A Knight in Tarnished Armor (2 page)

Morda shrugged. "He had no choice. My lord pleaded his case to the king, but the king favors Warbrooke. He forced the earl and baron to meet. The earl claims he couldn't refuse Warbrooke once the king was involved. ‘Twas a matter of loyalty."

"If I were her, I'd run away," Edith said firmly.

"To where?"

"The convent at Saint Lawrence of the Martyrs. Her great-aunt is the abbess. It's the perfect place for succor."

"Lud, that husband of yers has slapped ye in the head once too often."

"He has never hit me," Edith said indignantly. "He knows I'm stronger than he is."

"Then yer wits have gone walking to Wales. No woman can travel so far a distance alone."

"But if I were Lady Linnet, I'd hire my own protector to escort me."

"And just who would that be?" Morda raised her chin and asked in a challenge.

"William de Ros."

Morda's mouth dropped open. "The mercenary?"

"Aye," Edith said smugly. "He devours men like Warbrooke for supper. Then he picks his teeth clean with their bones."

"Ye'd have to travel to Spain to find him. He returned from the last crusade and went off to war with the heathens there."

Edith shook her head. "He's in England." She paused for effect, then said, "At Falcon House Tavern in Watersdowne."

"And just how would she get away even if she could persuade him to be an escort? The earl would come after her."

"My lord's leaving for London again tomorrow. He'll be gone for a week. Surely that's enough time to be safely away."

An odd sound echoed around the stone laundry room.

"Oh!" Morda jumped, then spun around suddenly, her sharp gaze searching. "What was that?"

“It came from there.” Edith pointed at the stone wall. After a moment she shrugged, then went back to stirring her paddle. "Most likely just one of Lady Linnet's cats mousing. I wonder what will happen to all those animals after Warbrooke comes?"

Morda looked at Edith as she lifted a linen shirt from the rinse barrel. With a sharp and fierce twist, she wrung it dry. "That's what will happen."

Linnet slid back the peep slot and tiptoed up the narrow stone steps of the hidden passageway. She felt in the dark for the door handle and slowly pulled it open, before she slipped out into a back castle corridor and pressed her back against the stone walls. Her heart hammered high in her throat and she felt ill and fearful at the thought of the man— the monster among men—her grandfather would force her to wed. The man must be horrid if Grandpapa had not yet even told her of him. She moved toward her chambers in the defeated manner one of the condemned walks toward the block, head down, shoulders sagging, and her hands folded tightly in front of her.

Within a few minutes four cats trailed behind her, and one, still little more than a kitten, nipped at her heels, then bit down on a scrap of her hem; Linnet dragged him as she walked, stopped and turned. "Swithun! You must stop that." She bent and picked up the kitten, stroking his gray fur.

She looked down at the growing group of cats gathered so trustingly at her feet. They stared back at her with eyes full of devotion. She almost burst into tears. She hugged Swithun closer to her chest, unconsciously protecting his small neck with her hand, and she raised her chin. "No one will harm you. No one."

She spun around and ran up the stairs toward her chamber, Swithun clutched to her and the other cats trotted along behind her. She opened her chamber door, then cast a quick glance up and down the corridor. When no one appeared, she leaned down close to the cats and whispered, "Come, sweetings. Crispin, Elmo, Vitus, Ambrose. Come inside. I have a plan."

As plans went, this looked to have all the makings of a poor one. Lady Linnet pulled the hood of her dark mantle forward and glanced around the dim tavern. It was loud, and smelly, and almost unbearably stuffy, made so by the downdraft of a blazing fire in a sooty stone hearth, and what appeared to be a veritable sea of medieval manhood raising tankards of dark yeasty ale.

For strength she took a deep breath, blanched at the stink, then stepped into the lantern light, slowly and purposefully moving toward a large table in the corner. Hearty male laughter grew louder for only a brief instant before the crowd began to part, slowly, man by man, in front of her.

From behind she could hear the suddenness of stunned silence, until the last rowdy warrior quieted and moved out of her way. Linnet faced the one man she sought. And she had her first true taste of fear.

William de Ros sat sprawled in a chair, his long legs outstretched, his worn leather boots crossed at the ankle and propped on the table edge. It was a relaxed stance, yet instinct told her he wasn't as unaware of her as he appeared.

She glanced down, only to see his battle-scarred hand slide to the jeweled hilt of a deadly dagger that was slung almost too casually from a studded belt at his waist. He wore a dark leather tunic spotted with spilled ale and his free hand gripped a frothy metal tankard. He had thighs as big around as her waist and they were taut, his black chausses showing the rippled power in his leg muscles, muscles that could hold
in check the most deadly of war
horses.

She looked into his face again. And almost ran.

No emotion showed in his expression. Nothing but time-weathered experience and the scores of battles he was rumored to have fought, and won.

His hair was black as the loam in the forest, and too long, almost barbaric in length. His gold earring was barbaric, in spite of the small cross that dangled from it. She wondered what God thought of it, and of him.

But it was his face that she would never forget. It was sharp, chiseled in raw angles, and his skin was bronzed from the harsh rays of the desert sun, where legend claimed he'd spent years as a hired warrior, a battle- scarred mercenary who sold his finely honed skills to the highest bidder.

Rumored was de Ros had no crusade but avarice. No fealty to anyone, except he who held the heaviest purse. Once enough money crossed his calloused palm, the greatest fighting sword in all of England was sold to whoever had paid the high price.

And that was why she was here. Lady Linnet of Ardenwood, youngest granddaughter of the earl of Arden, intended to buy herself a warrior.

Until she actually faced this mercenary knight whose determined jaw and keen eyes showed a ruthless intelligence she'd never before seen in any man.

Perhaps now that she saw him, she thought quickly, she would not buy this particular warrior. And certainly not tonight.

Suddenly gutless, she turned. Run! She took a quick step.

He was quicker. His arm whipped out in front of her. She caught a flash of something silver and froze. His battle sword blocked her path.

She turned around slowly, then took a small step backward and stopped, feeling the wide steel blade of his sword pressed flatly against her lower back. The air left her lungs.

Not even a breath could be heard, though her heart's pounding grew louder in her ears. There must have been at least fifty men in the tavern, but at that very moment the room was utterly silent. Nothing . . . until the random snap of a green log in the fireplace crackled through air as tense as dawn on a battlefield.

Linnet watched de Ros. He paused, assurance to everyone in the room that he was in command. He laid the sword on the table as if to say, "You may run now."

She squared her shoulders and met his gaze. His expression showed he knew exactly what she was thinking. She said the first stupid thing that came to her tongue, "I've heard you can be bought."

He said nothing, but raised his tankard of ale and drank deeply.

She swallowed thickly. "I meant your sword could be bought."

He stared at her, directly, assessing her, unnervingly so.

"I meant I need to buy protection," she blurted out and winced slightly because her voice cracked.

He gave her the oddest look.

She took another breath, her mind desperate and racing. He was a man. She'd give his pride a stroke, which usually worked with her grandfather. "I wish to buy your powerful sword."

He set the tankard on the table and let his gaze rove slowly from her face to her toes, where he paused, took another drink of ale as if time were his alone, then just as slowly he looked upward, stopping with interest every so often. He paused and looked away, staring at his tankard as he said almost too casually, "I see no coin."

Her knees were quivering and air felt tight in her chest. What in God's name was she doing here? She took a deep breath and pulled a sack of gold from inside her cloak, wishing it were prayer beads, and held it up.

She smiled. He didn't. She raised her chin a notch. With a dramatic flair she tossed the gold toward the table.

The bag hit the tabletop just as she'd planned. Then she watched in horror as the bag kept going, and slid right off the edge.

It landed squarely in his lap.

Her mouth dropped open and for a horrified instant she just stared at it. With a mental groan, she closed her eyes. A heartbeat later she opened them.

He was staring pointedly at the bag. When he looked up, there was a flicker of amusement on his face.

There was sudden male laughter in the room. Someone behind her shouted. "Now we know what sword the lady wishes to buy, de Ros!"

"Not merely a sword, but his powerful sword!" another voice shouted.

Her face flushed hot and she fervently wished the earth would just open up and swallow her. She spun around and took a step to leave, her humiliation complete.

But again he was quicker.

His hand shot out and grasped a handful of her cloak.

She couldn't move. She couldn't run. She tried to pull free.

Slowly he drew her back toward him. She grabbed at the ties under her chin and jerked them loose. Her cloak fell away.

Run! Run!

But there was no place to run.

There was nothing before her but a wall of grinning male faces and huge bodies. She shoved at the crowd, her tears of humiliation changed into tears of fear and they fell as quickly as her heart pounded.

She could sense the mercenary standing behind her before his shadow blocked the spill of weak candlelight from the swinging lantern above her. His hands closed over her shoulders and he spun her around. She tried to wiggle free. But even in a blood rush of fear her strength was puny compared to his. She took a deep, quivering breath and looked up at him through a mist of frightened tears. She expected to see savagery in his expression, to see cruelty from a man so greatly feared.

But cruelty was not what she saw. She saw some odd emotion. Just as quickly that emotion disappeared and he looked away, although his hands still gripped her so tightly she couldn't move.

He turned to the crowd then pulled her flush against him with one powerful arm clamped across her collarbone.

She cried still harder, silent tears that wouldn't let her catch a full breath.

"Leave off!" His shout filled the room and the jeers and laughter died suddenly. With his free hand he tossed her bag of gold at the barkeep. "Keep the ale flowing all night, till every man has drunk his fill."

A cheer erupted as loud as a battle cry and the men shifted and charged to the tavern bar. She tried to swallow but was struck with fear.

His mouth moved near her ear. "I won't harm you, my lady," he whispered. "Calm yourself." He turned around and released her, but didn't move away, his body providing a shield.

Linnet bit her lip and stared at the toes of her boots. He bent down and retrieved her fallen cloak. He did not give it to her, but instead laid it over one arm. She waited, still frightened, still crying.

Can you not look at me?"

She shook her head, knowing what she'd see if she looked up at him.

"I said I would not harm you," he added quietly.

"Perhaps you won't harm me. But neither will you help me."

He reached out and tilted her chin up with a scarred knuckle. "I've just spent your gold on a few hogsheads of ale." He shrugged and added, "So I seems, my lady, that you've already bought your protection."

She watched him uneasily.

"Come." He held his hand out for her. It was a hard hand, calloused from the grip of a sword handle and crossed with thin and ragged white scars. "We will speak in private."

Suspicious, she watched his expression again and saw an unexpected gentleness. There was something more, something that told her he carried a bit of his own concern. With a sudden realization she knew he was concerned that she would not willingly go with him.

As she digested that, he covered his vulnerability quickly with the same cold and hard look he'd first given her. And she stood there looking at this barbaric warrior who had only moments before frightened the very breath from her.

She was struck by something familiar about his manner. She watched him a moment longer before she understood what it was. De Ros was like a wounded animal that attacks in fear, strikes out and fights viciously when cornered because he is acutely aware that he can be so easily conquered.