The Warrior's Reward

The Warrior’s Reward

Samantha Holt

Herefordshire, England 1412

Wood splintered. Horse hooves pounded. Sand flicked up from the ground, splattering the wooden protection of the
berfrois
on which they all sat. Beside her father, in the centre of the stand, Rosamunde held her breath as the knight toppled from his horse and kicked up a cloud of dust.

The spectators were on their feet before the winner could bring his horse around and survey the damage done. This knight—the Welshman they called him—had beaten all but one of his opponents so far and in one day’s time would be announced as the overall winner. Then he would feast with her and her father in their home. He would sit next to her.

Her stomach flipped and she clenched her hands tightly together. Such bravery. Such courage. She could hardly wait. There were few weeks she looked forward to as much as the annual jousting tournament. When her father had been imprisoned in Wales some five years ago the jousts had been cancelled for the year. She was so glad he decided to hold them again upon his return.

Rosamunde glanced at her father. He hadn’t risen to his feet so nor would she, though the temptation to do so and steal a glimpse of the knight underneath the battered armour burned through her body and made her skin feel as though someone had lit a fire under her seat. She longed to be anything but the well-behaved, refined daughter of the Earl of Tynewell.

Slipping a hand over her father’s arm, she gave it a squeeze. Still, for her father, she would do anything. Nearly losing him to the Welsh at age six-and-ten had frightened her half to death. For that year, she had hardly eaten or slept. Her brothers would look after her—all four of them. But none loved her like their father did. She counted herself lucky indeed.

His gaze met hers but instead of the usual indulgent look, a hint of concern creased his crinkled brow further and something flickered in his pale blue eyes. It vanished quicker than an arrow taking flight but the look dowsed the excitement in her stomach.

The crowds settled and the noise quieted, aside from the occasional rambunctious remark. Her heart squeezed as her gaze struck upon the knight. He had not left the arena yet. Thoughts of her father’s odd mood vanished when the man dismounted and handed the reins to his squire.

Rosamunde never understood how a knight could move easily in all that armour. Her brothers managed it with ease but none of them moved quite so... she wanted to say elegantly but that wasn’t the word at all. He stalked. Like a wolf after its prey, yet the movement was graceful, more like that of a cat.

The rattle of metal seemed to grow increasingly loud. Sweet Mary, he came their way. Her mouth was as dry as the sand coating the ground, her skin as hot as steel forged in flames. Closer. The knight walked past the outstretched hands of the crowd. Her fingers twitched with the need to swipe the perspiration from her brow.

He stopped directly in front of them. He pivoted to face them. Rosamunde swallowed. She forgot to breathe. His hand—no longer encased in gloves or steel—rose to touch his visor. His fingers were long, his hands wide.

A thought struck her. What if he was hideous?

Surely not, with such hands and physique. Wide shoulders filled that armour to perfection. He could not be ugly. Oh she prayed not.

The world became a blur around her. The banners surrounding the arena fluttered at an unnaturally slow speed. She was aware of her father leaning in to speak with her, but not of his words. The knight lifted his visor and any remaining air rushed from her chest.

Bold blue eyes met hers. Even with two rows of people sitting in front of her, it felt as though they might have touched. Her skin pricked under the long sleeves of her gown. Rosamunde dragged her gaze from his long enough to take in the slightly weather-beaten skin, slick with perspiration, the straight dark brows and the errant lock of dark hair curling from underneath his helm and sticking to his forehead. The armour prevented her from assessing his jaw, but his lips were full for a man’s, emphasised by the dark hair that sat on his top lip and vanished beneath his helm.

Handsome. Rosamunde gave a sigh. Handsome, for certain.

“My lady.”

He spoke. To her. Oh sweet mercy. He was indeed a Welshman if his accent was anything to go by. It reached down and struck some sweet chord inside her.

“Good sir,” she replied at her father’s nod of approval, aware her voice shook.

“You have no champion, I see. Will you not grant me a favour and allow me to ride in your honour?”

Resisting the urge to press a hand to her chest while heat flooded up her cheeks, she nodded slowly. No one had ever asked to champion her—not even her two suitors, both of whom had vanished to the winds once her father had declined them. She suspected they were all too terrified of her father or somehow in awe of her. Why that was, she knew not. Her father didn’t scare her and she was certainly incapable of terrifying grown men.

He offered out his lance, directing it over the heads of the ducking crowd toward her. She eyed the blunt, splintered end and marvelled at the courage of the men facing down such a foe. To have this object hurtling toward you, to brace yourself for its impact and to see the strength and skill of this challenger would surely send her into a puddle if she were opposing him. What a fine job it was then, that the knightly arts were left to the men, though she had to confess to witnessing a sharp pang of envy when her brothers had trained. It seemed entirely more exciting than her life—learning to manage a household and how to embroider and behave as a lady should.

Aware her fingers shook, Rosamunde drew the blue ribbon from the end of her braid and took a moment to loosen out the waves across her shoulder. A gleam of appreciation in the knight’s gaze made her a little breathless. She tied the ribbon around the end of the lance and watched the blue silk flutter against the battered wood—an echo of their lives perhaps. He, the rough, battle-hardened knight, and she the delicate, refined lady.

Rosamunde suppressed a sigh. Except there was more to her than that, was there not? Or was there? She’d never really had the chance to find out. Her father kept her tucked away in the keep as often as he could, only bringing her out for jousts, feasts and important visitors. She understood why. He did it out of love more than anything. But it still vexed her.

The tilt of the knight’s lips drew her thoughts away from her frustration and he dipped his head. “My thanks, my lady.”

“Ride well, sir knight.” She drew in a breath and held onto her courage. “I hope that you shall be triumphant and we may dine together one night’s hence.”

Instead of the stiffening she expected from her father or the faint hiss of scolding, he simply nodded, and the knight’s eyes flashed before he dipped his head again.

“I shall fight simply for that honour, my lady. My victory would mean nothing without such a reward.”

Sweet Mary. If the day had been warm and she had been sitting here much longer, she might not have blamed herself for falling into a swoon. Aye, she had heard sweet words before, but never spoken with such sincerity. All had been spoken on a jest or with a mocking smile. Neither of her suitors had professed to love or care for her. Nay, their only incentive was her wealth and certainly not her company.

Mayhap it was all an act, but she cared not. She followed his easy movements atop his mount as he directed the horse away and out of the arena before the next joust started. The tournament brought the only excitement in her life and she intended to make the most of it. A harmless flirtation with a handsome knight would certainly bring some excitement to her life.

She leaned over to speak with father. “What is his name?”

“Ieuan ap Rhys,” he replied, his face like stone. She knew she would get no more from him.

Rosamunde tested the foreign-sounding name in her mind and found it to be pleasing indeed. Then she turned to her lady-in-waiting, Bella. “Do you know aught of him?”

The pretty brown-haired woman, who was only two summers younger than her at nine and ten, offered a secretive smile. “He’s a mystery, my lady. He travelled across from Wales for this tournament. No one knows of his family or his wealth, but it’s said he holds much land.”

“Much land?” she replied with a grin. “Well, that makes him attractive indeed.”

Bella giggled. “He has taking a liking to you.”

That pesky warmth crept up her cheeks again. “Aye, well, it shall pass I’m sure, but I shall enjoy it while it lasts.”

“Mayhap he will ask your father for your hand,” Bella said in hushed undertones.

A swirl of excitement rushed through her at the thought of such a man offering for her. But she hardly knew him or his circumstances. She might allow herself to be swept away by romance and chivalry for one night of feasting but a lifetime was an entirely different matter.

“If my father is prepared to turn away two of the richest men in the country, I highly doubt he’ll accept a nameless knight’s suit.”

“It would be so very exciting if he did though.”

Rosamunde pressed a finger to her lips and strained to see him in amongst the men outside the arena but he was lost in the crowds. How she longed to see him out of his armour before the morrow. Now that would be exciting.

Ieuan dipped his hands into the barrel and doused his face in the frigid water. It brought cool relief to his heated skin and rinsed away the sweat that had gathered under his armour. He rolled his shoulders and flexed his arms. He hardly counted jousting as his favourite activity but apparently it was a skill his body had not forgotten over the years. Though, he had to confess, his body ached in several places that he didn’t remember aching in his youth.

Not to mention the wild ache in his groin at present. He’d have to find a willing woman for the night. Memories of bold hazel eyes, smooth white skin and a dimpled cheek tugged at his gut.

“The Treasure of Tynewell,” he murmured to himself.

Ieuan propped his hands on either side of the barrel and stared at his reflection. The rumours had not been false. She was every bit as beautiful as the tales had made her out to be and her nickname was well-deserved. With her father’s reputation for turning down suitable husbands and guarding her fiercely, it was no wonder the fief and much of England called her such.

“A treasure indeed,” he murmured and dunked his head under the water for several moments. When he lifted his head, water streamed from his hair and he swiped it away from his face.

A treasure he hoped to claim very soon.

The Earl of Tynewell would not deny him surely? His father had assured him the earl would not. The manner of their agreement was a mystery to him but when a rich wife was on the offering and a man was in sore need of said riches, a man wouldn’t complain.

Would the lady deny him?

Nay. He pushed back his damp hair and pondered if he should not have had it cut prior to the tournament. He hadn’t thought it necessary to impress Lady Rosamunde de Lacy but some small part of him wanted to now. After all, an agreeable wife would be far easier to manage.

Ieuan straightened his tunic and made for his tent on the outskirts of the pavilion. Once he made his way past the merchants and the smithys’ tents, he came upon his own modest one and pushed aside the heavy fabric to find his squire lying back with his eyes closed.

“Should you not be seeing to the horse?”

The boy’s eyes snapped open and he leapt up. “Of course, sir. Forgive me.”

Ieuan grinned as Bryn hastened past him. “Get a move on, lad.” He gave the boy a teasing clip to the ear, receiving a rueful smile in return.

Once Bryn had gone, Ieuan took up the same position and rested his hands behind his head, allowing the aches and pains of the day to drift away into the straw pallet. But a certain ache would not vanish.

“The Treasure of Tynewell,” he murmured again to himself. If he married her, he would claim her as his. He would spread her thighs and take her. Deep need coiled inside him as he imagined those innocent hazel eyes widening and those pink lips parting on a sigh. Ieuan would have what no other man ever had. Her body and her wealth.

He admitted that had she been hideous he would still marry her. Her wealth had been his reason for journeying from his castle on the border of Wales. And when he had talked of coming to the Tynewell
Pas d'armes
in the inns, many had spoken of the treasure
.
At first he had thought they meant jewels or vast quantities of coin, but nay, they meant the Lady Rosamunde. So heavily guarded and beautiful was she that the tales of her had travelled quite the distance.

Gazing up at the fabric rooftop of his tent, Ieuan let slip a grin. The Welsh were lovers of tales. Before long his countrymen would be talking of his tale, of how he had gained the treasure that no Englishman could. After the failure of the Welsh rebellion, it would bring a mere drop of pleasure, but the victory would be sweet indeed.

And all the more sweet for him.

He closed his eyes and let the remembrance of her voice whisper over him. He would introduce himself formally on the morrow and persuade her to say his name. Her voice had not been sweet like honey—a surprise indeed, for her fragile looks said otherwise. Instead it had been husky, rich—like red wine. Such a voice from a flaxen-haired beauty would astonish any man, he wagered, and he was not the sort to be surprised. Given his birth, he could not afford to be.

Always on his guard. Always hiding behind a lie.

“Sir!”

Ieuan’s heart bounded against his chest and he scrabbled for his sword only to come up with nothing but a fistful of blankets as he bolted upright.

“Hell’s teeth, what is it, Bryn?” He peered at the lad who had poked his head through the opening of the tent.

“Granville defeated Mallory.”

“Damnation.”

Granville—the Fox of the North, they called him because he was so damned wily—was the only man who had defeated him thus far. And now it looked as though the knight might take his place at the table with Rosamunde. No doubt the man wanted a shot at the treasure too. And if he didn’t get a place at her father’s table, he wouldn’t get the chance to approach him to ask for her hand. He might find another chance, but he doubted it. The earl would use every opportunity to avoid him.

“You’ll have to defeat him tomorrow.”

Ieuan glared at Bryn. “I’m aware of that, you foolish boy.”

He released his grip on the blankets and lay back. Ignoring the lad, he turned his attention to the top of the tent again. Pursing his lips, he allowed a tiny thread of confidence to work its way inside him. He was a warrior, he was Welsh, he had royal blood in him, and he had something Granville did not. He had Lady Rosamunde’s favour. He was her champion.

If the thought of sitting next to that beautiful figure and inhaling the scent of her didn’t push him to win, nothing would.