by Gwen Rowley
After their meal, Geraint removed his garments, then walked the five paces to the stream wearing only his braies. Enid could not help watching him after she saw the new bruises across his chest and arms. She ached to soothe him, to rub liniment against his warm skin. He denied them both such comfort, she thought bitterly.
Though her muscles were tired from the day’s ride, she could not forgo her people, now that she was coming ever closer to home. She stood up and drew her sword, capturing every male gaze.
Geraint finished pulling his shirt over his head and reached for his weapon. “Is there someone else stalking us?”
“Nay, but I must train.” She didn’t phrase it as a question.
His dark brow lowered. What if he forbade her, as he had at Camelot? She would have to go against him, forcing his men to choose between her and him. Or she would have to summon the magic and hide herself from them, which she didn’t want to have to do every night.
But Geraint turned his back, and she flinched as if from a blow. Was his disinterest a prediction of the future? Here she was about to wield a sword, when all she wanted to do was cry.
Instead she marched farther down the clearing, where the woods opened a bit to give her room. And then she went through each new move one by one, over and over again until her muscles trembled with fatigue and sweat ran into her eyes. When she stopped, she turned back toward her companions and discovered that Lovell had left the comfort of the fire to watch her.
Reverently, he said, “I have been practicing those maneuvers my entire life, Lady Enid, and never have I seen them performed so fluidly.”
She gave him a tired smile and allowed him to take her sword. “You see no opponent before me, Lovell. That would make all the difference.”
“Do you mind if I ask why you learned to fight, my lady?”
“Because it is my destiny among my people to teach boys to become young warriors.”
His eyes widening, he looked down at her sword but remained silent.
She walked past him, past the four men-at-arms who gave her puzzled looks, past her husband, who avoided her gaze. From her saddlebag, she removed a clean shirt, then walked to the stream to remove her garments. When she was only wearing her sweat-stained shirt, she walked into the water to wash.
Chapter 8
GERAINT sat beside the fire, but did not even pretend to ignore his wife bathing—although he did offer a ferocious frown to anyone else accidentally glancing her way. By moonlight her wet, white shirt hugged her flesh like the ghostly raiment of a fairy. He could see the long line of her torso and the round firmness of her buttocks where the water lapped. He had only begun to know that body intimately, but now it seemed like he knew nothing at all. He felt helpless and sad, and so angry that Enid would not give him her loyalty, her trust.
And she thought him less of a warrior as well. Although at Camelot he’d well handled the transfer of power to Blakemore, he worried that Enid might think he was simply displaying his skill for her benefit, as an offering of proof. He didn’t need to prove his courage to anyone, but she didn’t know that.
Because she didn’t know him.
Although he told himself he was protecting her by watching over her, he knew he simply could not take his gaze from her body as she lifted the hem of her shirt to reach beneath and wash. At least she was not totally disrobing in front of his men.
He was hot and painfully aroused, but still he watched even as she walked out of the water. He could see . . . everything . . . through the wet garment, as if she were wearing nothing at all.
She retrieved her clean shirt and stepped behind a bush to change. Her long arms pulled the wet garment over her head, and then slid the other on in its place. Her skin was damp, so she had to drag it down her body, and for a moment, Geraint remembered his hands and mouth following the same path.
His vivid memories were a taunt to everything that had happened in the last day.
But so was her body, as she walked down the bank of the stream to the rest of her discarded garments. The darkness of her nipples against the shirt seemed deliberate, and he was angry that she so displayed herself. But with another quick check over his shoulder, he saw that the men were rolled in blankets around the fire, except for Wilton and Lovell, not so far apart in age, who were talking earnestly, their backs to the drama.
After Enid was clothed, she squatted beside the stream, rinsed out her shirt, and hung it across a bush to dry. Heading back for their camp, she came up short when she noticed Geraint watching.
Did she not know the display she’d made of herself? he thought derisively. Or had she done it all to show him what he was missing?
She tilted her chin in defiance, and with a snort he turned away. But then she settled across the fire from him, wrapped herself in a blanket, and combed her fingers through her long hair to dry it in the heat. He barely withheld a groan at such torture.
“My lady?” Lovell said hesitantly.
She glanced up at the squire, but did not cease her slow combing. “Aye, Lovell?”
“You heard me mention that I have yet to be assigned to a knight.”
As she nodded, Geraint found himself studying the boy with curiosity, relieved to have something else to concentrate on.
“Lady Enid,” Lovell continued in a formal voice, “would you do me the honor of allowing me to serve as your squire?”
Geraint must have made a noise of disbelief, because Enid glanced at him sharply. Lovell continued to fix his worshipful gaze on Enid.
“You said you train boys,” Lovell rushed on. “Could you not train me? Though you may not think so from that day on the tiltyard, I am quick to learn and easy to teach. I would work hard for you, keeping your weapons and horse in fine condition.”
For a moment, Enid said nothing, and Geraint wondered what he should do. The Geraint of his youth wanted to jump to his feet and refuse, as if sharing her were not an option. But he remembered her secrets and her mistrust, and he wondered if he had any say in her life anymore.
Then she met his gaze and tilted her head. Was she asking his permission as her husband, or as the commander of their small party? What else could he do but shrug his acquiescence?
She turned back to Lovell. “Very well, young squire, you can temporarily belong to me. I have seen you fight, and you do need tutoring.”
Instead of being embarrassed, the boy only nodded with eagerness. “Wait until my mother hears this!”
Both Enid and Geraint stared at him.
Lovell ducked his head in embarrassment. “She always says that in their own way, women are as strong as men.”
Enid smiled as she tied her hair back with a leather strap. “I think I would like your mother.”
“And she would surely like to meet you, my lady,” Lovell said as he grinned.
“Who are your family?” Geraint asked.
“I am the heir to the barony of Exminster, my lord.”
Geraint slowly nodded. “I served once with your father. A good man.”
Lovell nodded distractedly, but he was watching Enid with awe and wonder.
“Find your pallet,” Geraint said with a sigh. “I shall take the first watch.”
ENID awoke before dawn, wrapped in a blanket dampened with dew, facing the fire. Ainsley was adding wood to build it back up, and when it flared higher, he held his gnarled hands before it.
“Have you been awake long, Ainsley?” she asked softly, sitting up to ease the stiffness in her muscles.
“Just finishin’ me turn at the watch, milady.”
Geraint was the next to awaken, and she covertly studied him as he sat up and stretched. Since their marriage, she’d spent mornings in his arms, awakening to kisses and the passion that always flared to life between them. Even their argument couldn’t stop her feelings. He looked at her now, and she could still remember the heat she’d felt when she’d come back from her bath last night and realized he’d been watching her.
She was consumed b
y shivering without his arms around her. To hide her own sad need for him, she said, “Yesterday after you defeated Sir Blakemore, what did you say to him?”
He laced up the tunic at his neck. “Only that he was not to question my abilities again.”
“Surely you had already proved that.”
He rose to his feet and spread his blanket out near the fire. After a small hesitation, he looked at her. “I told him that a true commander and knight of Camelot would never slur a woman as he did you.”
She didn’t bother to hide her astonishment, but he turned away, and she knew he didn’t understand her reaction. Blakemore’s behavior toward her was as forget-table as an insect bite. Did Geraint not realize that he had wronged her far worse with his unfounded accusations?
She grew angry all over again.
THE days of their journey stretched out one after the other, and each evening Enid broke the monotony by training with Lovell. He was an eager, intelligent student, and she enjoyed once again doing what she did best. Often the other men-at-arms watched them and made suggestions, which helped Enid to learn their fighting techniques. Twice she had to renew her magic, but since her husband was ignoring her, she was able to cloak herself in shadows and briefly leave the campsite.
She and Geraint spoke little. He never rode beside her during the day, and at night he spread his pallet as far away from her as he could get and still enjoy the comfort of the fire. As they journeyed ever closer to Cornwall, she sensed his deepening unease, and at meals she often saw him gazing to the west with a frown. What awaited him there that he seemed to dread? If only she could ask him.
Or was he worried about introducing his new bride to his family?
As the terrain became more familiar, the high moorland interspersed with deep fertile valleys, she occasionally smelled the sea, not so many leagues away. Toland and Tyler proved themselves good fishermen, and often caught their supper in nearby streams.
Finally the morning came when the men seemed excited to awaken, and Wilton confessed that they’d be at Castle Cornwall before dark. Geraint, wearing a frown as he turned away, did not seem to share his soldiers’ enthusiasm.
Halfway through the day, as they rested on Bodmin Moor before the final push to the castle, Enid took her saddlebag and excused herself to climb back down into the wooded valley they’d just left behind. When she emerged wearing the blue gown given to her by the queen’s ladies, all the men stopped what they were doing to stare. She rolled her eyes at them as she plaited her hair and tied it back from her face.
“I am a woman, you know,” she said crossly. For a moment she remembered feeling so feminine when Geraint had courted her. Being treated as a woman had seemed so rare and different, but now she didn’t know what she preferred. Couldn’t she have both, the life of a warrior—and that of a woman?
But when she met Geraint’s eyes, he seemed skeptical, as if he suspected an unpleasant purpose for changing her garments. Wasn’t it enough that she wanted to look her best for the king of Cornwall, his father?
As she approached her horse, she found Lovell waiting, his hand lifted to help her. Just last night she had bodily thrown him across the clearing, startling everyone. Now she was too dainty to mount her horse alone? Wearing a smile, she brushed his hand away, put one foot in the stirrup and swung her leg over. She had no sidesaddle, so she spent several minutes trying to rearrange her skirts to cover her legs. If she’d have worn her boots, that would have covered more, but instead she’d gone with useless cloth slippers. They matched the gown.
She guided her horse amidst the men, but found them all giving her frowns.
“What is it?” she finally demanded of Ainsley.
“Should ye not be ridin’ with the prince?” he said pensively.
“Oh. Aye, of course.”
She tapped the horse’s flanks and cantered up to meet Geraint. When she was at his side, he nodded and began the last road of their journey. Just behind him rode Wilton, carrying the banner of the prince of Cornwall. Today was Lovell’s turn to drive the cart.
She glanced off into the northeast and wondered when she’d be able to feel done with her mission and ready to take her skills home. Would Geraint even want her to return?
THE trumpets alerted Enid first, although Castle Cornwall was yet a league in the distance. The castle within its curtain walls sprawled across the open moor, the tallest thing maybe in all of Cornwall. The tower must have had a view clear to the sea.
As they came closer, a drawbridge was slowly lowered, and only then did she see the low marshland that circled the castle like a moat, and the mist that hung about it even in daytime, as if the castle floated on clouds.
She, who had faced the gravest peril with calm, was suddenly very nervous. She was married to Geraint for eternity—what if his family hated her? And they would, if he told them of the grudge he held against her.
Their horses clattered over the drawbridge, and it was as if they entered a village within the castle. Dozens of small thatched-roof houses were built along the curtain wall. There were open market stalls and merchants leaning out the folded-down windows of their businesses. Dogs and chickens roamed freely.
Adults and children came running, waving the banner of Cornwall and calling out greetings to their prince. Enid found herself smiling at the enthusiasm of the children, who gathered around Geraint’s horse. To her surprise, he pulled pennies from his saddlebag and tossed them to the children, who shouted their glee and went chasing on their hands and knees. She assumed he’d keep moving, but he waited to make sure all the children had at least one, tossing a few extra as needed. This was the man she thought she’d fallen in love with, a kind, gentle man.
But inside him lurked suspicion and mistrust.
Their party continued up to the castle, winding through barracks and stables and other outbuildings. Ainsley and the other men-at-arms took all the horses, and Enid was left to walk up the long flight of stone steps to the entrance, with Geraint at her side, and Lovell just behind.
Why did her throat feel so tight as she looked up? It was just a castle. People lived here, people who were no different than she was. But her palms were sweating, and she didn’t feel like she could swallow. Surely she would trip on the gown.
Geraint glanced at her, and she met his gaze, lifting her chin with feigned bravado. He tilted his head, slight sarcasm in his smile, then held out his arm. She put her hand on it and allowed him to lead her up to her fate.
After they passed between double doors, the great hall opened up before them, massive in size, with a timbered ceiling high overhead. Tapestries lined the walls, and some of the battle scenes depicted seemed a bit . . . gruesome. There were hearths as tall as a man on each side of the room, and near one of them was a raised dais with a single gilded throne. King Erbin of Cornwall sat there, filling the chair with his broad shoulders and impressive presence. He must have been young when Geraint was born, for he did not have the look of an older man, though his dark hair was gray at the temples. He was obviously still a proud warrior.
There were at least a hundred people within the hall, cheering and waving. They parted as Enid and Geraint walked forward, and then as if on cue, the sounds began to die away. She saw their puzzled looks, knew they were wondering at the respect Geraint paid her.
Even without her warrior garb, she looked different from them. So many were short and dark, and she had hair as yellow as the sun. She towered over most of the people, men included.
When they approached, King Erbin stood up and stepped from the dais toward them. To her dismay, Enid realized she was an inch or so taller than the king. Some men took great offense to that.
But though the king gave her a moment’s thorough scrutiny, it was his son he studied. Was that skepticism he betrayed? Or perhaps just worry?
Geraint stepped forward, and Enid remained behind him.
“My king,” he said simply, bowing.
The king’s smile was slow in forming, bu
t hearty when it fully appeared. “My son.” He clasped Geraint’s upper arms and gave him a little shake. “You were gone many months.”
And then he hugged his son, and though she couldn’t see Geraint’s expression, she saw his hands stiff at his sides, as if he didn’t know what to do with them. Slowly, he brought them up and patted the king’s back.
“Father, you look well,” he said, when they finally stepped apart.
“As do you. I missed you, son.”
The king searched Geraint’s face, but Geraint didn’t seem to know how to respond.
“Of course I missed you, Father.”
“Missed me? Bah. I doubt that you missed me standing over your shoulder. But I have received regular missives from the high king, and he is full of praise for you. You have done Cornwall proud, my son.”
By the gods, Enid felt tears sting her eyes, even though she told herself she shouldn’t care about Geraint’s feelings. But it was obvious he did not have the best of relationships with his father, and this seemed to be a step forward.
And then King Erbin turned to face her with an assessing dark gaze. She wondered if he would be the kind of man who considered his daughter by marriage a threat.
“Will you introduce us to your guest?” the king asked without taking his eyes from her.
“Father, this is my wife, the princess Enid.”
The hall was deadly quiet, as if all his subjects awaited King Erbin’s reaction.
Belatedly remembering at least some of what she’d learned at Camelot, Enid performed a decent curtsy. The king openly studied her, and she waited, trying to appear serene.
Without looking at Geraint, he said, “My son, you did not wish to celebrate your marriage at Castle Cornwall?”
Geraint shrugged, but the tension in him was so very visible. “I did not wish to wait.”
