A Knight to Remember (25 page)

His hands ached to hold a sword, yet across on the opposite hill, he could see the tents of the enemy lined up in colorful rows. Before each tent waved a flag with the symbol of its owner sewn on in bright silks. Lions, griffins, and eagles reared their heads, but to one Hugh’s gaze kept straying.

A stag on a background of black and red proved one thing. The Maxwells were here.

“My lord.” Dewey stood at his elbow. “Sir Herbert wishes to know where he should place his archers.”

Hugh’s gaze never left the tents. “I already told him.”

“I know, my lord, but he seems nervous.”

With a sigh, Hugh turned and went toward Sir Herbert’s tent. A good knight and one of the king’s faithful barons, Sir Herbert was inclined to fret on the eve of battle, and Hugh knew it was worth his while to reassure him.

Then Hugh returned to his place on the hill. The sun had set while he calmed Sir Herbert’s fears, and now he could see aught of the other camp but the fires of the enemy.

Many were the flames, and many were the knights squatting around them. It wouldn’t be an easy fight, not at all, and he looked forward to it.

About that, anyway, Edlyn was right. He did like to fight. What man wouldn’t? The scent of destrier between his thighs, the sight of an armored knight charging him, the clash of arms all around…ah, it roused his blood. No mere woman could understand.

Still, an intelligent man did what he could to ensure victory, even if his actions didn’t involve killing.

His gaze returned to the place where he knew the Maxwells waited.

“M’ lord, I got a group o’ foot soldiers who’ve never seen battle before, an’ they’re making themselves half ill with fear.” Wharton’s voice came from the dark void beside Hugh. “Could ye come an’ put th’ fear o’ deserting into them before they flee?”

“I’ll come,” Hugh answered. It was always thus the night before a battle. Every man looked up at the stars and feared he would never see them again. Every man feared he would end a legless beggar on the street, reminding passersby of a long ago battle and pleading for a few pence. Every man feared he’d left his wife for the last time.

Edlyn…

Hugh calmed the foot soldiers easily. They were good men, but untried, and when he demonstrated a few tricks with the quarterstaff and the lance, they stopped quaking and began practicing. He left Wharton supervising their training and walked through his camp, greeting his knights, speaking with his lords, reassuring everyone the royal commander was there and knew his duty.

But even as he walked, his mind returned to the camp across the way.

The Maxwells.

He’d lived in their drafty, primitive castle in Scotland for over a year. They’d taught him Scottish tracking techniques. He taught them English fighting tricks. He’d drunk their ale and learned their songs, but tomorrow he would face them on the battlefield and kill them.

It was part of a knight’s life and nothing new. So why did he think there could be a better way?

He couldn’t help but remember Edlyn, captured by the bandits and feeding them noxious herbs. And Edlyn, trapped in Richard’s castle, singing her way to freedom. Edlyn didn’t understand fighting, but she did understand how to weigh the balance in her direction.

He liked not such womanish tricks, yet the sight of that white flag haunted him. He had to defeat this army so his forces could rescue the king and place him once more on the throne. He had to get home for Edlyn.

Hugh heard Wharton’s hoarse voice calling him and swerved away. Dewey spoke not far from Wharton, and Hugh swerved again. He made his way to the supply wagon, and while the man in charge gossiped with his helpers, he hoisted a barrel of ale onto his shoulders and tromped off into the night.

“
You cannot send
to my lord to tell him of our dilemma.” The evening rushlights were lit as Edlyn spun a thread from her spindle.

Beside her, Neda watched and muttered in disgust as the thread got fatter, then thinner, then fatter again.

Edlyn ignored her critique and said, “It would distract him from battle, and that I cannot allow.”

“But my lady, our situation is dire!” Burdett paced across Edlyn’s bedchamber and ignored his wife’s murmured instructions to his lady.

Burdett’s agitation had been growing every day since Pembridge and his knights had shown themselves at the gate of Roxford Castle. Although the steward was efficient in every other way, Edlyn had found him ill suited to warfare. His wife dealt with the disquietude of this siege much better than her husband, and Neda glanced between Burdett and Edlyn in obvious worry as she wound her own finely pulled yarn into a colorful ball.

“Pembridge knows this castle too well,” Burdett said. “He knows our weaknesses, he knows our vulnerabilities. He breached the outer walls through a
nefarious trick, and he came so fast we lost the villagers to him.”

Such a point rubbed Edlyn sore. It was the duty of the lord and lady to protect their people, but she’d had no time to give the villagers refuge. Pembridge had been at the outer gate almost before they could shut it, then even as they’d amassed the castle workers, he’d attacked through a hidden gate and captured the outer bailey. Now, every day, she watched from the wall walk while Pembridge used the villagers as labor, and at night she listened to the screams of the women as the knights used them for enjoyment.

No wonder the villagers had been ready to change lords. Yet what must they think of her as they suffered under Pembridge’s hand?

Burdett was oblivious to Edlyn’s dejection. “The loss of Sir Philip as commander has sore crippled our defense.”

Edlyn could have groaned at Burdett’s indiscretion. A glance at her bed showed that Sir Philip, propped up on the pillows and ruddy with fever, had been angered by Burdett’s thoughtless comment. “Crippled? Crippled?” Thrusting back the covers, he lifted his bandaged leg in both his hands. “I can still give orders.”

“But you cannot lead!” For a steward, Burdett showed a rare lack of tact. “You cannot walk on a foot with the flesh seared off, and the herbs my lady gives you to ease the pain have—”

Edlyn interrupted. “Sir Philip well knows his shortcomings, yet the men still trust him.” She gladly dropped the spindle and pointed a finger at Burdett when he would have spoken again, and the steward silenced himself. “And we still have Sir Lyndon.”

“I am not so wounded I don’t know what’s happening,” Sir Philip snapped.

Edlyn walked to his side. “In sooth, I do not know what I would do without you.” Covering the knight again, she smiled into his face. “You may not be able to walk, but your battle wisdom has proved invaluable to me.”

“Damn that Pembridge.” Sir Philip seemed calm, but Edlyn didn’t doubt the sincerity of his curse. “He got his men in through that gate before I even knew there was a gate.”

“How could you know?” she said.

“
He
might have told me.” Sir Philip glared at Burdett.

Burdett defended himself hotly. “I would have if I’d had a single suspicion that an attack force lurked in the forest just waiting for Lord Hugh to leave.”

“Sir Philip knows that.” Neda tried to soothe him.

“’Tis almost treason!” Sir Philip shouted.

“Burdett is trustworthy,” Edlyn said.

“The gate was blocked up years ago!” Burdett shouted back.

“And reopened when?” Sir Philip roared.

“I know not!” Burdett tapped his chest. “But I am not a traitor to your lady. If I were, would I not have simply opened the gates and allowed Pembridge and all his henchmen free entry? Perhaps ’tis you, and that was why you were wounded.”

Sir Philip sat up straight for the first time in three days. “Are you saying I’m so stupid I couldn’t even open the gate without injury to myself?”

“That is enough!” Edlyn rapped out. “I will direct the defense without either of you if you won’t stop insulting one another.”

Both men subsided.

“What was done is in fitting with Pembridge’s character,” Edlyn said. “He ever skulked and waited for
the right opportunity. I simply wish he hadn’t found his opportunity here.”

Sir Philip’s heavy gray brows curled with his interest. “Do you know him, my lady?”

What was the use of denying it now? “Aye, I know him. He was a friend of my husband’s. A friend of Robin of Jagger.” Neda and Burdett exchanged startled glances, but Edlyn didn’t want questions. In the tone she used to upbraid her sons, she said, “I called you here, Burdett, to assist Sir Philip in preparing his defense.” Sir Philip looked smug until Edlyn said to him, “Which I wouldn’t have if I believed Burdett was a traitor. Give me the credit for that much sense, anyway!”

The two men alternately glared and looked sheepish.

“It seems, my lord husband and my lord knight, you have forgotten to whom you speak.” Neda verbally rapped their knuckles. “Lady Edlyn has displayed a rare good sense in her sojourn here, and for you both to so disdain her judgment shows a lack of it in you both.”

Burdett looked as if he would like to smack his wife, but before he could deal with her in the way he thought proper, Sir Philip asked, “Where
is
Sir Lyndon? Shouldn’t he be here to consult with us?”

“I sent for him,” Edlyn answered. “He didn’t come.”

Sir Philip’s silence spoke loudly, and Burdett turned away to the window.

Finally, Sir Philip said, “He has ever treated me with courtesy.”

“Would that he were so polite to my lady,” Neda said.

Edlyn picked up the spindle once more and bent
her head to the task of spinning thread. “He has never been rude to me.”

“It’s not what he says, it’s how he says it,” Neda snapped.

The truth of that was what made Edlyn’s position so untenable. How did she complain about a man who not only spoke fairly, but was given to such extravagant refinement he made her cringe with discomfort? What could she say?
He’s too polite
? She was glad he’d failed to attend this meeting, for it freed her from the uncomfortable sensation of being the object of some incomprehensible amusement. “We’ll have to do without Sir Lyndon. No doubt he discovered something which needs his attention,” she said. “Pembridge holds the outer bailey, and we have no chance of retrieving it. But the inner wall is strong, the gatehouse is impregnable, the keep is stocked, and the water well is fresh. We could hold out until winter, and my lord Hugh will surely return by then.”

“Aye,” Burdett conceded. “Unfortunately, I know not what other dastardly tricks Pembridge has prepared.”

“He is right, my lady,” Sir Philip said. “In addition, I have my orders from Lord Hugh. I was to send to him at once if I suspected any threat to you.”

“To Roxford Castle, you mean,” she said smoothly.

“That, too, was in his mind,” Sir Philip agreed. “But it was of you he spoke, and I must obey.”

She squared her shoulders and didn’t answer.

“My lady, you must think of your sons!” Burdett said.

Think of her sons? She thought of nothing else. “Do you really think Lord Hugh will come if we send for him?” She couldn’t help sounding sarcastic. “He has sworn to rescue the king from the rebels, and if we send word that his castle is under siege, all that will do
is distract him from his duty. He will not abandon it, but he will worry about Roxford, and perhaps that worry will weigh his sword arm down when he has need of it. Nay, Allyn and Parkin will benefit only from Hugh’s life, not from his death. So until I see a chance of defeat from Pembridge—and I see no such chance right now—we will keep Hugh in ignorance.”

Sir Philip said, “My lady, normally I would agree a man should not be distracted in battle, but Lord Hugh is no normal knight. He has the strength and courage of ten men, and defeat is not a word he comprehends.”

“Would you say death is a word he comprehends?” Edlyn asked.

Burdett answered, having decided to join with Sir Philip to sway her. “Nay, never, my lady.”

“Yet I saw death lay its hand on him.” A sight that had haunted Edlyn ever since he had left for battle, although she’d not say so to these men. “He’s not going to be undefeated forever. Every knight has a finite number of years to fight, and he’s already sustained one wound that almost killed him.”

Burdett and Sir Philip exchanged a glance that clearly expressed their dismay. They reached some unspoken male decision, and Sir Philip answered in a tone clearly meant to soothe. “Every knight has only so much time to seek his fortune, and if he’s good enough and lucky enough, he can find it. Lord Hugh did find it, and now he has a whole new life opening before him.”

“That’s why he married me,” Edlyn made haste to point out. “Because I have experience with this life and I can help him.”

“Aye, that’s one of the reasons, although—forgive me my boldness—it seems to me it is not the primary reason.” Sir Philip grinned for the first time since the tarred arrow had pierced his foot. “Nevertheless, your
experience is not in fighting, and with all respect, I would point out mine is. I like not this Pembridge and his knowledge of this castle. I like not his confidence or the way he demands we surrender, and—again, forgive me, Burdett—I fear he might have a conspirator within. Please allow me to send a messenger to Lord Hugh.”

“They’ve done their damage,” Edlyn said stubbornly, “and I don’t believe we are in danger. Nay, Sir Philip, send no messenger. We are safe. I assure you.”

The two men watched in silence as she and Neda gathered up the spindles and the finished balls of wool and departed.

When the sound of their footsteps had faded, Burdett turned to Sir Philip. “I wish you would send a messenger to the lord, regardless of my lady’s wishes.”

Sir Philip looked long into Burdett’s face and clearly debated his answer. At last he said, “I sent a messenger the day of the attack, and again yesterday. I pray one of them got through.”

Alternately amazed and pleased, Burdett finally found his voice to say, “God grant that they did. God grant them both speed.”

Down the hill, across the meadow, and on silent feet, Hugh moved into the enemy’s camp.

He was a fool. He knew he was. But he wanted to visit with the Maxwells one time before he had to kill them all.

He made it all the way to the Maxwells’ tent before rough hands grabbed him from behind.

“State yer business, laddie, or ’twill go ill with ye.”

Hugh grinned and relaxed. He knew that voice. Moving with a care he hoped would not alarm his captor,
he put the barrel down on the ground. Then, grabbing the man’s knuckles, he twisted them and turned out from underneath. “I’ll state my business, laddie, when ye can beat me at tossing stones without cheating.”

Malcolm Maxwell was silent for one astonished moment, then he roared, “Hugh! Hugh, me lad, how are ye?”

Hugh dropped the big man’s fingers and clasped his shoulders instead. In the Scottish he’d learned while turning the millstone, he said, “Good to see ye, Malcolm! Although in this light, there’s not much seeing to be done.”

“Come in then! Come into the light where we can—” Malcolm stopped talking, then pushed Hugh’s chest with all his might. As Hugh stumbled back, Malcolm said, “Wait. We were told ye were the commander of the English prince’s troops.”

Hugh righted himself. “Aye, so I am. Did ye think that would keep me from the best hospitality now in the south of England?”

Malcolm maintained a suspicious silence.

Hugh kicked out and connected with the barrel, and the dull sound of its laden richness spoke loudly of his intentions. “I brought a barrel of stolen English ale to prove I’ve not forgotten what ye taught me.”

Malcolm roared with laughter. “Ye learned well—for an Englishman. Aye, ’tis the night before battle, and we’d best have our drink together now before I separate your head from your body.”

“Aye, or before I teach ye proper respect for an English lord.” Hugh hooked his thumbs into his belt. “I
am
a lord now, ye ken.”

Opening the tent flap, Malcolm bowed low. “Enter our humble abode, then, English lord, and let us show ye a Scotsman’s awe for all things English.”

Which was none, Hugh knew, else they would not be there. Blinking in the light of candles, he had the impression of a tent full of large, hostile men before another rough Scottish voice spoke. “Did ye capture one of the king’s Englishmen already, then, Malcolm?”

“Better than that, Hamish.” Malcolm pushed Hugh forward so the light shone on him. “He came to surrender when he heard we were here.”

One moment of stunned silence greeted Malcolm’s announcement, then the laird himself, Hamish Maxwell, came to his feet and rushed forward. “Hugh! ’Tis glad I am to see ye, lad!”

The other clansmen, the ones who had been there during Hugh’s tenure in Scotland, surged forward, following the lead of their chief. Angus and Armstrong and Charles and Sinclair, and some he recognized but could not remember, surrounded him and pounded him on his back. The others, the ones who were too young to remember him or who had been elsewhere, stood up and watched in ill-concealed amazement.

Passing from hand to hand, Hugh got tweaks and slaps and manly punches, and he returned them in fair measure. He’d forgotten how much he enjoyed the company of these men, barbarians though they were. They never pretended false friendship, nor did they break oaths given long ago. He was safe in their midst until the next day, when they would meet on the battlefield and try, as Malcolm said, to separate heads from bodies.

At that thought, he could almost hear Edlyn’s voice in his ear.
There had to be a better way
.

“I’ve brought ye ale”—Hugh lifted the barrel above his head—“and wonder if ye have something to offer in return.”

The men quieted, and Hamish eyed the barrel.
“’Tis a bold guest who brings a gift in hopes of receiving one in return.”

“Ah, but most of your guests haven’t gone twelve years without the fine flavor of Scottish haggis,” Hugh answered.