The Warrior's Reward (2 page)

“Don’t undo my gown,” Rosamunde told Bella. “We are going out.”

“Going out?” Bella hissed, as though there were people in Rosamunde’s bed chamber or spies listening at the door. Which, mayhap there were. Two men-at-arms were always stationed outside her chamber. At one and twenty, it seemed ridiculous to be so heavily guarded, but her father would not have it any other way.

There was a knock at the door. Just in time. Bella narrowed her eyes at her and Rosamunde grinned. “Enter.”

Sara, one of the serving maids, entered wearing a thick black woollen cloak just as they discussed. “I brought you a drink before I return home, milady,” she said loudly for the benefit of the guards.

“My thanks, how thoughtful of you.”

Rosamunde ushered her in and shut the door behind her. Sara placed the jug of ale down on the large chest of drawers and hastily slipped off her cloak. With fair hair and a similar build, Rosamunde felt sure she could pass for Sara under the cloak.

Slipping on the mantle, Rosamunde lifted the hood as far over her head as she could. “What do you think? Shall the guards know ‘tis me?”

Bella groaned. “My lady, what are you up to?”

“I’m going to join in the revelry. I cannot stand a moment longer trapped in this keep.”

She paced across the room and pushed open the creaky window. The scent of roasted meats drifted into the room. Torches cast their golden glow about the lands in front of her father’s keep, like little fireflies lighting the night. Fires dotted the hills and the red and white tents billowed in the evening breeze. She smiled as a bawdy song drifted up to greet her. She imagined the men and women dancing, drinking, eating.

Excitement.

She just had to join in.

When she pushed away from the cold stone, she saw Sara had settled on the canopied bed and grinned up at them. Rosamunde had spoken with the maid after supper and though Sara had been more than happy to help, Rosamunde also offered her several coins. After all, if her father found out, they would all be in trouble. Though she was confident she could talk him out of any drastic action or else she would not have asked Sara.

“You’re mad, my lady.”

“Mayhap.” She tugged the mantle around her head once more. “Are you to join me, Bella?”

“I could hardly let you go on your own now, could I?”

Anticipation whirled in her belly when she snatched her purse and tucked it around the girdle of her gown. She, Lady Rosamunde de Lacy, was going to escape the castle for one night and dance and sing and... well, who knew what else? She was hoping for many things.

Heart fluttering in her chest, she motioned for Belle to go first and clasped her mantle around her. The lady-in-waiting opened the door and they slipped out.

Rosamunde waited for a shout of recognition. Tensed as they strode quickly past the two guards. A cough from behind her nearly made her jump clean from the cloak but no heavy footsteps or rattling swords followed. Now they simply needed to escape down the outer staircase and avoid anyone else. Her father would be in his solar and many of the household would be abed. They could slip back in and no one would be any the wiser.

And she would have her little adventure.

Skirts in hand, they made their way down the steps. Stars twinkled overhead, the night as clear as the day had been. Fresh, cool air filled her chest and she couldn’t help but grin to herself. When they made it to the bottom of the stone steps, her heart had almost stopped pounding so heavily.

“Come on. Before we see anyone we know,” she said, slipping her arm through Bella’s.

“If your father—”

“Oh hush, he will never find out.”

Arm in arm, they made their way down the short embankment of the castle toward the tents. The two sennights the tournament had been on had been utter torture. To see all the bold knights and the villagers enjoying themselves so close by and she, trapped in her castle like a prisoner, only able to watch from her window... But no longer. The boldness of that knight today had inspired her. If he could be so brave as to approach her whilst she was at her father’s side, she could find the courage to enjoy one night of revelry. Whatever memories she made tonight would carry her through whatever the years brought.

More summers trapped behind the stone of her father’s keep, most likely. It didn’t look as though he would ever say aye to a suitor or allow her a little more freedom. It was so unfair.

Flaming torches held in iron stakes that were in turn stuck into the ground led the way past the pavilion tents which housed most of the knights and, of course, the surgeons which were inevitably needed. Her father’s tournament was never meant to be a fight to the death but accidents happened and occasionally tempers flared.

She gripped Bella closer to her while they made their way past a group of men sitting around a fire. The merchant tents were farther back, some still open to sell their wares. Food and drink was most popular at this time of day and several men, and even a few women, stumbled along the wide mud pathway that led to the centre of the revelry.

Ahead a huge bonfire blazed. Smoky swirls rose into the air then vanished into the blackness and sparks danced from it. The scent of burning wood mingled with that of a hog roast that Rosamunde saw was being carved from one of the many stalls surrounding the fire. But the main attraction was the ale tent. Set up by the local innkeeper, the shouts and singing told her many were in it and the innkeeper would do well from this tournament.

“Should we go in?” Rosamunde asked when they neared the tent. The flaps were lifted far back and rows of tables were occupied with knights and simple peasant folk, all bonding over their shared passion—for getting into their cups.

“I don’t think that’s wise, my lady. What if someone recognises you?”

“They will not. No one would believe for one moment that my father would let me out without him.”

Bella’s arm tensed on hers but Rosamunde would not be dissuaded. She refused to have regrets about tonight. They ducked into the tent. No one turned to look at them as she feared. In fact they were all far too busy enjoying themselves to care about the two new women in their midst.

And if the scantily clad state of some of the wenches was anything to go by, no one would bother. Breasts were pressed into faces and thighs draped across laps of the obviously richer patrons. Rosamunde had to fight to keep from gaping. She had no ambitions to be a... well, to be a fallen woman, but a sharp jolt of something knifed through her. To have no inhibitions, to have such freedom. The thought of pressing herself against a muscular man, of his fingers on her thighs or maybe even her breasts made her pulse flutter.

Before she got carried away with such ideas, she urged Bella to the trestle table that housed several dozen tankards of ready-poured ale. Rosamunde pressed a coin into her friend’s hand and urged her forward. “Buy some,” she hissed.

“We don’t even know what’s in it.”

“’Twill just be ale.”

Bella dropped her shoulders and shuffled over to take two beakers and hand the coin to the innkeeper. Then she gave Rosamunde one and made a good show of checking the contents.

Rosamunde clasped the earthenware tankard and took a great gulp. Bitter hops flooded her mouth and she fought to keep from spluttering.

“I warned you.”

Narrowing her gaze at Bella, she lifted the tankard defiantly and drained it, even allowing some to slip down her chin. She swiped a hand across the back of her mouth and they both laughed.

“That is certainly not like the ale we have in the castle. And not nearly so weak, methinks. I feel all warm and tingly already.”

“Oh, my lady, whatever are we to do with you,” her lady-in-waiting said indulgently.

“I could think of a few things,” a man slurred from behind them.

They both leapt forward when the large man wrapped his arms about their shoulders. Bella managed to slip away but his grip on Rosamunde tightened. Acrid breath washed over her. Rosamunde wrinkled her nose. The man needed a bath.

She tried to wriggle away again, reluctant to draw attention to herself, while Bella darted her gaze wildly around.

“Release me,” Rosamunde said in her most impervious voice.

“Come join me for a drink, wench. Ye look lonely. I’ve a fine lap for ye to sit on.”

“I thank you, kind sir, but I do not want to sit on your lap. I’m quite happy where I am.”

“Nonsense.” Securing his other arm around her waist and drawing her into his body, he began to move her toward one of the benches.

Rosamunde wriggled. This wasn’t meant to happen. She had thought of being pressed against the muscles of a knight perhaps, not the soft, round belly of a man who had clearly not bathed in the two sennights the tournament had been running.

What to do? Should she reveal herself?

Bella rushed forward then froze when the man put a hand to Rosamunde’s neck. “I’ll go for help,” she declared before racing off.

Rosamunde tried to kick back with her feet but met nothing but air. She wriggled again. She tried pleading. No one paid any heed to her. Her captor simply laughed. Mayhap he thought she played some game with him.

He sat and pulled her down with him so the air left her chest in a
whoosh
. One thick arm wrapped about her waist and settled her on him. She pushed at the arm but might as well have been held there by the iron restraints in the donjon. Her strength was no match for his.

“Pray, let me go,” she begged, frustration turning her voice raspy. This was not how her adventure was meant to go.

“I think not. Have a drink.” The man shoved a beaker across the table, causing some of the ale to spill onto her silk skirts.

“You know not what you’re doing. Release me. I’m not... I’m not a whore.”

“They all say that.” He drained a beaker of ale and turned his face to her. A finger came up to her mantle. “Let’s have a look at ye.”

“Nay!”

She closed her eyes and waited for him to press back the mantle and then something happened. The hold on her loosened. She found herself tumbling to the ground. The man holding her seemed to lift from the bench and stumble out of the door. Rosamunde pressed her stinging palms to the ground and forced herself to sit upright. A large palm greeted her, offered in assistance. She took it without thinking, the coarse warmth instantly soothing her.

Her rescuer helped her to her feet, bundled her into his side and led her out of the tent. She gulped. Muscle. So much muscle. It felt as though horses were stampeding through her chest. Then he drew her to one side, in front of a closed tent, and released her. Icy disappointment washed over her but she straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin, ready to offer her thanks.

Her mouth dropped open. “Ieuan!”

In the light of the bonfire and scattered torches, she recognised those full lips and that dark facial hair. Without his helm, she had a fine view of a strong jaw. A small scar sliced down through his bottom lip and into the hair on his chin, leaving a tiny sliver of a bald patch. It made him seem, well, dangerous and, sweet Mary, so very exciting.

His brows dipped and he reached up to press back her mantle. She instinctively went to prevent him but forced herself to drop her hands. There would be no stopping him. She only hoped he didn’t run and tell her father of her antics.

“My lady.” His lips quirked as his gaze ran over her features.

Rosamunde gazed up at him. A mere pace separated them. He towered over her. Even in a simple tunic and chausses, he appeared every inch the warrior. He needed no metal armour to widen his shoulders.

“Whatever are you doing out here?”

Should she confess all? “Will you tell my father?”

He shook his head. “I swear upon my honour. It shall be our secret.”

Our
secret. A tingling thrill wound through her. They had a secret. “I sneaked out,” she spilled out breathlessly.

“Indeed.”

“I did not mean to find trouble.”

“It seems trouble found you, my lady.”

His warm smile drew one from her and she laughed. “It seems it did. I must thank you, sir.”

“I am your champion, am I not? And, pray, call me Ieuan.”

“As my champion, you must call me Rosamunde then.”

She tucked her hands behind her back and licked her lips. Had he moved closer? The gap between them seemed to be closing. She knew not whether to move back against the fabric of the tent or allow him to press up against her. If that was even his intention. She had very little experience with menfolk. The two brief courtships had mostly been directed at wooing her father rather than herself.

Lord, but he was handsome. The golden light gilded his features, warmed his dark hair. She laced her fingers together behind her back and squeezed them tight.

“Rosamunde,” he said softly, her name whispering across her face like a caress.

Never had her name sounded so enticing or sinful.

A soulful tune moved through the air toward them, breaking the way his gaze locked with hers. He turned his head to the sound and she did the same to see several troubadours had gathered to play for some dancers. It was a simple tune with no singing. She didn’t know it, but it was soft and flowing. It made her want to sway... mayhap even forward, into his arms.