A Knight in Tarnished Armor (6 page)

"Oh! You fell in the stream!" Linnet hurried toward him with a blanket. "You'll freeze to death!"

William gave her a long look and almost laughed. "I doubt it."

She stood there with the blanket in her hand, looking completely confused.

Again he was reminded of how very sheltered she had been. He still had no idea how to win her over. He felt foolish and awkward, which was as frustrating as that intense passion he felt for her but had to keep in check.

She had moved to stand close to him and tugged on his arm. He looked down. She reached up and placed her hand on his forehead, then frowned. "Your brow is cool."

"There is a God," he muttered.

"You're not fevered?"

"No," he said more sharply than he intended, then softened it with, "I am tired."

She smiled and patted his chest. "I have just what you need." She spun around and rushed over to a pile of sacks, a large pile of sacks.

"You unpacked."

"Aye," she said and dumped out one of the sacks, then grinned. "Velvet pillows. For our comfort." She dumped out another sack. "More pillows." She dumped out another. "And a feather coverlet . . ."

He leaned against the tree and watched her dump out sack after sack until the small clearing looked like the inside of a harem. Any moment he was certain she would unpack silk hangings for the tree limbs.

"I know it is here somewhere," she mumbled, and two more pillows sailed over her head to land at his feet. "Ah-ha!" She turned and held up a large yellow and red striped cloth. "Look!"

He stared at the cloth, frowning.

"You cannot see? This is a tent."

"I know what it is." It looked to be the type of tent used in a tourney. He could see four bright yellow pennants still lying on the ground behind her.

"I brought it to sleep in. Here." She handed it to him, then stood there looking very pleased with herself. "Now we have everything we need."

"Except the poles and stakes."

"What poles?"

"The tent poles."

She began to chew on her lip.

"Poles that hold up the tent," he explained.

She snapped her fingers. "So that's what those sticks were for."

He began to laugh. And he laughed loud and hard.

She laughed too then said with a giggle, "What a shame we cannot merely use the pickled eel."

He shook his head and his laughter faded, his smile remaining for another moment.

She touched his arm again. "I like it when you laugh," she admitted with that honesty that still jarred him. Then she foolishly smiled back at him.

He stared at her for a long moment, then gave her a taste of his own honesty. "That's a sure way to find yourself well kissed."

She blinked, somewhat surprised, then she said, "I always wondered how that was done."

He laughed, more at himself than at her. "So my lady has never been kissed."

She shook her head and sighed. "I always thought my first kiss would be in the garden at Ardenwood." She smiled a dreamy kind of smile. "With the moon shining and the night roses and honeysuckle blooming, and me in the arms of a handsome knight who had paid court to me."

"How does a lady dream of being courted?" He tried to sound casual, not giving away how important her answer was.

"How? I'm not certain. The usual way I suppose. With flowers and sweets and romance. My sisters' husbands courted each one a different way. Michael played the lute and sang love ballads to Maude. ‘Twas truly touching. John wrote the most passionate poetry for Elizabeth."

William stifled a groan.

"Isabelle's husband brought her silks and scents from the East, and delicious comfits and a posy. He was very romantic."

Romantic. Something William was surely not. He could not spout pretty words and he'd been told his singing voice sounded like the rusted chains of a drawbridge. He said nothing, just set the tent aside and walked toward the trees.

"Where are you going?"

"We should get some sleep."

She followed, rushing to keep up with his longer strides. "But what shall we use for shelter?"

"The trees are our shelter." He shook out a blanket with a snap, dropped it, and stretched out on the ground, crossing his boots at the ankle.

She stood nearby, hugging two pillows and looking at the sky as if she expected it to fall on her at any time. "But what if it rains?"

"It is not going to rain." He locked his hands behind his head.

"Oh." She sat down next to him and began to arrange a bed. "You sound certain."

"I am certain."

“If you are certain,” she said with a shrug, then proceeded to lay every blanket stop her pillow pallet and lastly topped it off with the feather coverlet.

He'd sweat to death under all that, he thought.

She finally crawled underneath the covers. After a minute of peaceful silence, she asked, "William?"

"Hmm?"

"Would you like some of these pillows?"

"No."

"I have plenty."

He grunted.

"Perhaps only one? On which to rest your head?"

He turned over and looked at her. She was holding out a pillow. He took it, stuffed it under his head, and closed his eyes.

She shifted around for a few more minutes, then finally lay down.

He resisted the urge to applaud.

"William?"

"Aye?"

"I have more blankets too."

"I'm fine."

"You'll freeze with only one blanket. And you did fall into the river. It must have been icy. You could become ill, especially sleeping on the ground."

"I've slept more often on the ground in the past few years than in a bed." He turned over and looked at her. He felt suddenly very foolish. "You have never slept anywhere but in a bed, have you?"

"I slept in a hammock once. ‘Twas quite interesting. Took me four attempts before I managed not to spill out of it. ‘Twas the only time I have ever bloodied my nose." She laughed at herself, then pulled the covers over and around her and huddled under them. With only her face showing she looked like a spring cabbage.

He called himself all kinds of an idiot. Again. He should have planned a place for her to stay. Somewhere warm and with some comforts for a lady, just as he should have planned for more elaborate food than meager meals of bread and cheese. He hadn't thought about what she would need. He had been too determined to get her alone. Too ready to be with her. Too desperate to think clearly.

Now he was with her, alone, and his time was passing quickly, like water leaking from the jar of a water clock. He felt each droplet was a lost moment.

"This is rather nice," she said with a sigh. "Look at all those stars." She sounded surprised and pleased. "I don't think I've ever seen the sky like this. It's as if above us is a canopy full of stars." She paused. "So very interesting . . ."

"What is so interesting?"

"Somehow seeing the sky like this makes the night less dark and frightening."

He stared up at the night sky, wondering how someone could think it frightening. The lack of sunlight gave him a sense of privacy. The air was still. Cold. And it was quiet. To him there was a strange power in the darkness of the night. A peace. Battles were not fought at night.

"Do you think the tales are true?"

"What tales?"

"That all the stars are angels."

He looked at the sky and wondered at such fanciful nonsense. "Men use the stars to guide them home," he said quietly.

"Did you?"

"Aye. I sailed home on a ship. A ship's crew uses the stars to keep on course."

"I didn't know that."

"See that bright star directly above us? That's what is called a mariner's star."

"It's very beautiful." She paused. "What is it like to sail on a ship?"

He turned, frowning.

She must have read his puzzlement because she added, "I mean, how does it feel?"

He stared at the night sky and wondered when he had stopped noticing things—the vast numbers of stars, the sweet taste of a honeyed fig, the feel of the sea. He sat up a little and rested his head on his hand while he looked down at her.

Her hands were folded prayerlike beneath the pillow and she just lay there, calmly, looking at him with expectant eagerness.

"The sea is unpredictable. There are times when a ship can glide smoothly over the water, and other times where the sea can pound so much water into the ship that one is certain it will sink at any moment." He paused thoughtfully. "I suppose sailing is like war in a way, a battle of the elements—wind and weather and the massive seas—things, powerful things, that one cannot control."

She was quiet, then she cocked her head. "I think perhaps I'd be frightened to death. Yet I can hear in your voice that you find pleasure in danger, don't you?"

He shrugged, uncomfortable at speaking so plainly of his thoughts, but he fought to keep his expression impassive. ‘Tis a challenge."

She said nothing, just wiggled under her covers. He wished she would go to sleep. Then he could watch her freely, watch her sleep. Her scent drifted to him in the midsummer air, making him aware of her in ways he'd just as soon forget. He took a deep breath and found her scent as soul cleansing as fresh sea air. He stared up into the night sky, before he took one last look at her.

She was watching him.

He would kiss her, at any moment. He knew he would. He started to move toward her.

"William?" She spoke his name gently, as if it were natural to her.

He froze.

"Thank you," she whispered sleepily, and closed her eyes.

Humming a bright tune, Linnet wormed her way through some bushes, Quintus, Neot, and Vitus following behind while Swithun tugged on her hem. There was a small copse of gooseberry bushes here somewhere, she thought. She had spotted the bushes while trying to walk out the stiffness from being too long atop a horse.

They had traveled for most of the next day, until William had finally stopped to rest at a river bend where marsh marigolds bloomed brightly, and the trees and bushes were thick, lush, and flanked by a meadow filled with buttercups.

A little distance away she found the gooseberries, then held out her tunic and began to pick them. Within a few minutes, she had several handfuls of plump berries cupped in her skirt. She stopped humming and glanced down at her cats. "Shall we taste them, sweetings?" They looked up at her and she grinned. "Yes, I think we should too." She popped one into her mouth, and shuddered. They were as sour as old wine.

"Now what would you do with sour gooseberries?"

They meowed.

"Me too," she said, then she began to sing a silly little song she made up as she danced to the tune.

Hey fiddle diddle dee!

Hey fiddle fee.

I'd rather be a fairy,

than a gooseber-ry . . .

A handful at a time, she tossed the berries over her shoulder, and the cats scampered after them, batting them with their fluffy paws. She made a game of flinging the berries skyward and listening to them patter onto the ground and bushes behind her, humming and skipping to the merry tune of the falling berries. She looked at the cats and laughed. "Those berries ought to be good for something since they surely are not good for eating."

After a few more minutes she glanced down, just as a flash of gray fur trotted off toward the trees edging the river where a meadowlark had perched on low elm branch.

"Swithun!" she called. "Come back here!" As usual, he ignored her. She tossed away the last handful of berries and dusted off her tunic, then spun around.

William de Ros stood there, looking as tall as an ancient elm. And just as rigid.

She stared at him for a second. He had gooseberries in his hair.

She grinned.

He didn't.

Laughter just bubbled up and she tried to stop, but couldn't. He had a plump gooseberry wedged in his earring. She covered her mouth with a hand.

He shook his head and berries flew everywhere. The cats raced anxiously around his boots, thinking he
was
another something for them to play with.

Now she was giggling aloud. He glared at her, but it did no good. The gooseberry was still stuck in his earring, which didn't look barbaric now. It looked rather silly.

She dropped her hand and took a breath, smiling. "Your face is as sour as those berries." She gave him her sincerest look. "I'm sorry. Truly. I did not know you were there." She walked toward him and stopped. He stared at her for a long moment. She reached up and plucked the berry from his earring and held it up. "You missed one."

He was silent and she cocked her head and watched him, trying to read his thoughts." ‘Twas then that she saw the flowers. Clutched in his battle scarred hand was a small posy of marigolds, maidenhair fern, and bright buttercups. He stiffened and looked at the bouquet. She wondered what he was thinking. He looked so strange—a warrior standing before her, tall and fierce, until one noticed the flowers. ‘Twas rather like watching the devil pet a kitten. Certainly not a scene one would imagine for a mercenary like William de Ros.