Lady of the Knight

by Tori Phillips

  Gareth planted his feet wide apart and put his hands on his hips. “If that creature is a lady, I will eat my hat!”

  Andrew chuckled to himself. Rejoice in your ignorance, Hogsworthy. I would not give you twenty-four hours to live if the truth were known.

  Aloud, he said, “That savory dish can be arranged in good time.” To the onlookers he added, “Pray you, good people, forgive my lord’s vile temper. Tis an unfortunate affliction that he has borne since childhood. He would strike up an argument with his own shadow if there were no other victims in sight. My lord, we bid you good day.”

  He led Rosie past the glowering knave. Gareth grabbed him by the shoulder and wheeled him around to face him. The man stank of poor wine. “Hold, Ford! I will take what I have paid for—now.”

  Rosie backed away.

  Andrew chuckled nastily. “Not today—or ever, my lord. A fool and his money are often parted.” He shook himself free of Gareth’s grip, then took Rosie by the arm. “Speak to Master Quince, not to me,” he called over his shoulder in parting.

  Looking back at the irksome man, Rosie gasped. “My lord! He has a knife!”

  Andrew whirled as Hogsworthy lunged at him with a wicked-looking dagger clasped in his fist. He sidestepped the blow’s full impact. The blade tore into his padded sleeve. A searing, burning pain coursed down his left arm. Still in motion, Andrew tripped his opponent. The heavier man fell facedown into a stinking puddle of mud and manure.

  Just then Brandon and Jack stepped out of the crowd. With a boyish grin, Brandon placed his boot on Hogsworthy’s rump. “The footing is tricky hereabout, eh, my lord?”

  The crowd laughed with appreciation.

  Encouraged, Brandon drew his sword from his scabbard. “If you desire a bit of play before supper, I am your man.” He tickled Gareth behind the ear with the point.

  Andrew groaned. He had no desire for his headstrong former pupil to tangle with the maddened Hogsworthy. Alicia would kill Andrew if Brandon were injured. “Give way, my boy.” He smiled despite the pain in his arm. “Do not blunt your blade on that thick gentleman.”

  Brandon bared his teeth with a sardonic smile. “Take our old teacher back to his tent, Jack. I will linger here awhile and amuse myself.”

  Andrew wished he had the strength to cudgel the hothead. “Brandon—” he began, but Jack stepped between them and took hold of Andrew. He wrapped Andrew’s good arm around his shoulder.

  “Peace, old man,” Stafford murmured as he half dragged, half carried his mentor out of the goldsmith’s tent “They say that when age is high, the wit burns low. Come along!” He glared at Rosie. “And you, too, wench. There may be some use for you yet.”

  “Jack!” Andrew retorted more sharply than he had intended. “Curb your tongue. Rosie is a lady and you would be wise to remember that.”

  Stafford snorted. “This jest of yours grows stale. When you sink to a public brawl over a common whore—”

  Andrew summoned his strength in his good arm, and cuffed Jack. The blow staggered the youth and both men almost fell. “I’ll thank you to keep a chivalrous tongue in your head!”

  Jack tightened his hold on him. “Zounds, graybeard! You still have a mighty clout—and a blind eye.” He shot another scowl at Rosie who followed behind them.

  Andrew prayed his young lady would curb her quick tongue. Her temper matched Jack’s and he did not have the energy to keep them from tearing into each other. Thankfully, Rosie said nothing.

  How had the bright day turned so black? she wondered. She clutched Andrew’s feathered hat as Jack led the way through the encampment. Every so often, Andrew turned his head and give her one of his endearing smiles. She tried to smile back, but the bright crimson stream of blood that soaked his sleeve and dripped from his fingers terrified her. His complexion had lost its healthy glow and assumed a grayish pallor. He now looked as old as his years.

  Misery hung like a millstone around her neck. Tis my fault, damn my cursed tongue! She shouldn’t have insulted Sir Gareth. After all, she was his inferior. She could wind up in the stocks for her offense, or worse, handed over to that vile lord for his own cruel punishment. Judging the black look on Jack’s face, Rosie knew she would receive no sympathy from him. Stafford would probably drag her back to Quince.

  A low groan escaped Andrew. Rosie hurried to his side.

  “Don’t touch him!” Stafford’s voice lashed her as painfully as a whip.

  “Peace, Jackanapes,” Andrew slurred. “Tis only a scratch, but the churl has ruined one of my favorite doublets. Imported from Italy.” He smiled to Rosie. “Bloodstains are the very devil to remove, you know.”

  She placed her finger on his lips. “Hush, my lord. You strain yourself.”

  Andrew kissed her fingertips. “Sweet Rosie.”

  “A canker rose,” Jack muttered.

  Her breath burned in her throat, though she answered nothing. A terrible bitterness mingled with frustration engulfed her. She swallowed the sob that rose in her throat. No tears now! She gritted her teeth.

  Jeremy had not yet returned from his afternoon of pleasure seeking when Jack dragged Andrew inside his pavilion.

  “Not on the bed, I pray you. I have only three sets of linens with me.” Andrew pointed to his chair. “Put me there.”

  Once seated, he assumed more control of the situation, though the effort cost him. “Jack, pour me some redeeming wine. The jug is hereabout. Rosie, open that.” He pointed to a brass-bound trunk. “In it, you will find a leather chest. Aye, good girl.”

  “Ha!” sneered Jack, handing Andrew a brimming goblet. “Good for nothing but trouble.”

  Andrew’s eyes darkened. “One more word against my lady, and I will kick your carcass out of here. You test my patience to the limit.”

  Jack said nothing in return, but drank down a large mouthful of the wine. Rosie ignored him. She poured water from the bedside ewer into a wooden bowl, then soaked a piece of linen in it.

  Andrew watched her preparations with nodding approval. “Untie my sleeve, sweetheart. As for my shirt, I fear tis a complete loss. Pity. I shall miss it.”

  “God’s death, Andrew!” Jack exploded. “Cease this puling over your deuced wardrobe!”

  Andrew raised his brows, then gave Rosie a wink. “Methinks our Jackanapes does have a heart after all. Can it be he is actually worried over my personal wellbeing?”

  “The devil take you,” Stafford muttered, pouring another drink.

  Rosie said nothing. Using the gentlest touch, she cut away the gory sleeve. She sucked in her breath when she saw the extent of the damage. Hogsworthy’s dagger had sliced a thin path from the elbow to the wrist. Blood continued to gush from the wound.

  “Do not faint on me now, my dear,” Andrew murmured.

  She wrinkled her nose and fought a wave of dizziness. “Haint ever fainted.” She wrung out the cloth and blotted the mess.

  Andrew clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Ah, sweet Rosie, I shall have to deduct a penny for that lapse. You know better.”

  She didn’t look up at him. “With all due respect, my lord, shut up.”

  Jack choked with rage.

  Andrew merely chuckled, then held up his good hand. “No offense, Jack. I deserved that rebuke. Besides, Rosie gets her temper from her…an ancestor, no doubt.” He watched her efforts to staunch the blood. “Hmm. Open the chest and find a small blue glass bottle.”

  Such a rarity was hard to miss. Rose held up the rounded vial. Andrew nodded. “Excellent! Uncork it and pour some of that powder into the wound—just a pinch. Tis made from the horn of a unicorn.”

  Awed by the mere name of that magical animal, Rosie carefully opened the bottle then sprinkled a glistening path of white powder down the length of the wound. She corked the bottle with reverence.

  “There is a needle in that wooden cylinder and you will find a skein of black thread. Aye. Thread the needle and sew me back together again.”

  Rosie thought she would gag. “S
tick a needle in ye?”

  Andrew’s smile broadened. “Aye. Do not worry twill hurt me, my dove. I hurt enough as it is. A little more pain is nothing.”

  Jack hunkered down beside Andrew’s chair. “He used to sew us up after a few misdirected cuts with a broadsword, wench. I’ll hold his arm steady. You mind that you make a neat job of it.”

  Andrew sighed and rested his head against the high back of the chair. “Jackanapes, you and I must confer about your insufferable lack of good manners. However, now is not the time. Two boons I beg of you. First, before sweet Rosie gives us a demonstration of her needlework, I desire another draft of that good wine. Second, I bid you swear upon…upon your dear mother’s soul that you will not utter one more word against this much maligned maiden.”

  Jack poured the wine, then held the goblet to Andrew’s lips while he drank. A shadow of annoyance crossed his face. “I do swear that I will say nothing ill to…Rosie,” he repeated in a chill tone.

  Andrew waved away the drink. “Excellent! Thus fortified, I am ready. Commence your handiwork, my dear.”

  The first stitch was the hardest. Rosie wavered when Andrew sucked in his breath at her first stab. Then he began to whistle through his teeth while she made several more stitches down his arm. True to his word, Jack held Andrew’s arm steady. He sighed with relief when Rosie knotted the final stitch and cut the thread.

  Andrew stretched out his legs. “Now, more wine— not for my mouth, but pour it over my arm. Hold!” He pointed to the bowl full of bloody water. “I prefer my wine in a goblet or in me—but not on my rug. Jack, hold the basin and catch the runoff. Rosie, begin!”

  He moaned when she did so, and gritted his teeth. When she had liberally washed his arm with the wine, she patted the injury dry. Andrew closed his eyes.

  “You will find rolled bandages in the bottom section of the chest. Two should suffice,” he instructed. “Bind me snug.” His voice drifted.

  Rosie located the clean linens. Deftly, she wound them around his forearm, taking care to keep the material free of wrinkles.

  “You have the light touch of an angel,” Andrew murmured.

  “My foster brothers and sisters often cut themselves, my lord. There were seven children and it seemed one of them was always in bandages.”

  Andrew nodded his head, though he kept his eyes closed. “Seven is a mystic number. Now, Rosie, this is ‘ one more thing I need. Look for a small wooden box marked Poppy.”

  She bit her thumbnail. “I cannot read, my lord.” There were at least a half-dozen boxes in the medicine chest.

  Jack pointed to a small, fantastically carved one. “That.”

  She gave him a quick look out of the corner of her eye. “My thanks, Lord Stafford,” she muttered.

  Andrew droned on. “You will find a small spoon made of horn.”

  He shifted in his seat and winced with pain. “Now, find a clean cup, measure out one small spoonful of the poppy—not too much—and add water. Mix well.” His voice sank into a whisper.

  Rosie followed his directions, though her hands shook. Meanwhile, Jack eased Andrew’s boots off his feet, then his doublet and paned breeches. Andrew winced and grunted with each movement. Jack held out his hand for the poppy mixture. His gaze bore into Rosie. Without a murmur of protest, she gave him the medicine. He supported Andrew’s head while he drank it down.

  Then Jack stood, and hoisted Andrew to a standing position. “Turn down the bedding,” he told Rosie.

  She all but flew to the inner chamber. As soon as she had smoothed the sheets and plumped the pillows as she had seen Jeremy do, she stood back while Jack lowered Andrew into the bed. Jack’s tenderness surprised her.

  “Will he be all right?” she asked in a tiny voice.

  Jack placed his palm against Andrew’s forehead. “He sleeps, thanks to the poppy. Watch for fever during the night and keep his forehead cool with damp cloth.” He gave her a steady look. “Tis strange for me to see him like this. I was usually the one in bed with something sewed up and drunk on poppy, while Andrew was the one who kept watch all night.”

  He strode out to the large chamber and poured himself a third cup of wine. Rosie licked her lips, but did not dare to ask him if she might have some as well. As he drank, he looked at her. When he finished, he wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

  “You sew a fine seam.” He poured another cup. “If truth be told, I would have puked my guts had I sewn him up. Here.” He held out the cup.

  She all but snatched it from his hand, in case he changed his mind. “Thank you, my lord.” She savored the rich, red liquid.

  He gave her a wintry smile. “We are not square yet, Mistress Rosie, but I will honor my vow. Take good care of him, or you will answer to me. Do you mark my meaning?” He seemed to grow in size, filling the chamber with his brooding presence.

  Rosie stiffened. “Aye, my lord.”

  He nodded once, then turned on his heel and stormed through the tent flaps. She drew in her first deep breath since Andrew had been injured. Though she had never before thought prayer was worth much, she now sent a swift one heavenward.

  The fingers of twilight had already crept through the encampment by the time Jeremy returned to his master’s pavilion. The squire’s smooth face contorted with anger when he saw Sir Andrew and heard Rosie’s tale.

  “This comes from playing with a polecat,” he growled, his tongue loosened by wine. “You are to blame for this misadventure.”

  Rosie refused to be cowed by the boy, even if he was the son of a gentleman. The tongue-lashing she had endured from Jack had been more than enough. “I did not start the fray. Twas Gareth who drew his knife.”

  Jeremy stepped closer until he practically touched her. “Tis no never mind. You were the point of their dispute. Twas an ill-favored sea that cast you on this shore.” Icy contempt flashed in his eyes. “Sir Andrew has never before stooped so low for his entertainment. I pray to God that he never will do so again.”

  Andrew stirred in his sleep. Rosie brushed past Jeremy. Though she held her head high, his words had pierced her straight to the heart.

  Jeremy grabbed her arm. “Stay away from my lord. You have done enough for a lifetime!”

  She wrenched free. “He may be fevered. I must keep his forehead cool.”

  The squire blocked her. “Nay, guttersnipe. You will not lay a finger on him again. Tis my office to attend my master in his need.” He pointed to his rolled pallet that was stowed between two of the coffers. “You sleep there this night. As for the morrow…” He paused, his anger hardening his pretty features. “Let the devil take the hindmost—and you with him!”

  Without waiting for her reply, Jeremy entered the bedchamber and dropped the silk curtain behind him. Rosie stared after him, her emotions in a mad whirl. She wanted to box the boy’s ears yet beg for his forgiveness. His anger was no less than her own for herself. She wandered over to one of the stools, sat upon it and stared out through the parted tent flaps until the sky turned black and the lackeys lit the camp fires.

  The only light within Andrew’s tent came from a single lantern in the bedchamber. In the semidarkness, Rosie kicked off her slippers, then struggled out of her wrinkled, stained gown. She gave the garment a cursory inspection. Ruined beyond repair, she thought with a dull ache in her head. She balled it up and tossed it into a far corner. Then she pulled out the pallet, unrolled it as far away from the bedchamber as possible and lay down upon it.

  Far into the night, she watched Jeremy’s shadow move back and forth as the squire ministered to his master. Andrew neither moved nor spoke. Only his drugged breathing told Rosie that he lived. She drew her knees up to her chin and allowed a solitary tear to roll’ down her cheek.

  Every accusation that Jack and the squire had spoken hammered in her ears. They were right. Andrew would be well and whole this very minute if he had never met her. Instead, come the morning, he would be the laughingstock of the entire English court. She could hear their je
ers now. The most fastidious of knights had debased himself for the sake of a barefoot harlot. No doubt, Sir Gareth supped tonight and would dine tomorrow on Sir Andrew’s notable lapse of good taste.

  Rosie whispered a curse or two on Hogsworthy. Sir Andrew was the best of the breed. She had almost trusted his glowing promises. Now for his sake, she must end his insane fantasy, since he seemed unwilling or incapable of doing it himself. She would slip away in the darkness, and hide herself among the ragtag throng of camp followers. He would never find her there, even if he had the inclination to search for her. On the other hand, he might awaken tomorrow and be relieved that she had disappeared from his life.

  Rosie stared at the drape and tried to imagine Andrew on the other side of it. Now that she had decided to go, she found no comfort in her decision. Her heart twisted with bitter sorrow that she must leave him when he was so ill. She knew he would think she was only a fairweather mistress who ran at the first sign of distress. Good! It would be better if he despised her for her cowardice.

  With a sigh drawn from the depths of her despair, Rosie got up and peeled off several of her petticoats, leaving only the plainest to act as a skirt. A pretty gown of taffeta did not belong on a common goose girl’s back. She fingered the gold chain that she still wore around her neck.

  She knew she could sell it back to the goldsmith. The money would be enough to buy her passage home to England. And once there she could pursue her dream of a life on her own.

  Rosie undid the clasp and held up the chain in the weak light. The golden roses winked at her. Who would believe that a beggar girl in a petticoat rightfully owned such a beautiful and costly thing as this? her common sense asked. She would be arrested for theft and hanged before midday. No one would trouble himself over her fate. Rosie knew she had many faults but stealing was not one of them.

  She crossed the rug on noiseless feet, and found Sir Andrew’s book of songs. Next to it lay one of his fine handkerchiefs. She wrapped the necklace in it, then opened the book and laid the jewelry between the thick pages. If Andrew chances to think of me at all, he will find his gift here. She closed the book softly. Then she touched the curtain.