The Warrior and the Wildflower

by Gregg, Everley

  In a playful puppy sort of way, Eva guessed she had unknowingly encouraged Stefano’s interest in her, early on. He’d already been of marrying age, nearly ten winters older than she. Her teasing and flirting with the man, though, had been in innocence and for the attention, which Eva got little of in her very sheltered existence.

  She chastised herself now for setting herself up for the difficult situation in which she now found herself.

  How to deal with it? Should she simply be honest with Stefano and tell him she held no romantic notions with him? How, she wondered, would he react to that kind of news? After waiting five years until she came of age, and then traveling all this way to speak with the duke?

  Logically, her choice made no sense. Stefano, although not a knight, was of noble blood. Roman noble blood. He also stood on the threshold of his own clothier business in one of the busiest trading centers in all of Flanders. To marry Stefano meant living a life of wealth and luxury, and near to her dear maman and beloved siblings.

  Her maman and stepfather, she knew, had been encouraging the Italian’s intentions all along. A match with him truly did make perfect sense.

  Except her heart now belonged to another. Her breath came in rapid, shaky bursts as she accompanied Stefano out of the Great Hall and into the garden. Somehow, even though the sky above was flawless blue and the sun warm, the garden did not seem nearly as lovely to her as it had when she was with Mathieu.

  What was she to do? Had Philip already consented to the match? She prayed ’twas not true.

  “Tell me about your stay here, milady. I understand the May Day Feast was wondrous. I regret I was not able to break away until now. I would have loved to enjoy the celebration at your side.”

  Eva dipped her head, avoiding his gaze. “’Twas wondrous.” Remembering her victory on the dance floor, she smiled up at him. “I even danced the bassa. With Mathieu. ’Twas a most memorable event in my life.”

  She felt Stefano stiffen beside her. “Yes, Mathieu. He was the one who brought you here, was he not? Was he a gentleman on the journey?” One of his dark eyebrows rose.

  “Of course,” she snapped. “Besides, we were accompanied by Blanche, Lady Duchess’ handmaid. Mathieu has been nothing but kind to me since I arrived at Coudenburg.” She sniffed.

  A long beat of silence shot tension through the air like lightning. His voice was terse when he said, “I do not wish to speak of the ostler this day, Eva. I wish to speak of you and me.” He motioned toward the turfed bench, the same one where Eva had shared a passionate kiss with Mathieu just hours ago. She swallowed hard to keep her thoughts to herself as she settled onto the seat.

  “He is just the ostler, you remember. And from what I understand, the man has no intentions of pursuing his spurs and sword.”

  Eva clasped her hands in her lap so tightly, her knuckles were white. She needed to set this Italian straight, and right now. The final decision for her betrothal may belong to the duke, but she could not believe her father would force her to marry a man for whom she felt nothing.

  Even less than nothing.

  She straightened her shoulders, summoning the courage to speak. “Stefano, you are a handsome man and a fine prospect for any woman seeking a husband.” Turning to look directly into his eyes, she went on, her voice trembling. “But not for me. I do not love you. I intend to seek a marriage for love.”

  He reeled back as though she’d slapped him, his dark eyelashes blinking so fast she thought for a moment he’d break into tears. Recovering quickly, she saw his lip curl into a snarl.

  “Andries and Marisse highly approve of our marriage, Eva. They encouraged me to ride out with the duke on his return. We have known each other since you were a child.” He paused, his voice lowering to a threatening rumble. “I have waited a very long time for you. And remember, milady, you are far from perfect. ’Twill be a generous man indeed who will accept you,” he motioned toward her ankle, “as you are.”

  Enraged, Eva tipped up her chin. “It matters not, Stefano. I do not love you, nor do I intend to spend the rest of my life sharing your bed.”

  The spark of anger she saw in his eyes scared her, just a little. She surged on. “You are, as I said, a very handsome man who would delight most any woman as a husband. But not me.”

  “This wouldn’t have anything to do with your esteemed ostler, would it?” he hissed.

  Eva turned to stare straight ahead, keeping her hands bound together in her lap. “As a matter of fact, it does.”

  “I suppose a lowly stable boy would be most happy to take you on, no matter what your condition. He must be used to dealing with lame beasts all the time.”

  Shocked, Eva snapped her head around to glare at him. “How could you even speak such words to me? You obviously have no respect for me at all, and still you expect me to consent to be your wife?”

  “You obviously need someone to keep you in line. To keep an eye on you, to keep you safe,” Stefano ranted. “Here you are at the duke’s castle, with knights at every corner, and still you managed to place yourself in a position of danger. Where was your not-a-knight on the evening you were attacked? How was he protecting your honor then?” Stefano’s tone had turned acidic, like spoiled wine.

  At that moment, a servant girl came to the garden gate and whispered something in the guard’s ear. He approached them with long strides.

  “Lady Eva, the duchess wishes to see you in her solar,” he said.

  Stefano drew his elbows back, jumping to his feet. “You have delivered the message. When we are finished here, I will escort Lady Eva to the duchess’ solar.”

  The guard shook his head, his expression flinty. “Lady Isabella asks for the lady now. Milady?” The guard stepped forward and offered his arm. Eva wasted not a single breath before sliding down off the seat. She took the guard’s arm and left without a glance back at Stefano.

  She knew how angry he must be. But she was relieved, just the same. Until she heard the words he tossed in her direction as she passed through the garden gate.

  “Remember, Lady Eva, the decision on your betrothal belongs not to you. It belongs to your father, the duke.”

  *

  After the admiral left him at the stables, Mathieu paced up and down between the stalls, temper sizzling just under his skin. He wanted, as usual, to punch something. Mayhap he could imagine the Italian’s face as he plowed a fist into a stall board. But there were pages about, so he couldn’t do that. Not now.

  He decided to head over to the knight’s encampment and seek out Keegan. He’d come to feel a sort of camaraderie with the knight since the night Eva was attacked. Right now, a friend was exactly what Mathieu needed.

  Mathieu found the knight deep in discussion with—who else?—Gaspard. Once again, he halted as soon as he recognized the Frenchman, but not soon enough. Keegan’s booming voice echoed across the yard.

  “Ostler! Come hither and join us for mug of ale.”

  Begrudgingly, Mathieu took the cup from Gaspard and drained it by half. Frustration, even panic, surged in his chest, and he felt as helpless as a kitten. Was there nothing he could do to stop this charade from playing out?

  As he wiped the foam from his lip, he noticed Gaspard’s smirk. “What’s the matter, stable boy? Been bested by an Italian merchant?”

  It was a reflex. The thought didn’t have time to transmit from Mathieu’s fist to his brain. The ale mug flew away as he made contact with the sneering knight’s face, landing a solid punch to his jaw. Shocked, the Frenchman stumbled backwards, landing on his arse in the dirt, his face splattered with ale and blood.

  Keegan was on his feet, stepping between the men in one swift movement. Trembling with rage, Mathieu stood his ground, glaring up at the massive warrior.

  “He deserved that,” Mathieu muttered through gritted teeth.

  Keegan had his huge paw firmly planted on the ostler’s chest to prevent him from swinging again.

  But turning to Gaspard as he struggled to
his feet, Keegan echoed, “Ye deserved that.”

  Gaspard wiped his hands on his breeches, then spat blood into the dust. He studied the ostler through narrowed eyes for a long, tense moment. Then, rubbing his jaw, he turned to grab two more mugs from beside the ale barrel.

  “You’re right,” he said, his back to both men as he drew from the tap. “I deserved that.” He faced them, handing one mug to Mathieu. “Now, with that behind us, we need to put our heads together and figure out how we’re going to stop this betrothal from happening.”

  Mathieu stared at the Frenchman for a moment, disbelief stunning him. Gaspard was on his side in this? He’d been under the impression the knight was his opponent in what seemed to now have become a race for the lady’s hand.

  But wait. That still could be Gaspard’s meaning. Mayhap he was the one who wanted Eva, and the Italian’s appearance would prevent his plans from materializing.

  As though he’d read Mathieu’s mind, the Frenchman scowled at him. “’Tis not for me I want the betrothal stopped, you fool. I have no interest in taking a wife. At least, not yet.” He took a long swig of the ale and levelled his gaze on the ostler. “You, on the other hand . . . it’s written all over you, man. You love the girl. Don’t you?”

  Mathieu slid his eyes away and felt a hot flush rise into his face. Was it that obvious? Had he made that much of a fool of himself over this woman?

  Keegan’s huge paw clamped down over his shoulder, and he turned to look up at the man. God, he was a monster. The Scottish knight stood a head taller than Mathieu, and with his golden-red hair and beard, brought to mind a lion.

  A gentle one, though. The ostler sensed that in Keegan. ’Twas why he liked him so.

  “There’s nothing to be ashamed of, Mathieu. Every man loses his heart eventually to a warm, soft woman. Every man who has a heart, anyway.”

  Mathieu sighed. “At first I was sure it was just physical. I’m a loner, and don’t pay much mind to such affairs of the heart. But I am a man, too.” He shook his head, staring into his cup of ale. The way it sparkled bright gold in the sun, it brought to mind the color of Eva’s beautiful hair. He reached into his pocket and felt for the lock he’d salvaged from the floor near her sickbed. He raised his eyes to Keegan’s sharp blue ones. “’Tis more. ’Tis definitely more than lust. I want her for myself. For all time. But now—”

  “But now nothing. You have to fight for her, man. I wouldn’t let this pompous merchant waltz in and claim her out from underneath you.” Gaspard stopped short, and a mischievous quirk lifted one corner of his mouth. “You haven’t had her underneath you yet . . . have you?”

  Keegan kicked the Frenchman’s boot so hard the smaller knight almost hit the ground again. “God’s bones, Keegan, you could break a leg with that hoof. I’m just saying, if you’ve already claimed the girl’s maidenhead, mayhap the Italian won’t want her anyway.”

  “I have not,” Mathieu said solemnly. “I have too much respect for her. Though I have the feeling she’d be willing. Nay. If I take Eva, it will be after we are bound by marriage.”

  “No if about it, ostler. Does the lass feel the same about you? Are you sure she’s not just been toying with ye until her rich Italian came riding in to claim her?” Keegan squinted down at him, scratching his beard.

  Mathieu shook head. “Nay. She’s already spoken to Isabella about this Stefano. He’s been pursuing her for a while, I guess, but Eva does not favor him.”

  Keegan drained his mug and tossed it over into the basket next to the barrel. “Then I would say, Mathieu of Liège, ye need to take action, and quickly. Don’t give this a chance to go any further.”

  Mathieu tipped his head. “But how?”

  “Take her away. Make her yours before anyone has the chance to stop ye. There’s a cleric in the little church in the village, just down the bottom of the hill. His name is Brother Michael. Tell him I sent ye.”

  Blinking, Mathieu considered this. It was sudden, and it was rash. “Do you think the duke will send me away if I do this? ’Twould be in direct defiance to his decision about the girl’s betrothal.”

  “Go talk to Isabella first, then. She is a woman with a kind and virtuous heart. Surely she will side with ye and Eva on this.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Accompanying the guard to Isabella’s solar, Eva dreaded the news she would hear. She had told Isabella of her feelings—or lack thereof—for the Italian. But she knew in the end ’twas the duke who made this decision. He was, after all, her father.

  Isabella was standing before her colorful arched window looking out over the bailey. After the door clicked shut behind her, Eva stood, wringing her hands. The duchess did not turn to face her.

  “I have done what I can, Eva. But Philip seems to have his mind made up on this. This man, this Stefano, is apprentice to his very good friend, Arnolfini. A very powerful merchant, indeed. And one who gets what he wants, at any price.”

  Her heart seized in her chest. Isabella was her last hope to save her from this loveless match. Sadly, it seemed even a duchess could not change her fate. Eva’s throat closed and she stifled a sob, bringing both fists to her mouth.

  Isabella turned to face her, a mournful expression drawing down her noble features. “You will have a good life with this man, Eva. He is almost finished his apprenticeship, and Philip tells me he has already arranged for him to set up shop in Antwerp—”

  “I do not love him,” Eva choked out. “In fact, I cannot even stand the man’s touch on my skin.”

  Isabella winced as though the words had struck her. Then her pale eyebrows rose. “You are but a girl. What do you know of love?”

  Eva sucked in a breath and closed her eyes. “I know how I feel about the ostler, your grace. I know he feels the same about me.”

  “Many times we mistake physical attraction for true devotion, Eva. Especially at your age, it’s an easy mistake to make. Lust fades. True love, however, never does. At least,” Isabella paused, lowering her gaze, “from what I’m told.”

  Eva was shaking her head, tears running unchecked down her cheeks. “I tried not to love him, Lady Duchess. I had my heart set on a knight. One brave and strong and powerful. But Mathieu has shown me there are many ways to be strong.” She lifted her hand to her wound, hidden beneath the braids the handmaid had fashioned to hide it. “Was it not you who said it was Mathieu who kept my spirit within my body the night I almost died? Isn’t that love?”

  When the duchess looked up, Eva saw the sheen of tears in her eyes. “Yes, I believe it is.”

  “Then help me,” Eva begged. “Help us.”

  Isabella turned back toward the window. “I cannot. I tried, but I failed. Philip has set the weddings—for both you and Alys—for this Saturday next. I will send the seamstress to measure you for a gown—”

  A knock on the door interrupted her, and they both turned the sound. “Who is there?” Isabella called.

  “It is Mathieu, Your Grace. I know I come unannounced, but it is urgent.”

  Twenty minutes later, Eva and Mathieu sat side by side on the high-backed bench in the duchess’ solar. Their hands tightly clasped, Eva felt some of the tension draining away from her just having him so near. In her heart, she knew this was the right path. Even though it was one putting all of them—herself, Mathieu, and the duchess—at risk for the duke’s ire.

  “You are both absolutely sure this is what you want to do,” Isabella pressed. She sat by the window, her bejeweled fingers folded tightly in her lap. She pinned her gaze on Eva. “You will have no grand home—not even a cottage like Alys and Rutger. All Mathieu has is his small quarters in the stable. His room at Germolles is not much bigger.”

  In reply, Eva gazed up at Mathieu, feeling her heart swell in her chest. “As long as it is beside Mathieu, I will sleep in the straw with the horses.”

  “Do you think Philip will cast me out?” Mathieu asked.

  Isabella sighed. “He may. But I know how he respects your expert
ise with the horses and the birds. I do not think he would send you away, if only for his own selfish reasons.” She rose and slanted them both a look. “Philip must never know I knew of this plan.”

  “Never,” they declared in unison.

  “So ’tis settled then,” Mathieu said, lifting his hand to Eva’s cheek. “We will go to the village. Tonight. Keegan has already sent word to Brother Michael. By the witching hour, you will be my wife.”

  That afternoon, after Mathieu had finished his duties in the stables and aviary, he drifted again toward the knights’ encampment. He wanted to be sure the plans were set . . . to ensure Keegan had, indeed, arranged their meeting with Brother Michael for that evening. He found Gaspard and one of the other knights sparring with wooden swords, and stood watching them for a spell.

  He could have gone this route. He could have earned his spurs and sword. If he had wanted to.

  After the larger knight knocked the weapon from Gaspard’s hand and effectively “killed” him, the Frenchman swore and swiped a hand across his mouth.

  “You got me again, Alexander. Remember, brother, how many years you have on me with regard to swordplay.” Gaspard pointed at the older knight, smirking. Alexander waved him away and headed toward the tents.

  “You may have lost, but you’re very good with the sword,” Mathieu said. “Who trained you, Frenchman?”

  Gaspard flopped down on the bench along the outer wall. “Believe it or not, an Italian.” He shot Mathieu a wry look. “Not what you’d like to hear about now. But the Italians are excellent warriors. And they don’t always need a weapon to win a battle.”

  Mathieu sat beside Gaspard and cocked his head. “How so?”

  “They train in hand-to-hand combat, without weapons, more than we do. I believe the influence traveled to Rome from the East.” The Frenchman studied Mathieu. “Being you don’t have access to your own sword, learning some of those tactics might come in handy for you. Someday.”