His Fair Lady (3 page)

Royce moved to the river’s edge and splashed
his face with water then sleeved himself dry. Catching up his spear
from where he’d dropped it, he stood to his feet.

As he cast a glance down the river, he saw
Beuvan bending over another form in the grass. Royce looked away,
unable to bear more. Not this night. Spying two small boats
overturned on the bank nearby, he strode tiredly toward them,
thinking to sit awhile.

Was Beuvan right? Would he harden with time?
What if he handled himself no better in time to come — in view of
the Crusader knights, or, worse, the Lionheart himself?

His spirits plummeted once more,
failure looming as a
very clear possibility. If he
could not stomach the discoveries of this night, how could he
withstand the bloodshed to come, warring against the
infidels?

Downcast, Royce halted before the boats.
Despite his years of training, he’d failed before he’d begun. Be he
a squire or knight, it mattered not if he couldn’t rise to the
demands of his calling. What good was he to anyone? He castigated
himself, plopping down heavily on the craft nearest him.

Instantly, a squeal issued from beneath the
boat, followed by a thud. Royce sprang to his feet, his senses
sharpening. He held his spear aimed at the boat. When all remained
silent, he gave a solid kick to the craft’s side.

Again came a high-pitched squeal, followed
by several knocks and thuds against the underside of the boat,
something shifting about there. By the high pitch of the squeal he
held certain ‘twas no man hidden beneath. Some animal then? Surely
not a dog. The cry did not suit that of a cat either. A kitten,
perchance? Or piglet?

Cautiously, Royce set his spear aside, then
moving swiftly, he gripped the side of the boat by its edge and
hoisted it up, flipping it back and over. Another squeal filled the
air as Royce’s gaze locked with two huge eyes set in an elfin
face.

‘Twas a child, a young girl of no more than
seven or eight years. She was hunched in a ball, wrapped in
homespun toweling. A halo of silvery hair spilled about her, pale
as the moon.

“By all the saints—” Royce muttered his
astonishment.

In the darkness and death that gripped this
place, she shined like the brightest little star plucked from
heaven, an angelic waif, who’d somehow survived the night.

The child continued to stare at him,
trembling fiercely as she clutched the thin toweling about her.
Taking in her bare shoulders and limbs, Royce realized she was
naked beneath the cloth. Had she been snatched from her pallet
whilst she slept and deposited here, he wondered?

Unfastening his cloak, he draped it
about her, then lifted her from the ground, up into his arms. At
once, she began to squeal and wriggle, panicked as though she
feared he’d
harm her. With little effort, Royce held
her against his chest. She weighed no more than a
feather.

“Shhh, now, little one. I’ll not hurt you,”
he soothed.

She continued to writhe and nearly slipped
from his arms, but suddenly she went still, her gaze fastening on
his shoulder. Her little fingers lifted to the red cross, caressing
it as if she recognized its significance. In the next breath, she
wrapped her arms about his torso and clung to him with surprising
strength.

Royce fell back a pace, his breath leaving
him. “Ho there, sweeting! Ah, could you . . . ease your hold, just
a little? . . . No, I guess not. Er, let’s sit over here.” Royce
moved toward the second of the overturned boats. “That’s right,
easy. Nothing to fear, I’ll protect you.”

Circling his arms about the child, he
lowered them both to the boat, shifting her onto his lap. As he
did, she looked over to where the miller’s family lay in the grass.
Shuddering against Royce, she buried her face in his chest.

“Are they your people, little one?”

She said nothing but burrowed deeper into
him, continuing to grip him tightly.

Royce let the moment pass, content to
provide her the haven of his arms. Poor girl. What horrors she must
have witnessed from her place beneath the boat, her family slain
before her eyes. Minutes more passed then, finally, he leaned back
and gazed on her features, so delicately modeled. A small,
captivating mole marked the corner of her upper left lip.

“Do you have a name, little one?” he coaxed
softly. When she didn’t respond, he pressed again for a name to put
to her. Still she would not speak. He smiled gently. “What shall I
call you then? Mary? Margaret? Joan?”

The girl lifted her face to his, her brows
crimping together as though she searched her mind and could not
quite find the answer she sought. At last, her little lips parted.
“Ana,” she whispered petal soft.

Royce’s smile widened. “Ana, is it? ‘Tis a
lovely name and suits you well, child.”

He continued to smile but was unable
to win the same from her. Instead, she lay her head against his
heart and rested there as if listening to its calming beat.
Moments
later she sighed, her little slip of a body
conforming to his, the tension passing out of her. Royce stroked
her bright hair, finding himself touched by her trust and
innocence, savoring his sudden role as protector.

“What have you there?” Beuvan’s rough voice
broke the spell of the moment as he returned. “Why, she’s a little
mite is she not?”

Ana’s hold tightened on Royce as the knight
reached out to touch her.

Beuvan chuckled. “A bit shy, is she?”

“I believe she’s the miller’s daughter — an
orphan now.” Royce continued to stroke Ana’s hair, calming her.
“Did you find anything along the river?”

“A woman, looked to be a servant of some
manner.” Beuvan scratched his whiskery cheek then vented a wearied
breath. “Best bring the girl along. We need get back. Surely
someone will take her off your hands.”

Royce rose and trod behind Beuvan, feeling
suddenly reluctant to relinquish the child. No matter. Ana remained
twined fast about him.

In minutes they rejoined the others, finding
they’d quit the manor and moved to the village green.

“This has all the markings of a
chevauchee,
” Sir Hugh was saying to
a handful of his closest knights. “With France’s king departing on
Crusade, no doubt there will be many more such raids amongst the
local lords. Rivalries run bitter and deep in these parts I am
told.”

Seeing Beuvan’s approach, Sir Hugh
acknowledged him with a nod, then swept a glance to Royce and the
child. He returned his attention to the circle of knights.

“Spread word we are moving out. We will
escort the survivors to the next village, a place called Vincelles.
Some of Vaux’s men have agreed to stay behind to bury the dead. The
people of Vincelles can send others back to aid them. We can do no
more. Precious time is lost to us already.”

As the troops and villagers prepared to
depart, Royce moved among them, seeking to find someone who might
know the miller’s child and agree to take her. But the people gave
him little heed, seeing only to themselves and their own, their
emotions and senses still ravaged by the terrors of this night.

Unable to tarry longer, Royce moved to his
roncin. “You’ll ride with me, sprite,” he informed Ana, trying to
pry her arms from beneath his arms and about his middle. She clung
all the tighter. “Come now, up you go. I’ll mount right behind you,
I promise.” She continued to squeeze him, unwilling to separate
from him one inch.

Chuckles sounded around him, the knights
finding amusement in his plight. Royce made a swift decision,
placed his foot in the stirrup, and, with Ana firmly attached,
pulled himself upward and into the saddle with all the grace of a
pregnant cow. As he settled them together in the saddle, Ana melted
into him, a contented smile tilting the corners of her little
mouth.

Laughter broke out among the knights.

“‘
Twould seem Royce has won a heart
this night,” Renaus FitzOsbern declared in a booming voice for all
to hear.

“Such devotion, gained in so little time.
What’s the lad’s secret?” Roger de Bray’s tone glowed with
admiration.

“Fathers best lock away their wives and
daughters when young Royce grows into his manhood,” Henry le Toit
warned, then burst with laughter, the others joining him.

Royce leveled them a cross look, then
clicking his tongue, guided his roncin to his accustomed position
behind Sir Hugh.

At that, Sir Hugh ordered the men and
villagers to move out. Leaving behind the smoldering village, they
rejoined the pilgrim road.

»«

Dawn split the skies as the train of
soldiers and peasants arrived in Vincelles.

Ana awoke from her slumber, snuggled against
Royce’s chest and warmed by his cloak. As she shifted against him,
he dropped his gaze to her. His breath caught his eyes met hers —
two glorious emeralds shining up at him. In the dark, he’d been
unable to discern their color. Now, with the morning’s light, he
found himself entranced by their exquisite shade of green.

The blare of a horn snapped his attention to
the front of the line where Sir Hugh’s herald sounded their
presence to the inhabitants, signaling their peaceful
intentions.

In short time, the village elders met with
them at the edge of their boundary and Sir Hugh advised them of the
attack on Vaux. Generously, the people of Vincelles welcomed those
of their sister village, agreeing to give them shelter.

“Lad, come quick,” Beuvan called from where
he’d been mingling among the peasantry.

Royce dismounted, and with Ana still
securely attached in his arms, he strode to Beuvan’s side. The
knight grinned wide and turned to a couple who appeared to be of
middling years.

“Lad, this is Georges, the village brewer,
and his wife, Marie. They wish to see the girl.”

The woman came forward, clasping her hands
before her as she consumed Ana with her gaze. “Oh, Georges, the
Lord has heard our prayers,” she exclaimed softly.

The brewer blinked back the wetness
that appeared in his eyes. “
Vraiment
, and He has answered them as well.” He
pulled his eyes from the child and looked to Royce and Beuvan.
“Marie and I, we have no
enfants
to fill our home. We will take the girl and raise her as our
own.”

The couple moved to relieve Royce of Ana,
but she clung to him as ever she had throughout the night.

“Sweeting, you cannot come with me where I
am going,” he explained.

It took the four of them to disentangle the
girl from Royce and give her over to Marie’s arms.

“Her name is Ana,” Royce explained to the
couple, avoiding the heart-wringing look in the girl’s emerald
eyes. “Her parents and sisters were murdered before her eyes. She
isn’t inclined to speak much.”

Tears now streamed over Ana’s pale cheeks.
Why did he feel like such a blackguard for leaving her here? He
fumbled for the leather coin bag tucked inside his belt and gave it
over to Georges.

“Here, use this to feed and clothe her. She
has nothing in this world, not even a simple gown.” By the
shabbiness of their garments, Royce noted the brewer and his wife
obviously had little of their own as well. Still, compassionately,
they would take in this child.

“Merci
, young
man.” Marie smiled, her face full of gratitude. “Your kindness will
not be forgotten.”

As the couple turned to leave with Ana, she
screamed for Royce, thrashing in Marie’s hold and reaching out her
arms to him. Her anguish tore at his heart. Something broke deep
inside him at that moment — broke for this child, for all she’d
endured, for all she yet faced in time to come among strangers,
having lost everything.

Royce balled his hands at his sides. By all
that was holy, if there be a reason to master himself and embrace
his calling, then here it be before him. Upon his honor, he would
earn his spurs and uphold the knightly code, protecting the weak
and the powerless. For all the little Anas in the world, he would
fulfill his destiny and become the man he must.

Remembering the cross about his neck, he
drew its chain from beneath his tunic and over his head. Quickly,
he moved to Ana.

“Shhh sweeting,” he soothed. Gifting her
with his cross, he placed it around her neck, then thumbed the
tears from her cheeks. “God will protect you, little one, and keep
you safe. Remember me in your prayers, sweet Ana, that I can be
strong and do all required of me.”

Impulsively, Royce pressed a kiss to Ana’s
forehead. Turning on his heel, he strode quickly away and mounted
his roncin behind Sir Hugh.

With a final glance back to Ana’s angelic
face, he rode out with Sir Hugh and the other soldiers and pressed
on for Vézelay.

“
Now is the time at hand,

Love come to blossom,

Ripens the little maid,

Swells now the tender breast,

Vainly hath all been done

If all is ended.”

—
Late twelfth—early
thirteenth

century, Anonymous

The Palace of Westminster, England Autumn
A.D. 1200

“Look there, cousin. ‘Tis the great Crusader
knight, Sir Royce de Warrene,” a feminine voice murmured, awe
drenching her voice.

“Are you sure ‘tis he, the hero of Acre and
Ascalon?” a second female’s voice asked, her interest obvious by
her tone.

“I had it from Lady Margaret, who had it
from Lord Bromley, that Sir Royce landed at Dover this week past,
returned from the Holy Lands. He sent word ahead of his coming and
was to arrive here at court any day,” the first confided,
breathless with excitement. “Besides, the knight is the only man in
the chamber I cannot put a name to. And mind you his tanned
features and the sun-brightened streaks in his hair and beard.
Surely ‘tis he.”