by Gwen Rowley
“But you did.” A tear leaked from Enid’s eye as she stared at him. “So you can only love and trust me if I do what you say and behave how you think appropriate?”
“It is your loyalty that is in question—and I guess my courage, too,” he added sadly.
“Geraint, do not act like this,” she whispered.
“Then tell me your secrets,” he implored. “I am your husband.”
She bowed her head. “They are my family.”
“You’re leaving me no choice but to believe the worst of you, if you can behave like this at Camelot, the seat of our high king.”
When she turned away, he saw her shoulders trembling. He felt bleak and alone, wondering how in one day’s time, the happiness he’d thought he’d found could melt away into distrust and sadness. He was a fool, and the entire court must know it. He thought of the way he’d been lovestruck over her, how it had jeopardized his place at court and with his men.
Even after all the things he’d done to prove himself as a steady counselor to King Arthur, Geraint was still what his father always claimed him—an impulsive man. And now he was paying for it.
He had to take Enid away from Camelot, before between the two of them, they ruined any more of his reputation at the high king’s court.
AFTER a couple hours of sleep, Enid awoke with a pounding head, and her face felt raw from weeping. Slowly, stiffly, she rolled onto her back, wondering what had awoken her.
By firelight, she saw Geraint stuffing his garments into a coffer.
The love she felt for him stabbed at her heart, but so did her bitter feelings of betrayal and disappointment. He had refused to sleep at her side after their argument, and the last she had noticed, he’d been sitting before the hearth, staring at the flames. Had he spent the rest of the night in the chair?
She wasn’t going to ask him, because he deserved such discomfort after his accusations.
And she, too, deserved to feel miserable, because she had disappointed him.
Did holding to her family vows make her incapable of trust? It certainly held true after their argument. She didn’t trust him—couldn’t trust him. And it was obvious he didn’t trust her. They’d rushed into marriage without knowing each other.
She sat up slowly, drawing her smock tighter around her bent knees as she hugged them to her chest. “What are you doing?” she asked softly. Her voice sounded hoarse.
“Packing.”
She flinched at his cold tone, and then panic hit and she spoke without thinking. “Are you abandoning me?”
He glared at her over his shoulder. “Do you not mean to say like the coward I am?”
She groaned. “I say what I mean, Geraint, and I never said that.”
“Then why would you think I would abandon my wife?”
She remained silent, knowing that anything she said would be twisted beyond recognition.
He turned back to the coffer and resumed throwing his garments inside. “We are leaving Camelot. I suggest you pack.”
“But—” She was about to ask about his assignment for the king, but realized he would interpret her concern as another accusation. “Where are we going?”
“Home. My home. Cornwall.”
GERAINT’S meeting with King Arthur was more cordial than he’d thought it would be. The king understood his need to take his wife home. Or maybe the king just wanted to be rid of the distraction of Enid, both to Geraint and to his men. Geraint promised to return immediately unless his father had need of him.
Enid, who had little to pack, was calmly waiting for him in their bedchamber. Geraint looked at her white face and somber expression and felt a moment’s softening that he cursed himself for. Then he saw her in her own leather jerkin, wearing a cloak thrown back from her broad shoulders. She didn’t offer to defend herself, and he didn’t bother to question her choices. She was letting him know that his opinions about her clothing no longer mattered. Maybe none of his opinions mattered. He felt a tightening in his gut that he told himself was anger.
Late in the morning, Geraint led Enid through the great hall, where people stared at her garments. He bid farewell to several friends, and surreptitiously watched his wife stand alone.
Together they went out to the stables and met up with his men-at-arms. Four soldiers had come with him from Cornwall and now seemed eager to return home, although they eyed Enid curiously.
Geraint performed the introductions as Ainsley buckled him into his brigandine, the short chest and back plate he wore while traveling.
“Enid, meet your traveling companions for the next week. This is Ainsley, the captain of my guard.”
Ainsley, short and broad and grim, bowed his head to Enid, but continued with his task. Ainsley took everything—even this unexpected journey—with a cynical fatefulness that had saved them all more than once.
Toland and Tyler were twins whose identical calm, pleasant features masked a quick wit and a tendency to play pranks.
They bowed as one to Enid, who looked between them skeptically and asked, “Gentlemen, how do I tell you apart?”
They wore identical caps, the same plate-reinforced leather jerkin of common soldiers, and wool hose above their boots. They raised one identical blond eyebrow at each other before Toland said, “I be the prettier one.”
Enid’s lips twitched in a smile but she only shook her head.
The last soldier was the youngest, new to the personal guard, and far too talkative and glib for Geraint’s tastes. His cap had a peacock feather sprouting from it, and the young man pulled it from his head, swept it across his body and bowed low, revealing sandy hair that curled naturally into ringlets he usually preened over.
“Enid, this is Wilton,” Geraint said disapprovingly.
Enid glanced at him in surprise, but nodded to the soldier.
“Milady, this journey be far more civilized with you here,” Wilton said earnestly.
“I doubt it.” The moment the words were out of his mouth, Geraint regretted them.
The four men-at-arms stared at him, and Enid’s eyes heated, then went cool and blank.
“Those words were poorly chosen. Forgive me.”
“Only for those words?” she asked softly.
He turned away.
As the party mounted their horses, Geraint saw his men watching Enid ride like a man. Above her boots, her legs were bare until one’s eye reached the skirts of her jerkin. When he’d first met her, he’d been fascinated by the inches of flesh so casually revealed. Now he wanted it hidden, but said nothing. Raising a hand, he began the procession, followed by Enid and his men. Their coffers and provisions for the journey were piled in a cart driven by Tyler, whose horse was tied behind.
They rode under the gatehouse of the inner curtain wall, the pointed portcullis suspended just overhead. Geraint guided his horse down the slope toward the tiltyard—and Sir Blakemore, who waited below.
Chapter 7
GNID guided her horse as she rode between her husband’s men-at-arms. She felt weary though it was morning, despondent over the state of her marriage, but then her curiosity came to life when she saw that Geraint was heading for the tiltyard, rather than the main gatehouse. While the twins glanced at each other in confusion, Ainsley looked worried.
Only Wilton seemed cheerful as he rode up beside her. “Now, milady, you be in for a treat.”
She tilted her head. “A treat? What is Sir Geraint doing?”
“His duty to the high king, o’ course. Just watch.”
Enid bit her lip, but pulled her mount to a stop at the same time as the soldiers. Geraint kept riding until he was abreast of the yard, where he seemed to pause until he had everyone’s attention. One by one the knights and squires ceased to train and turned to watch.
She held her breath as he swung out of the saddle beside Sir Blakemore and threw his reins to a squire. The two knights stared impassively at each other before Geraint turned his back. Sir Blakemore stiffened.
In a lou
d voice, Geraint called, “I must leave unexpectedly today for Cornwall, and King Arthur bids me choose a replacement who will lead the troop to the northern border.”
Enid knew that Sir Blakemore might have been the one chosen before, but she couldn’t imagine Geraint choosing him now. Yet how to handle the situation without leaving divisive anger in their wake?
“There are two men capable of this position, but I cannot easily choose between them. I shall fight them both and then make a decision.”
For a moment, only a thick silence filled the tiltyard. Then suddenly a cheer rose up, and the knights cleared the yard.
Enid looked at Wilton questioningly, but the young man only shrugged. She could not help wondering if Geraint was trying to prove to her that he was not a coward.
If their argument last night got him killed, it would be her fault.
By the gods, he could be such a fool.
“The first man I shall fight,” Geraint said, sauntering away from Sir Blakemore, “is Sir Rowan.”
As the cheers rose, a knight emerged from the crowd, making sure his padded jerkin was on securely.
But Enid watched Sir Blakemore, who fisted his hands on his hips and glowered.
Geraint turned in a circle, grinning as he looked at the scores of knights surrounding the yard. “As for the winner of each bout, I shall allow all of you to decide.”
Shouts echoed through the yard, and dozens of men wagered coins openly. As word spread, dairymaids left their churning and kitchen maids abandoned their dirty pots to watch the entertainment.
Geraint took a shield and weapon from an eager young squire. Though the swords were blunted, two large men swinging at each other could cause great damage, and she found herself holding her breath. But she’d seen a brief display of Geraint’s battle skills, and found herself reluctantly anticipating this match.
He did not disappoint her. He swung the first mighty blow, and there was an audible crack as it met the weapon of Sir Rowan. For a moment, they were suspended together, each one using all his force against the other, until Sir Rowan staggered back and the boos began.
They slashed at each other, banged shields, parried away blows, but inevitably Sir Rowan kept retreating. Enid felt a stirring within her at Geraint’s strength and talent, at the intelligent way he anticipated his opponent’s every move. He had obviously not been harmed by missing a few days’ training.
But their argument wasn’t about the training, or anything resembling cowardice, and he should have realized that. He should have trusted that she was trying to tell him the truth about his predicament with his men—and his standing with King Arthur.
She couldn’t wildly cheer her husband’s victory when he was named the winner by the assembled knights, but she did force a smile so as not to embarrass him. That faded when Geraint next called Sir Blakemore’s name, and she watched the knight stride into the center of the tiltyard, refreshed and confident. He was a powerful man, and Geraint had just finished fighting another. Would Sir Blakemore not allow her husband to rest?
But Geraint didn’t ask for a respite. He merely nodded at his chosen opponent and brought up his sword. This time the battle was more even, at least as far as skill was concerned. Within minutes, both were bloodied and bruised from the force of the blows. Enid held her breath, waiting for Geraint’s strength to fail, but it never happened. It annoyed her that she felt breathless watching him, even a tad too warm. He slashed and parried, hopping away from a sure blow and sending his shield crashing into Sir Blakemore’s shoulder. When the other man staggered and almost fell, the crowd roared.
But Sir Blakemore did not give up. Soon both men were breathing in gasps and lumbering awkwardly as they circled one another. Sir Blakemore slashed; Geraint stepped aside, and one-handed, whirled his sword toward the other man’s neck. Sir Blakemore barely raised his shield in time, and the sword slid off it and caught him across the skull. His helmet held, though surely his ears were ringing. He went down on one knee, but instead of admitting defeat, he unexpectedly swiped Geraint’s legs out from beneath him. Both men ended up on their backs on the packed earth.
Why wasn’t someone calling a winner? Enid wondered, looking around in confusion. Were they going to let this go on until two of Arthur’s prized knights were grievously wounded? Sometimes she didn’t understand men or their bravado. Women—even women warriors—were much more practical.
Geraint rose first, and a fierce grin split his sweaty face. “Am I the winner, Blakemore?”
The other knight roared as he staggered to his feet and came at Geraint, sword raised. As Geraint parried the blow, Blakemore tottered past him.
Blakemore came around slowly, and he spoke in a haggard voice. “Tossing your bride’s skirts seems to have improved your skills, Geraint.”
The other knights roared with laughter at such crudity, and Geraint joined in tiredly. He slowly straightened, his sword pointing into the dirt as he leaned against it.
“After such a magnificent battle,” he began grandly, then held up a hand to calm the good-natured jeers, “I declare that Sir Blakemore has earned the right to command my troop in my absence.”
While money was boisterously exchanged all around, Enid watched the two knights come together and speak in low voices. Geraint’s expression was stern, and he did most of the talking. Sir Blakemore nodded once and turned away, but he did not look angry. Geraint had proved masterful in handling the delicate transfer of power.
“Sir Geraint!” called a voice from the crowd.
Her husband was returning the sword and shield to its owner, but he looked up.
“Mayhap ye should challenge your wife next,” said a man who didn’t bother to step from the crowd. “She wears a sword like she knows how to use it.”
There was laughter all around, but it was awkward and dwindled away.
Enid drew herself up, keeping her face calm and unemotional. She felt every curious stare, saw every hidden whisper.
Geraint looked at her for a moment, then put on an obvious smile. “And have her master me out of bed as well as in it?”
The guffaws were overwhelmingly loud, and she felt her face go hot, but she understood. Wilton turned his head away, his shoulders shaking, and the twins only smiled and shrugged.
Whatever else she could say about Geraint, he knew exactly what to say to men. He was gifted with speech—but didn’t she already know that, from the way he’d seduced her into marriage with words even more than kisses?
THEIR first day’s journey passed uneventfully beneath a rare, cloudless day. Though the circumstances were sad, Enid felt relieved to be heading toward her own home, though she didn’t tell that to Geraint. Not that she could even visit the Donella tribe—not until her mission was completed.
They made camp that night in a wooded copse near a stream, and since the sky was perfectly clear, they decided not to raise pavilions. Enid ate her dried beef and cheese silently, listening to the twins and Wilton chatter. Men said women talked too much, she thought in bemusement. But she appreciated their conversation, glad to think about something else. Geraint never talked to her at all, unless necessary. Just a day ago there were not enough hours to say all the things they had to say to each other.
The soldiers were so busy talking—and Ainsley was trying to quiet them—that it was Geraint and Enid who first realized something was wrong. There was a sound in the woods that didn’t belong there. Their gazes met across the fire, and then both were on their feet, swords in hands.
The four soldiers hastily scrambled for their weapons as Geraint said softly, “Enid, remain by the fire.”
She knew that she could be at his side faster than his soldiers, but she said nothing. It was not worth another argument, especially when she knew how King Arthur’s knights protected their women.
But if a battle broke out, she would be ready to join.
Before anyone could fan out into the woods, a trembling voice called, “Sir Geraint, it is I, Lovell the s
quire. Might I have permission to join you at the fire?”
No weapons were lowered until Geraint called his permission, and the boy came forward out of the darkness. He was leading his horse, and his face was sweaty and pale by firelight.
Geraint was the first to sheath his sword. Then he folded his arms across his chest and stared at the boy. “Do you bring me a message from the high king?”
“Nay, my lord,” Lovell said, looking down at the ground.
After Enid had put away her own weapon, she left the soldiers and came to Lovell’s side. “Was there trouble, because of how I helped you?”
“Nay, my lady.” He hesitantly raised his gaze to hers. “But I’m too old to foster, and I have been waiting to discover who I shall be squire to.’Tis a terrible wait, my lady.” He sighed heavily and risked a glance at Geraint. “I thought I would . . . help escort you to Cornwall.”
Geraint arched a dark brow. “To pass the time?”
Lovell only nodded.
“Does the king know you left his service?” Geraint demanded.
Lovell gasped. “I did not leave his service, my lord! You are in the king’s service, and by helping you, I help the king, do I not?”
“You think you’ll be of help, boy?”
“I can do whatever needs doing,” Lovell said stubbornly. “I have been well fostered at the home of Lord Blaed.”
Enid saw the twins nodding to each other as if in approval. They sat back down and were soon joined by Wilton and Ainsley, leaving Geraint and Enid to deal with the squire.
“Lord Blaed is a fine knight,” Geraint said. “But if you remain with us—temporarily, I might add—will not King Arthur worry about explaining your absence to your father?”
Lovell grinned and seemed to relax. “I sent the king a message, my lord, that I would temporarily be serving you.”
Geraint sighed. “Confident, aren’t you?”
The boy nodded eagerly and risked a glance at Enid.
She bit her lip, wondering what Geraint would say if he knew where such confidence came from.
At last Lovell was invited by the fire, and he shared the marzipan he’d stolen from supper before he left. Besides the candy, he’d provisioned himself well, and Enid could see that Geraint was impressed. Her relief was great. She sensed she had an ally in young Lovell.
