as he strode toward the front of the stable.

  He then heard shouting and heavy footsteps out in the bailey. Mathieu rushed outside, oblivious to the fact that he’d fled his quarters barefoot, wearing only his braies.

  Twenty paces from the stable, the giant Dutch knight he’d bid good evening to just moments ago was crouching next to a prone body on the ground.

  Keegan looked up and saw him. “Mathieu. Come help me here. ’Tis a maiden . . .”

  Other men came running from the encampment behind Keegan bearing torches, some with blades drawn. Mathieu hurried to the spot and dropped to his knees, his heart clenching when he saw the maiden’s face.

  ’Twas Eva, her face pale and eerily still in the torches’ glow.

  “What happened here?” Mathieu barked. “Last I saw her, this maid she was on the dance floor with Gaspard.” Suspicion flared in his chest, and he flexed his fists.

  Keegan’s face was a mask of outrage. “I had barely gotten back to the camp when I heard a sound from the stable. I thought ’twas you, Mathieu. Then I saw him . . . a tall figure, all in black. The maid was flung over his shoulder. The man must have been drunk, and he staggered, losing his grip. The girl hit the ground, and then he was gone. Scuttled away like a three-legged dog.”

  “Alert the Captain,” another knight barked. “We have a rapscallion in our midst.”

  The sharp blast of a horn echoed across the bailey—once, twice, three times.

  Grumbles passed through the rank of men as they dispersed to search the yard. Mathieu did not move from the spot, however. He pressed his fingers to the side of Eva’s cool neck and was relieved to feel a pulse. Even in the dim light, he could see a dark pool growing from under the maiden’s head.

  “A torch here, please,” he asked of a knight near him. He passed the light over her body, finding the dark pool was, in fact, blood. “Call for the healer,” he said, his voice tight.

  Eva stirred then, moaning as she brought one hand up to the side of her head. When her eyes fluttered open, she belted out a scream that startled even the biggest of the giant men bending over her. They all staggered backward.

  Mathieu caught her hand and squeezed. “Eva. Eva, it’s Mathieu. What happened?”

  Her eyes were wild, and for the moment he was certain she recognized no one, not even him. She batted his hand away and lashed out with both hands, fighting an invisible enemy.

  Mathieu and Keegan held her down, one on each shoulder, to keep her from harming herself even further. She was quaking like the hull of a ship on rough seas. They were unable to reach her, break through her hysteria, for several of the longest moments of Mathieu’s life. Then, just as suddenly as her flailing began, it ceased. Her eyes rolled back in her head and her body went limp.

  Frighteningly limp.

  Mathieu, down on his knees beside her, felt again for her pulse in her neck, then pressed his ear to her chest. Her heartbeat thudded, rapid and weak. He looked up, meeting Keegan’s intense gaze. “Call the healer,” he croaked again, his voice cracking.

  The knights were all staring at him with venom in their eyes, and he realized in that moment how inappropriately dressed he was. How suspect he must have appeared. One of the big men’s hands clamped down over his bare shoulder. Keegan stood and smacked the man’s hand away, barking a curse.

  “’Twas not the ostler, you fool. I watched the scoundrel scurry off, that way.” He pointed toward the kitchen garden. “Mathieu came from the stables a moment later.” Then the knight swiveled to rake his gaze over his men. “Where is the captain? Why has he not been alerted?”

  At that moment two men appeared in the doorway to the Great Hall. One of them was the knight sent to retrieve his captain. The other was the duke, Philip himself.

  “What goes on here?” the duke called out. “Where is Knape?”

  The knight beside him leaned in close to murmur something in Philip’s ear. The duke’s oath echoed across the bailey.

  Behind the duke, the duchess appeared. Outwardly, as always, she appeared calm and nonplussed.

  “Bring the girl to my quarters, please, Sir Keegan. Send Gillette.”

  *

  An hour later, Isabella sat on a stool beside the pallet where Eva lay. She’d instructed the knight to bring the girl to a small room across the hall from her personal quarters. Frantic with worry, the duchess had no intention to allow the girl too far from her sight. Eva had still not regained consciousness.

  The healer, Gillette, was a stout woman dressed from head to toe in peasant brown. She arrived toting her basket of herbs and remedies. One look at the maiden and the elder’s lips flattened. She ran her hands over the girl’s
arm, noting the bruising already coloring angrily on her skin where her sleeve had been torn away. Isabella urged her impatiently.

  “She suffered a fall, Gillette. Her head . . . the scalp is torn, and it is bleeding.”

  Gently, the healer turned Eva’s head and gasped. Beneath her was a swath of folded linen as thick as Gillette’s beefy hand. The cloth was almost completely saturated, red with the girl’s blood. She glanced up at the duchess, shaking her head as she bent over her patient.

  “Head wounds . . . ’tis not much I can do for them, Lady Duchess.”

  The healer pulled up Eva’s eyelids, one at a time. The girl was completely insensible. “This could be serious, I’m afraid. And treating it is beyond my capabilities.”

  Isabella’s chest clutched at the fear she saw in the healer’s expression. “What can be done?”

  Gillette folded her arms across her broad chest, her mouth grim. “There’s a barber-surgeon in Brussels. He’d be the one to call, milady, if the girl doesn’t regain her senses by the morn.”

  A knock at the door interrupted them, and Isabella called permission to enter. Duke Philip appeared in the doorway, his fists clenched at his sides.

  “Is she recovered, milady?” The duke’s voice was high and tight, his movements jerky.

  The duchess bolted to her feet and stalked toward him. “Nay . . . and the healer feels the injury is serious. Her head . . . there’s a gash and a huge swelling.” Isabella’s voice broke as she said the words. How could this have happened? Her grief was quickly overcome by anger. She turned on the duke.

  “How can one feel safe if a young maiden can be attacked thus? Within our own castle? With knights fairly swarming the bailey?” Isabella shouted, viciously glaring at her husband. “What says your fine Captain of this? Where was he when this occurred?”