His Fair Lady (11 page)

“Sohow! Sohow!” Royce shouted, drawing the
beast’s attention to himself, casting off the scabbard from his
sword as he did.

The boar turned, snorting fiercely, fury
burning in its savage little eyes. Again Royce clamored at the
animal, waving his arms and blade, striving to lure the animal away
from the tree, away from Juliana.

Royce steeled himself, knowing the perils of
challenging a boar on foot. Better to face such a creature mounted,
with a long spear and a dozen hounds to aid him. But he did not
have that advantage. He’d only his sword and one chance to slay the
beast. Should he miss his mark, the boar would dispatch him with a
single swipe of its tusks, splitting him from groin to chest.

Royce gripped the pommel of his sword with
both hands, holding the blade before him. He studied the animal for
the telling signs that would signal the onset of its attack.

The beast watched him as well, with eyes
full of malice. Clashing its tusks over its teeth, sharpening them,
it took several steps forward, then backed once more beneath the
branch where the maid yet clung. Should she lose her grip, she’d
land atop the animal and meet a swift and grisly end.

Royce shouted again, anxious to draw the
boar off. “Here, you snout-faced monstrosity. Over here!” He waved
his blade, baiting the creature.

The boar snorted, the bristles raising on
its black hump, its ears flattened against its head.

“What are you waiting for?” Royce harried.
“Come, taste my steel.”

At that, the beast rolled its eyes, pricking
its ears and lowering its head as it drove toward Royce,
enraged.

Royce braced his stance, tightening his grip
on the pommel as he targeted the beast. His heart thundered in his
chest as he watched the boar close the distance. At the last
possible moment, Royce sidestepped the creature, inverted his
sword, and plunged its point into the swine’s neck. His muscles
shuddered as he drove the blade full to the hilt and sundered the
beast’s heart. Squealing and thrashing, the boar stumbled, dragging
Royce with it to the ground as it brawled with the steel and
finally convulsed. At last it grunted and slackened upon his
sword.

For a moment, Royce lay heaving where he
lay, eye to eye with the beast, its tusks having laid open several
inches of his forearm. His hands gripped the pommel so tightly, at
first, he was unable to pry his fingers loose.

Voices sounded around him — the tinker,
mason, several of the pilgrims, and others — awed that he’d killed
the beast single-handedly. Royce pushed to his feet, then made his
way toward the oak on unsteady feet. Glancing up to the maiden, he
noticed for the first time how her gown bunched upward, revealing
long legs, bared and scratched. He noticed, too, the panicked
expression that remained on her face.

Exhausted and with little strength left to
climb trees, he held up his arms to her. “Can you manage to swing
down? I shall catch you.”

Shakily, she unwound herself from the
branch. Freeing her legs, then releasing her hold, she dropped into
his arms. Royce staggered back as he caught her, his hands tangled
in the skirt of her gown and her hair tumbled across his face. As
he secured her against him, he felt the warmth of her palms on his
shoulder and that of her body pressed against his.

Lowering her to the ground, she slid down
his length. But when the maid’s feet touched the earth, she
suddenly flung her arms about his middle and squeezed him tight.
Suddenly, the long years that had separated them since Vaux shrank
to naught. Once more, she seemed the terrified waif he’d discovered
beneath the boat. Instinctively, his arms enveloped her.

Several minutes passed before he came back
to himself. ‘Twas no child he held, but a young woman. A young
woman who’d purposely taken to the forest this night and nearly
cost him his life.

»«

Ana shook against the knight’s chest, her
arms entwined about him. But as the horror of the moment passed,
she realized her cheek lay against the bare, sculpted muscles of
his torso.

Ana jerked back, releasing her hold on him.
She shoved her hair from her eyes and looked up at him through the
fading light. The knight’s virile good looks stole her breath.
‘Twas the first time she’d seen him without his hood of mail. Seen
him half-naked, with a thick mane of hair flowing to broad,
well-defined shoulders.

She dropped away her gaze, then saw the
injury to his arm, suffered because of her.

“You’re hurt.” She voiced the obvious, at a
loss for words.

“Aye, that I am,” he stated in a tone
unexpectedly stern. “Why did you come so far into the forest?”

The question surprised her, as did his look,
which held something in it more akin to anger than to relief or
thankfulness that the ordeal with the boar was past.

“I-I became lost,” she replied defensively.
“I wandered away from the sisters and must have gone in the wrong
direction.”

“A lie.” His eyes narrowed. “The camp is
visible enough from the stream. You did not stray from the sisters.
You were seeking to escape.”

“No, truly I—”

“Have you no sense? The forest is filled
with wild creatures, any number of which would happily dispatch you
and make a fine meal of you.”

Heat rose to Ana’s cheeks. “I knew God would
protect me and He did!”

“So, you did seek to escape.”

Not waiting on an answer, he seized her by
the arm and moved toward the beast. He drew his sword from its
carcass, then turned to Juliana and directed her back along the
path. The others could do what they wished with the swine.

“You’re right,” he growled at Ana. “God did
protect you. He sent me after you — to save you from yourself.
Remember that, should you think to run off again. I’ve no intention
of letting you slip away. Upon my oath, you are in my keeping, and
so shall you remain.”

Outside the city of Le Mans, the following
day

She’d have to steal Hannibal. There was no
other way.

Not steal him, exactly, Ana corrected. She’d
only borrow him until she reached Chinon. Then, she’d leave him in
the keeping of Pere Armand until the knight arrived. No doubt he’d
follow her and swiftly so, given that she’d possess his prize
stallion and would have foiled his quest. By the time the knight
gained Chinon though, she and Gervase would be well on their way to
Paris.

Ana looked to where Mother Agnes tended Sir
Royce’s forearm, unwrapping the bandage that showed a fresh seepage
of blood. Carefully, the nun began cleansing the wound. The knight
minded her ministrations as he stood patiently, his upper armor and
garments removed, down to the linen shirt he wore next to his
skin.

The shirt was of obvious quality, Ana
deemed. ‘Twas short-sleeved, low and open at the front, revealing a
sprinkling of hair upon his chest. She noted the tan he bore there,
matching that on his neck, face, and what was visible of his arms.
Her gaze trailed over his thick fall of hair. In the day’s light,
she realized its color was darker overall than that of his beard.
Yet, ‘twas brightened throughout with golden streaks as though
gilded by the sun.

Ana pondered that. ‘Twas odd for anyone to
bear so deep a tan this late in the season, or for his hair to be
blanched by the sun’s rays. She’d understood the climate of England
to be similar to that of France. What could account for the knight
being as brown as a field laborer at the height of summer?

Her eyes drew to the gash he bore on his
arm, a nasty piece of work wrought by the swine’s tusks. Mother
Agnes had cleaned and stitched it last night. Now, having washed it
anew, she layered it with a poultice and began binding it with
clean strips of cloth once more.

Ana felt a stab of guilt that Sir Royce
should have been wounded on her account. For a fleeting moment, the
entire episode flooded back and she tasted fear once more. The
knight could have been killed confronting the boar, and she would
have been to blame, little better than a murderess. Yet, he had
proven himself to be a warrior of exceptional skill. Perhaps he’d
not been at such great risk after all in dispatching the boar.
Perhaps.

Ana shifted, uncomfortable with the
shallowness of that thought. Still, she refused to accept all the
blame, all the guilt, should real harm have befallen Sir Royce. He
needn’t have placed himself in danger’s way to begin with, she
reasoned. She’d not asked for his help. In truth, she’d been doing
quite well by herself. She’d had a firm grip on the oak’s limb and
the boar would have tired of attacking its trunk after a while.
Even boars must tire. Eventually.

Ana shut off the troublesome thoughts and
transferred her gaze to where Hannibal nibbled the grass. She
smiled inwardly. Her new plan was sound, far more so than her one
of last night. The stallion could carry her southward, swiftly and
safely, back to Chinon, without need of keeping to the forest.

If only she’d managed to slip away with him
earlier, before the group had reached the outskirts of Le Mans.
Then, the knight would have been at a loss to acquire a second
mount to pursue her. The only animals in their company able to
carry a man were donkeys, and they could offer little speed.

Ana shielded her eyes against the sun. They
were in sight of the city. She could make out its walls from where
she sat on a stump, looking across open fields. For now, she’d need
to bide her time and wait until their little group of travelers was
well beyond Le Mans and on their way to Rouen — far enough so the
knight would be unable to reach another city easily to buy a fresh
horse.

Perhaps the delay was for the best, she
thought as she studied the stallion. She needed time to befriend
Hannibal and win his trust before she stole him. If the knight had
the right of it, Hannibal liked her. She hoped ‘twas true. When the
moment seemed right — when the group stopped for one of its
customary rests, as now, and while Hannibal was still saddled —
she’d mount him and ride off. How difficult could it be?

Sir Royce’s masculine voice drew Ana’s
attention as he thanked Mother Agnes. Looking up, she saw that he’d
left the nun’s side and now walked directly toward her. A minute
later he halted a step away then bent to retrieve his garments,
which lay next to the stump. After drawing on his tunic, he reached
for the heavy hauberk. Ana quickly rose to assist him, taking hold
of the hem of his mail shirt.

“Here, let me help or you’ll have yourself
bleeding again.”

He paused, seemingly surprised by her offer,
his steel-blue eyes boring into hers. Without a word, he allowed
her to aid him into the hauberk, flinching once as they eased the
metal sleeve over his injured arm. Still, he uttered not a sound,
but Ana could see by the look in his eyes and the muscle that leapt
in his cheek that it pained him greatly.

With the hauberk in place, he drew up the
concealing hood, leaving naught but the oval of his face visible.
Slipping on his blue surcoat, he next belted his sword in place
then turned to Ana.

“You’ve been limping all morning, my lady,
and your shoes, as predicted, are in ruins. I’ll brook no argument.
You’ll ride Hannibal until I can purchase you suitable boots.”

Ana opened her mouth to object, both to his
suggestion and to his address of her as “my lady.” Reconsidering,
she pressed her lips back together, then moistened them with her
tongue. She sorely needed the practice of riding and for the
stallion to become accustomed to her.

“As you wish, Sir Knight. Indeed, I find the
opportunity to ride Hannibal most welcome just now.” She smiled
graciously, bringing another look of surprise, but then of
suspicion to his eyes. She’d have to remember in the future to not
agree with him so readily.

At that, the knight turned toward the
stallion and whistled a command. Hannibal lifted his head, his ears
swiveling. The beast then gave an answering neigh and shake of his
neck and mane, then abandoned the patch of grass and ambled toward
his master.

Ana’s spirits sank. If the knight could
summon the horse with naught but a whistle, she’d need choose the
moment to escape with the animal with great care.

“Stand upon the stump,” Sir Royce directed
Ana as he left her side and strode forward to meet his steed.

“The stump?” She scrunched her face, puzzled
as she came back to the moment.

“Aye,” he called as he mounted Hannibal in
one graceful movement, using the strength of his legs alone to
climb into the saddle, sparing his wounded arm. He turned the
stallion toward the stump and guided him toward it.

Realizing Sir Royce’s intent, Ana stepped
onto the stump as he’d instructed. Seconds later, he reined
Hannibal beside her and extended his sound arm.

“Grasp hold of my arm with both your hands,”
he bid, leaning out from the saddle and catching her by the elbow
and upper arm.

Barely had Ana clasped hold of him when he
swept her off the stump and up onto the padded cushion behind him,
as though she were no more than a feather sack.

Ana grabbed for the back of the saddle to
steady herself, her legs dangling together over the left side of
the stallion’s hindquarters. Instead, she caught hold of Sir Royce,
low on his hip and to the front, touching his thigh and abdomen.
She jerked her hand away, abashed, then clutched for the saddle
once more, nearly toppling off her seat in the process.

Unlike Sir Royce’s first saddle, which
possessed a high back, this one owned no more than a small lip,
with the leather cushion extending behind it, intended for a second
rider. Ana seized onto what she could of the saddle’s sorry back
and held herself perfectly still, perfectly straight. She’d no wish
to share any unnecessary closeness with the knight. Yet, how was
she supposed to stay atop the horse?