A True and Perfect Knight (21 page)

“The danger lies in the woman’s status and intent. Married women and women of low birth pose little threat to a knight. The first already have husbands. The second expect nothing but a pleasant toss. However, most unmarried women of gentle birth see a knight as nothing but a potential husband.”

“I understand. One should not marry where one cannot trust. I shall be as careful as you have been.”

Haven felt the stab of his squire’s statement. Subtlety was not getting him anywhere. “Trust is important, and difficult to attain. It comes with maturity.”

“If a man is prepared with the knowledge you have given me, I do not see the danger.”

Haven sighed. “Let us take, for example’s sake, my wife’s sister-in-law, Rebecca.”

“Yes. What say you? Would she make a good wife for a knight?” Eagerness lit Watley’s eyes and curved his lips.

“She is too young.”

The squire’s mouth straightened. “She is past the age when many females wed.”

“Youth has less to do with age than you might think,” Haven remarked. “Also, her position as a traitor’s sister is precarious.”

The light in the young man’s eyes dimmed. “I know, but…”

“She can bring you no lands, and you have none of your own.”

Watley frowned. “’Tis true…”

“Let me be blunt. I forbid you to court or flirt with the girl.”

Watley’s expression became mulish. “You have no right.”

“I have every right. I am your overlord and, until Edward says otherwise, the girl’s guardian. A match between the two of you would be a grievous mistake. I will not see either of you fall victim to her sly manipulations.”

Haven watched Watley clench a fist against his thigh.

He took a deep breath and compressed his lips. “As you will, Sir Haven.”

“You will thank me, you know.”

“But not at this time. May I return to my duties with Thomas?”

“Aye. Go, but think carefully on my words.”

Watley gave a salute in acknowledgment, turned his horse and left Haven in solitary thought.

Why
, Haven wondered,
do I think I made a mess of that?

That night Haven went looking for Gennie. Rebecca, Thomas and the female servants would occupy the tent. For privacy he had made a bed to share with his wife a short distance from the main camp. He found her just beyond the tent. She stood with her arms crossed over her chest and frowned out into the trees.

“What troubles you, wife?”

“Rebecca is once more in tears.”

“Her tears are cheap. Do not spend your worry upon them.”

Gennie cast him a sharp look. “These tears may prove costly.”

“How so?”

“Watley caused them. She is heartbroken and like to do something rash.”

So his squire had paid attention. Haven suppressed a smile of satisfaction. “You told her to avoid my squire, did you not?” Haven reminded Gennie.

“
Oui
, but in this case she was not flirting. She simply asked Watley to assist her. He refused most abruptly.”

“I did not train my squire to be rude.”

“No doubt, but it seems he was rude.”

“Could you and Rebecca have misunderstood what he said?”

“That is possible, and I was not close enough to hear every word. However, their voices rose quite a bit toward the end of their argument. I distinctly heard Watley call Rebecca sly and manipulative. She’s an inexperienced young woman. Why would he say something so hurtful?” Gennie faced her husband.

Haven couldn’t prevent the flush that heated his neck. He hadn’t expected Watley to repeat those words to Rebecca.

Gennie’s dropped her jaw. “Husband, what do you know of this?”

“I know nothing of what passed between Rebecca and Watley, save what you have told me.”

“But you suspect something.” She began tapping her foot.

Haven wouldn’t be bullied, especially by this woman. He leaned forward and thrust out his chin. “I warned Watley about the dangers of courting inexperienced, gently bred young women.”

“No doubt you phrased your warning as an order.”

“What if I did? It is my responsibility to train my squire for knighthood. If he will not listen to reason, I must supply that training through any means possible, including orders.”

Gennie shook her head and cast her hands skyward. “Husband, there are moments when I believe you are a most true and perfect fool.”

“But…”

She turned on her heel and disappeared into the tent. Haven made to follow her. He would settle this disagreement, and Gennie would share his bed. The sound of rosary beads and the words of the Pater Noster brought him up short. He spun away from the tent and stomped across the clearing to the bed he had made and would now occupy alone.

Be damned if he would share his bed with Gennie and her prayers. He tossed within the furs that covered the pine boughs and cursed at the world. Because of his thickheaded squire and Gennie’s addle-pated sister-in-law, Haven could not sleep. Lavender and cream should have mingled with the scent of pine. Gennie’s soft sighs should have harmonized with the breeze. She should have joined him in marital ecstasy. He hoped her prayers would keep her warm.

Gennie was still praying. Haven rode at the front of the party where he had been for the past two and a half days. He still had not figured out a way to make her stop. He might have to apologize.

The sound of a horse approaching from behind halted his thoughts. Maybe Gennie had come to apologize for calling him a fool. Even though she had been right, it would be nice to have her soothe his vanity.

Owain’s voice dashed that wan hope “Your men complain much.”

“I know this.”

“She used to try praying at Roger.”

“And what did Roger do?”

“He sought more pleasant company.”

“So that’s how she drove him to treason. She prayed him into rebellion.”

Owain laughed.

“I see naught funny about it.”

“Think what you like, but Roger would have left her anyway. Fidelity was not in his nature.”

Haven held his tongue, unsure how he felt about Roger these days. The picture painted by Gennie and some of the others cast his old friend into a new and different light. A light that showed just how lacking Roger had been as a husband. “So once he had left, did she stop this constant praying?”

“Eventually. Think you of leaving us for a while?”

“Nay. That would be foolish this close to Two Hills Keep.”

“Aye. Think you we will get there before Daffydd?”

“I know not.”

They rode in silence for a few moments.

“The men’s grumbles distract them from their purpose.”

“Have you any suggestions?”

“You could kiss her into silence.”

“The thought has occurred to me, but to do so would profane her prayer and cast sin upon us both. I’ve no desire to trade her praying for penance.”

“Then she must be distracted.”

“Aye, but how?”

“She has a most tender heart.”

“Aye, too tender.”

“One of the Welsh archers tells me that a village lies less than a league beyond the keep.”

“So?”

“So villagers often have stray cats or dogs that they would be glad to be rid of, especially for a price.”

“You think I should give my wife a pet.”

“I think a peace offering never hurt. And an offering that strikes her most vulnerable spot is best.”

“’Tis a good plan. Mayhap you can find me a pup in this village.”

“Then you will take the puppy from me and give it to your lady wife.”

Haven looked Owain straight in the face. “Nay, I will give it to her son.”

Owain cocked an eyebrow in thought, then laughed out loud. “Sir, you are a most devious man.”

Haven nodded. “Truly, where my wife is concerned, I am.”

“I will see you anon.” Owain turned back toward his post at the rear of the party.

Haven slowed his own mount to a walk. The clear tones of Gennie’s prayers floated on the air. Haven smiled.

They had just forded a small stream when Haven raised his hand, bringing the party to a halt. The birds had stopped their song, the squirrel’s chatter ceased. The beat of galloping hooves shattered the silence.

The advance guard’s horse broke into view, its rider bent low in the saddle over the lathered animal.

“Lindel, take nine men. Escort the women back across the ford. Protect them at all costs.”

“Aye, Sir Haven.”

As the warrior departed, the guard reined in.

“Report.”

“Welsh warriors. About fifteen mounted. Some bowmen, but I was spotted before I could take their number.”

“More than ten?”

“Less.”

“Did you see Daffydd’s standard?”

“Nay, but their mounts reveal them to be Welsh. None is taller than a large dog.”

“Do not underestimate the advantages of a small horse. What of the terrain ahead?”

“Just around that bend”—the man pointed down the road—“is a small rise. The height would give our archers advantage. The trees are thin there. We could array our horses to defend the flanks of the archers.’

Haven nodded. “Form the archers and march out double quick. I will organize the mounted men and come on behind you.”

“As you wish, Sir Haven.”

From the opposite side of the stream, Gennie watched the battle preparations. Haven’s men had gained experience during their long journey from Yorkshire. Confusion was minimal. In moments, two bands formed and moved out.

Behind her Gennie heard a commotion.

“Let go this instant,’ Rebecca snapped the command. “I must see Watley.”

“But, mistress, we are ordered to stay here.”

Gennie turned, ready to make peace and calm Rebecca, when the girl’s horse shot by, splashed through the stream and headed straight toward the point where the first warriors rounded the bend in the road.

“Lindel, go after her before she causes more harm.”

“But, milady, Sir Haven said…”

“Think you that those men want fear for Rebecca to stay their arms in battle? Go now.”

Lindel nodded and leapt into pursuit at a full gallop.

But Rebecca had gotten a good start. “Watley!” Her shriek echoed through the trees.

Haven and two of the men at the rear of the troop turned in their saddles.

At that moment, an arrow sliced the air.

Chapter Seventeen

The Welsh poured out from the surrounding trees. Haven pulled his sword from his scabbard and kneed his mount to face the nearest opponent. “A de Sessions,” he shouted and swung. The Welshman fell. Haven’s cheek twitched. He wheeled his horse.

Three grinning enemies separated him from his men. The melees in the Holy Land flashed through Haven’s mind. Unbidden, the ululating battle cry of the Saracens welled up from his chest. The sound so startled the three men that he spitted one and unhorsed a second in the time it took the third to land a blow against Haven’s chest.

Haven ignored the pain and sliced at the exposed shirt under his opponent’s outstretched arm. The enemy sword dropped, and the fellow turned tail, opening the way for Haven to join his men. His horse was already in motion when Haven saw a burly Welshman wrestle Rebecca from her mount. The girl clawed at the man, making things as difficult as possible. She managed to delay him long enough for Haven to change directions.

He prayed she would keep fighting just a few moments longer. From the corner of his eye he saw Watley, with surprising agility, dispatch two enemies and start toward Rebecca on a course intersecting Haven’s. Good; the squire’s aid would be welcome.

Haven’s horse faltered over some obstacle. He gathered the reins and tried to help the animal regain his stride. As the steed crashed to the ground, Haven flew over the saddle, straight into the squire’s path. The breath smacked out of Haven on impact. Watley would never be able to stop. Still Haven tried to call a warning.

Time slowed and sound vanished. All Haven could see were the hooves of Watley’s mount aimed squarely at his head. The horse lifted in midstride. From below he watched the animal pass over him. Haven would have sighed his relief had he breath enough. The thought hit him at the same time as the rear hoof of Watley’s mount.

Haven’s vision cleared slowly. His head throbbed. He had to stand up. He had been warned. The Saracens spitted any enemy unable to stand. If he wanted to live, he had to stand.

“Haven. Haven, can you hear me?”

From a long way off a woman’s voice called. What was a woman doing on a Saracen battlefield? Where was Roger? He shook his head to clear it and moaned as pain pounded through his skull and twisted his gut. Despite the agony, he rolled to his side and emptied his stomach onto the dirt and grass. Dirt and grass, not sand. This wasn’t the Holy Land. Wales. Gennie. Rebecca. Watley’s horse.
Roger is dead, because of me.
Pain pushed the thought aside.