Tender is the Knight (2 page)

“Damnation!” he roared. “There is a rope on the ground below!”

Thomas had suspected as much.  He moved toward the other window, much more slowly than the earl had, and peered to the green slope below. “We should have put her in the vault,” he muttered. “‘Twould have been safer.”

The earl grunted, running his fingers through his dark greasy hair, wondering aloud how he was going to explain this to
Dennis d’ Vant. But a distinct sound roused him from his thoughts, a rhythmic click splattering across the wooden floor, and the earl suddenly pitched forward onto the overstuffed bed.

“Damnation!” he roared, rubbing his arse where
Ryan’s pet goat had charged him. “I am going to murder that devil of a goat, do you hear?”

Thomas scooped up the medium-sized white goat. The animal bleated, knowing Thomas, and did not struggle. Wearily, he plopped it back onto the little pile of rags where the animal slept curled up like a pet cat, directly next to his daughter’s bed.  Bucephalus the goat, his aggression expended, lay down obediently.

“We must find my daughter,” Thomas shook his head. “If we can.”

With
Dennis d’ Vant due to arrive within the hour, Thomas could feel panic nipping at his heels. He had to find Ryan before the entire peace process was ruined. And he had to convince her that running wasn’t going to absolve her of her destiny. Come what may, Ryan was to become the enemy’s wife.

***

“Faster, Lyla!” Ryan was panting. The affliction that had gripped her lungs since childhood often made physical exertion difficult, just as it was now. It was a struggle simply to breathe but she was determined to ignore the discomfort. “We must make it to the abbey!”

Lady Lyla
De Bretagne’s freckled cheeks were red, her silky auburn curls sticking to her damp, pretty face. “I am coming as fast as I can,” she huffed. “We have been running for miles!”

In truth,
Ryan was glad that her cousin gave her an excuse to slow. It was becoming increasingly difficult to draw breath and she knew, from experience, that she had to rest if the tightening in her chest was to go away.  So her pace slowed and she collapsed to her knees in the middle of the frozen meadow they had been traversing. Around them, winter held Cornwall in its grips and what was normally a green, lush landscape was now kissed with the dead of frost. The unfortunate thing was, Ryan’s escape from her bower had been so quick and foolhardy that she hadn’t taken anything of warmth with her. All she had been concerned with was sliding down the rope and trying not to break her neck in the process. Lyla had waited at the bottom while a well-paid servant had secured the rope at the top. It hadn’t taken Ryan much coinage or charm to convince the poor maid to help her when no one else would.

So now she was free. But free for what?
Running about a dead wilderness with her whining cousin in tow. And where were they going? To an abbey not far to the north, a tiny place called St. Perpetua. The nuns there would give her sanctuary, she knew it. She only hoped they would not make her do penance for disobeying her father and the earl.

Ryan
’s golden-brown eyes drifted over the landscape as her lungs sucked in much-needed air. Truly, she’d never been this far out of Launceston without an escort. But she wasn’t fearful; well, not really. No one, not even bandits, would be out in this foul weather. Clad in a rich gown of crimson wool with warm woolen undergarments, she wasn’t truly cold yet because of the running they had been doing. But she knew she would be soon, especially when the sun set. It was imperative they reach St. Perpetua’s Abbey before sundown.

“
Ryan,” Lyla said, still struggling to catch her breath. “Your lips are blue. Perhaps we should….”

Ryan
waved her off, though she was feeling faint and her hands were becoming numb. “I am fine,” she wheezed. “We can make it just a bit further.”

Lyla stared at her cousin, having long since realized that helping her escape had not been such a wise thing.  She
could not believe she had let Ryan talk her into it.  Firstly, Uncle Thomas and the earl would not be pleased. Secondly, Dennis d’ Vant would not be pleased. And thirdly, her cousin’s health wasn’t very good, especially in the winter months. She was prone to attacks of wheezing, which the earl’s physic treated with great care. But the physic was back at Launceston, and Ryan’s wheezing appeared to be getting worse. Lyla began to feel a great deal of fear for her cousin’s health, enough to risk the wrath of her uncle upon returning home to seek help.

“It’s cold,” she said. “
Ryan, we should not have run off. We should go back so the physic can….”

Ryan
rose unsteadily to her feet. Her head swam and her chest tightened like a vise as she struggled across the meadow towards the distant trees. “I am not going back,” she said between gasps. “The nuns at the abbey can take care of me. I am in no better place to be healed than in the House of God.”

Lyla ran up beside her, noticing how sickly pale
Ryan was in spite of her flushed cheeks. Her golden-brown eyes were unnaturally bright, and the luscious amber hair, normally so combed and cared for, hung wildly about her face. It was straggling in her eyes and Ryan did not even bother to push it away.  It would seem that Ryan’s determination to reach sanctuary simply to avoid marriage to Dennis d’ Vant had no limits. But, then again, Ryan’s stubbornness and determination was legendary.

“Please,
Ryan,” Lyla begged softly. “We should go back. We shall simply apologize to the earl and your father and all will be well, I promise.”

Ryan
did not look at her. “If you are so cowardly, then you may go home. I shall not hold a grudge.”

“
I am not cowardly,” Lyla insisted, stung. “But you are growing ill. What if the nuns cannot take care of you?”

The world was dimming in
Ryan’s vision, but she ignored it. She wasn’t going to let her foolish health deter her from what she had to do. But with every step, her breathing became tighter and her vision darkened. She had to make it to the abbey.
She had to make it!

It was her last coherent thought before the world suddenly slipped away and she felt something very cold on her face. She had no idea that she had fallen forward, striking her face on the frozen dead grass.  She could hear Lyla calling to her and thought she might have felt her cousin trying to shake her, but she
could not be sure. All she knew was that her chest was dangerously tight and she could not breathe. It was an effort not to surrender to the comfort of not breathing, to give into the deadly consequences that threatened.  A few more seconds and the world went completely black.

***

There was a figure dressed in a green gown stumbling towards them across the frozen tundra of Cornwall.  The knights of the House of d’ Vant gazed at the distant figure, watching it run, fall, pick itself up, and then run some more. It was a strange sight.  Plodding along on the northern road at the head of a fifty man escort, the knights watched the sight with mounting curiosity.

“What in the hell is
that
?” The knight’s name was Riston de Titouan. He was a striking man with dark hair, blue eyes, and a sarcastic wit. He sneered as he watched the figure flail about. “Some sort of a lunatic?”

“I could not begin to guess.” The warrior riding to his right chewed his lip; he always chewed his lip. Sir Clive de Camville removed a mail glove and picked at the skin on the inside of his mouth. “Kill it. Whatever it is, it brings a bad omen. I can feel it.”

“Omen,” Riston snorted. “Everything is a bad omen to you.”

Clive spit a bloody wad onto the ground below and replaced his gauntlet.
“Of course. If you had half brain, you’d understand this.”

Riston rolled his eyes. “
You are as skittish as a woman.”

As the two knights embarked on an insult-filled conversation, the third knight
watched the approaching figure with the gaze of a hawk sighting prey. His eyes were gray, the color of the angry sky above, and wisps of fine blond hair escaped from beneath his helm to tickle his forehead. He did not keep with the Norman custom of fine-shaving his face, instead choosing to cultivate a well-manicured beard. In fact, the thick hedge of blond whiskers only served to enhance his square jaw and masculine face. He was an enormous man, standing several inches over six feet and sporting arms the size of oak branches.

“It’s a woman,” the massive knight said, his voice rumbling like the distant thunder.

“How can you tell, Dennis?”

“She has long hair.”

Riston squinted. His sight was poor at long distances. “I thought it was a scarf around her head.”

“A curly scarf?”
Clive delighted in making him feel like a moron. “You are as blind as a mole, de Titouan. Absolutely useless.”

Dennis
ignored them both. “Rist, fetch her.”

Riston made a face, preparing to argue, but he knew well the perils of arguing with his liege. It took an act of God to work
Dennis d’ Vant into a rage, but it could be done. And Riston had no desire to be the recipient of a trencher-sized hand to his head. Nonetheless, with an insubordinate sigh, he spurred his charger into the meadow.

“
Do not forget to kill her!” Clive called after him helpfully.

The army had come to a halt.
Dennis watched as Riston easily overtook the stumbling figure, but he knew that Riston would not harm the woman in spite of Clive’s paranoid demand. Riston rode a circle around the now-stationery figure, apparently in some sort of conversation with her.

From this distance,
Dennis could see that the woman was clad only in a gown with no other sort of protection; no gloves, no overcoat, no head protection. He serious wondered why she running about in the middle of a field, miles from the nearest post. It was an odd mystery.

Suddenly, Riston reined his horse sharply to the left and took off in the direction of the distant trees. It seemed to
Dennis that there was panic to his movements and instinctively, he followed. Clive was not far behind; where one of the trio went, the other two usually followed.

Dennis
’ silver charger thundered across the frozen earth. Bucephalus, as the steed was called, was a mighty beast with his master’s even-temper and legendary power. They rumbled past the sobbing, flush-faced woman and Dennis turned long enough to indicate to Clive with hand signals not to let the woman out of his sight.

Continuing across the dead landscape, he could see Riston well ahead, pulling his horse to slow near the edge of the frozen forest and
Dennis immediately caught sight of a crimson pile on the ground. Riston was already dismounted and on his knees by the time Dennis arrived.

“Who is it?”
Dennis demanded, dismounting before his charger came to a complete halt.

Riston
did not answer for a moment; it was obvious that a woman lay before him and he gingerly rolled her over, gazing seriously into her white face. Her eyes were closed, her body freezing to the touch. He felt for a pulse in her wrist before gazing up at Dennis.

“Your future wife.”

Dennis’ face did not change expression, though his eyes flickered. It was apparent, for a moment, he did not know what to say. 

“What?” he finally hissed.

Riston put his hands around the woman, half-pulling her into his arms. “That woman in the meadow,” he jerked his head back towards the road, “is her cousin. This is the Lady Ryan Elizabeth De Bretagne.”

Dennis
could not believe it. “She should be at Launceston. What in the hell is she doing out here?”

“I
do not know.”

None of it made any sense and to put it mildly,
Dennis was confused. He stopped staring at Riston long enough to gaze at the woman on the ground and it took him no time at all to conclude two things; that she was almost frozen, and that she was the most beautiful creature he had ever had the fortune to gaze upon. Her delicate face was so pale that it was nearly blue and he watched her, transfixed and overwhelmed, hardly daring to believe that what Riston was saying was true.

Riston’s voice broke into his thoughts.
“Dennis,” he said. “This woman is going to die if we do not warm her quickly.”

That seemed to snap him out of his trance; he knew that his knight spoke the truth. But it was too cold and damp to build a fire. That only left one alternative.

“Remove her clothing,” he instructed his knight.

Riston looked surprised at first, but then he grinned.
“With pleasure, my lord.”

Dennis
glared at Riston so cuttingly that the knight’s smile instantly vanished. “I jest, my lord, truly,” he said meekly, lowering his head and beginning his task. “What do you intend to do?”

Dennis
’ gaze lingered on the man a moment longer before removing his helm. His pale golden hair glimmered in the weak light. “I give off more heat than a furnace.” He went to work removing his mail and woolen tunic. “Send Clive for my squire. Have the lad bring woolen blankets from the provision wagon.”