The Stolen Bride

by Susan Spencer Paul

  “Kayne,” Sofia murmured, gripping his arm with both hands, “slip away now, before he finds you.”

  Kayne set one of his own hands over hers and pressed reassuringly. He didn’t cherish the idea of the coming conflict, but if he did not make Sir Griel know that Sofia had a champion who would stand for her against every combatant, then the man would not leave either of them in peace.

  “Wait for me here, Sofia,” he told her. “I will escort you home when this is done.”

  He stepped forward, the light of the bonfires behind him, so that his face was yet in shadows.

  “I am here, Sir Griel.”

  The short, dark man’s gaze fell upon Kayne, and his heavily bearded lips drew into an unpleasant smile.

  “You did not turn craven and run, despite my warnings,” he said. “I told you that I would return, and my promises are as honorable as your own.”

  “You choose the dark of night to fight your battles—or to have others fight them for you.” Kayne’s gaze flickered past Sir Griel to the men standing behind him. “These are the marks of a coward, and I say it plainly to your face and before all those assembled, Sir Griel.”

  It was difficult to tell in the dim firelight what Sir Griel’s reaction to this was. The crowds surrounding them murmured in some amazement at Kayne’s boldness.

  “You mistake the matter, blacksmith,” Sir Griel replied. “I returned at the end of the festivities so as not to disturb the people of Wirth in their pleasure. But now, ’tis time for the merriment to be at an end. This is my man, who has come to play his part in our Midsummer Night battle.” At the lifting of one of Sir Griel’s fingers, a tall man dressed in full armor stepped forward. He was swathed in the black-and-red tunic that all of Sir Griel’s men wore, and appeared the more ominous for it. Kayne could see at once by the way the man held his sword that he was a skilled fighter, and that there was strength in both his hand and arm—all of which would make him a difficult opponent to best. “Do you still say that you will not fight?” Sir Griel asked.

  Slowly, Kayne shook his head. “I will only defend myself, if I am made to do so.”

  “Then you will be made to do so,” Sir Griel told him. “I would offer you my sword, if you will take it.”

  “I will not.”

  “So be it.”

  Sir Griel stepped back, and the surrounding crowds did the same. Kayne stayed where he was, wanting to keep the flames behind him to both aid his sight and force his opponent to fight with the brightness burning in his eyes, distracting and blinding him. Each moment in such a fight was precious. Kayne’s life now depended upon making every one count in his favor.

  His armored opponent began to approach Kayne at once, though slowly, his sword at the ready, clearly taking Kayne’s measure. He moved with care, not rushing into his attack as Sir Griel’s soldiers had done earlier, and Kayne could but admire and approve the tactic. Whoever had trained the man had done well.

  His opponent circled to one side, trying to force Kayne to circle as well so that their positions would be reversed and Kayne would be the one to suffer the fire’s blinding glare, but Kayne merely continued to step before him, foiling the plan. Next the well-armored knight attempted to push Kayne back into the fire by making his approach more direct, but to this Kayne merely held his ground, inviting a charge that could be easily sidestepped.

  After a few minutes of this, Sir Griel’s man clearly began to realize the difficulty of trying to engage an opponent who would not fight. The only option left to him, just as Kayne meant it to be, was to charge, and this he finally did. Sword held aloft, he ran toward Kayne at an angle—a wise decision, Kayne thought, as he had no choice but to leap forward, away from the fire, to avoid being cut in half. He whirled about at once in an attempt to regain the advantage, but his opponent had already divined his purpose and charged again, driving Kayne farther from the fire and into the shadows.

  Several frantic minutes followed as Kayne both avoided and tried to disarm his attacker, though with little success. The man was an admirable opponent. And more than that, there was something familiar in his manner, in the way he moved, with such care and skill. Kayne wondered if perhaps he had known this man in France, if they’d fought side by side during one of the many battles.

  Of a sudden, his opponent stopped, straightened and uttered angrily, “Enough of this!” He tossed his sword aside and withdrew the long, sharp dagger at his waist.

  It was exactly what Kayne would have done in a like situation, for ’twas the only manner in which his attacker could now come close enough to keep Kayne from leaping aside.

  Kayne twisted as the other man charged, jumping just in time back toward the fire. But he had misjudged his opponent’s quickness. Less than the beating of a heart passed before the gap between them closed. Hard fingers closed on Kayne’s shoulder, and the gleaming blade of the knife flashed as it was thrust toward his heart. Kayne’s own hands shot out to halt its progress, gripping his attacker by both arm and wrist to toss him to the ground. He was a heavy man, made heavier by his armor, and landed upon his back with a loud thud.

  Kayne was upon him at once, taking hold of the hand that bore the dagger and squeezing the wrist and fingers with all the strength he possessed. The other man tried to throw him off, bucking and striking Kayne about the head and neck with fisted blows of his gauntleted hand. Gritting his teeth against the pain of each strike, Kayne continued to squeeze until at last the hand under his grip gave way, releasing the dagger so that it slid to the ground.

  The man beneath him made a furious roar of noise, and with one mighty shove tossed Kayne off and over onto the ground. Kayne could feel the knife beneath him, and the other man’s heavy body as he straddled his waist, one hand holding Kayne down by the throat and the other frantically searching the dirt for the fallen weapon.

  “Now we’ll have an end of it,” the attacker vowed tautly, breathing harshly from the contest. “Even if I must kill you with my bare hands.” Not finding the knife, he put deed to word and set his other hand at Kayne’s neck, leaning down to gaze into his face. “I vow I’ll—” His voice died away and, just as Kayne had prepared to strike him with both fists, he released him and sat up. The next moment he had pushed off of Kayne altogether, saying, “It can’t be!”

  Kayne took no time to wonder what his opponent was about. He reached beneath him and took hold of the knife, then leapt from the ground and tossed the weapon into the flames of the fire.

  “Do you give way, then?” he asked, biting the words out against the burning pain in his lungs, for the other man simply continued to sit and stare at him. “Or do we go on with this farce?”

  His opponent shook his head, and then he whispered, in a voice filled with disbelief, “Captain.”

  Kayne knew that voice—knew it well. But it was impossible. He swiped the hair from his face with one hand and gazed at the man more intently.

  The soldier slowly rose to his feet, only to kneel before Kayne.

  “My lord, Sir Kayne,” he said reverently, removing his helmet to reveal a swath of dark, sweaty hair which fell about his shoulders, and even darker eyes which gazed now at Kayne, wide and hopeful. “Sir Kayne…Captain…can it truly be you? But my eyes do not deceive me. May God be praised!”

  Kayne was too stunned to stop the younger man from taking hold of one of his hands and kissing it.

  “I thought never to see you again, Captain. None of us did.” The dark eyes blinked up at him in the firelight. Around them, the crowd began to chatter in confusion. “We tried to discover what had happened—where you had gone so suddenly, without even a word—until Sir John Fastolf himself rebuked us and we gave way at last. But we never would have done so, my lord, if any lesser man had forbade us the search of you.”

  “Gwillym,” Kayne murmured softly, gently pulling his hand free and laying it upon the other man’s head, touching the dark head as if he were setting a blessing upon it. “Gwillym, what are you doing here? How came yo
u to be here?” He could hear Sir Griel’s voice now, loud above the din of the crowd, and prayed that none had heard their exchange. It would be strange enough that Gwillym had recognized and knelt before him; Kayne could allow nothing more.

  “Rise, quickly,” he commanded, keeping his tone low so that only Gwillym could hear it. “Say nothing to anyone of who I am—for the loyalty you bear me, I ask this of you. I want none in this village to know more of me save that I am their blacksmith.”

  “But, Captain,” Gwillym protested as he rose to his feet, “how can this be? Sir Griel told me…”

  “Say nothing,” Kayne repeated curtly. Sir Griel was approaching at the quickest stride his short, stocky legs could manage, utter fury written on his hairy face. “I will explain all to you later, when I have you safe at my dwelling. You must surely stay there with me after this, for Sir Griel will not have you in his service now.”

  “Nay,” said Gwillym, thoroughly dazed. “He told me that you had gravely insulted his betrothed, and therefore I must kill you. I did not know ’twould be you, Captain, else I never would have dared…”

  “Hush, lad,” Kayne said. He held his gaze on Sir Griel, but from the corner of his eye he saw Sofia pushing out of the crowd to move toward him, her lovely face filled with concern. “I understand the full of it. Trust me, now, as you did in France. Do not call me ‘captain’ before any other, and say naught of what you know of me. I’ll speak to Sir Griel.”

  “You will have to,” Gwillym said, standing beside Kayne and watching as Sir Griel and his remaining soldiers approached. The crowds began to move closer, as well. “I know not how I could explain what has happened this night. ’Tis all so strange.”

  “More than you know, Gwillym, my lad,” Kayne agreed, casting him a brief, reassuring smile, “but have faith. We will come out of it in one piece, I vow, just as we did from many a battle. Now be still, and follow what I say. We are about to become distant cousins.”

  Chapter Seven

  “Your champion is my cousin, but did not know me until we came close enough to the fire and he saw my face. This is why he refuses the fight, Sir Griel. There is no other cause, and ’tis known by all that such relation forbids the shedding of blood. It is decreed thus by both the Church and the Crown.”

  Sofia had only just stumbled near enough in her rush to reach Kayne to hear the explanation he was giving a furious Sir Griel. The raptly curious crowd had formed an immediate and thick circle about the men, and she had to shove hard to get through.

  “Kayne,” she said as she at last reached him.

  His gaze flickered toward her, and he held out a hand to draw her near. “I am well,” he said before returning his attention to Sir Griel. “Unless you wish to set another of your men upon me, the contest is over.”

  She could scarce believe that Kayne put such a suggestion before Sir Griel, to allow another of his men the chance to kill him. This man who’d just fought him—his own cousin, thank a merciful God—had nearly succeeded in doing the deed, and Sofia had suffered agonies beyond all she had known in watching the confrontation. If the matter hadn’t ended as miraculously as it had, she couldn’t have said who would come away the winner.

  Sir Griel’s fury was evident on his face, and barely contained. “You lie, blacksmith. Sir Gwillym Raithman is no cousin of yours. He told me he has no family in Sussex. Is that not so, Gwillym?”

  “I spoke wrongly, my lord,” Gwillym replied. “I did not know then that my cousin had set up his smithy in the village of Wirth. We are distantly related, but indeed we are cousins, and therefore I will not fight him.”

  “Then you will leave my service, as well!” Sir Griel thundered.

  “As you will, my lord.” Gwillym made a courteous bow.

  “And I’ll make certain none will have your allegiance. You’ll find no other lord to take your service.”

  “If that is your desire, my lord.”

  “As to you, blacksmith,” Sir Griel said, turning his wrath upon Kayne, “we are far from finished in this matter.” He looked at Sofia, who stood beside Kayne. “Think well on that, mistress, and on the great displeasure you’ve given me.”

  Sofia understood what he meant. She would suffer for the insults and humiliation he’d been dealt this night. She and Kayne both.

  Kayne stepped forward, despite Sofia’s efforts to hold him back.

  “And you would do well, my lord,” he said in a low tone, towering over the smaller man, “before you make such threats, to think upon the promises I gave you this afternoon. I bid you good eve.”

  Sir Griel said nothing more, but turned about and strode away, his men following.

  “We must hurry and be quit of this place,” Kayne said, watching as Sir Griel and his soldiers mounted their horses and spurred away at a furious pace. “The sooner I have you safe to your dwelling, mistress, the better. Where is your mount, Gwillym? Quickly, fetch your sword and let us be on our way before the crowds refuse to let us go.”

  “Kayne,” Sofia said, but he shook his head and pulled her forward, against the tide of villagers who desired to congratulate him a second time.

  “We will speak later,” he promised. “For now, let us find your father to tell him that I will take you home, lest he worry o’er your sudden absence—if worry he would.”

  Sir Malcolm was, after all the festivities, too drunk and sleepy to worry about much of anything—including Sir Griel. He patted Kayne on the shoulder and called him a “good lad,” kissed his daughter, and sent them on their way with the promise that he would make his own way to Ahlgren Manor as soon as he’d shared one last tankard of ale with his particular friends.

  “He’ll not only be ill come the morn,” Sofia predicted as Kayne led her from the field where the festival had taken place in the direction of the manor, “but also terrified of whether Sir Griel will visit him again.”

  “Aye,” Kayne agreed, “but more than this, he’ll remember that the village blacksmith dared to escort his daughter home, and will be unhappy at the thought. Rightly so, for tongues will be wagging for many days, and there’ll be no stopping them. We must take all care, Sofia, to give the gossips no further cause for such talking.”

  “’Tis far too late for that, Kayne. They will talk a great deal, but not about me.” With her hand on his arm, she pulled him to a stop, gazing up at him through the darkness. “I heard him call you ‘captain,’ Kayne, and so did many others.”

  His face was stern, set. “That means naught.”

  She shook her head. “’Tis a title of great respect, and spoken by him with great respect. He kissed your hand with reverence.” She raised her eyebrows in a questioning look. “Do you tell me that means naught?”

  He frowned darkly. “I tell you nothing at all, mistress. ’Tis none of your concern what any man calls me. Come.” He began to pull her along again.

  “He is not your cousin,” Sofia stated after they’d walked a short distance. “You only told Sir Griel that to keep him from forcing his man to fight you. ’Twas the only honorable way out for a knight who has given his vow of fealty.”

  “If this is what you believe, then I pray you will keep such thoughts to yourself. Unless you wish to cause Gwillym great difficulty.”

  “Of a certainty I’ll not speak of it,” Sofia said with a measure of offense, pulling him to a halt again. “I should never bring any man harm apurpose—and certainly not to the benefit of Sir Griel. But if he is not your cousin, then who is he?”

  “A friend,” Kayne replied. “And that is all I can say of the matter. Here is Gwillym now.” He nodded toward where the armored knight approached on his steed. “Speak no more of it this night, I beg of you, Sofia.”

  “Very well,” she said. “But on the morrow, you must tell me the truth.”

  He smiled, giving a shake of his head, and ran the backs of his fingers across her cheek in a gentle sweep.

  “On the morrow, you will be too weary to move out of your bed. You must stay
there and rest, with your precious fern blossom beneath your pillow, and dream. I vow I will do likewise, for I am as weary after this day as I ever was from battling in France.”

  Sofia could not keep from smiling as well, despite her unhappiness at Kayne’s evasive tactics. “You have fought today as if in battle—twice.” The smile died away. “’Twas terrible to watch, Kayne. I thought, at moments, that you might come to grave harm.” Lifting a hand, she touched his face. “I could not bear to see such as that come to pass for my sake. I told you how it is for me.”

  He took her hand and placed a kiss upon her palm. “I will take care in all things, most especially with Sir Griel. Have no fears, Sofia. Now, come. Gwillym waits for us by the road, and Midsummer Night is done.”

  Sofia discovered, the next afternoon, that Kayne had spoken truly. She was far too weary to bestir herself to dress formally enough for going out of doors, and instead spent the day in lazy self-indulgence. After sleeping until well past noon, she rose and called for her maid, Mariah, to prepare a bath. While it was being readied, Sofia broke her fast with warm sweet buns spread with fresh butter and a mug of hot, steaming cider.

  She sent a message to her father asking after his health, and received a reply from his manservant saying that the lord of Ahlgren Manor was sick from drink and would spend the day in bed. Hearing this, Sofia immediately dug through her collection of medicines to find the herbal potion that had soothed her father many a time before when he’d suffered from such excess, and sent it to the manservant with directions for its use. Normally, she would have tended to her father, but today Sofia had decided to pamper herself—something she’d never done before.

  When her bath was ready, she scented the water with oil of roses, then climbed into the large wooden tub and leaned back with a sigh, closing her eyes and enjoying a long, pleasurable soak. Half an hour or more later, she allowed her maid to wash her hair, then sat by the fire as the great length of it was carefully combed out for drying. With a happy sigh, Sofia closed her eyes and submitted with sleepy contentment to her maid’s ministrations.