Knights of de Ware 01 - My Champion (38 page)

The rickety wagon and its sorry nag made slow progress along the northern road the next day. Usually, Linet made the journey in a few hours. At this speed, it had taken most of the afternoon. Still, she thought, thank God Captain Campbell had seen fit to provide them coin for transport, or else they’d have gone afoot, for the three travelers—Harold, the beggar, and she—hadn’t a farthing between them.

They’d stayed at an inn, and she’d spent a blissfully dreamless night upon a comfortable straw pallet. Someone had even left her an underdress and a clean kirtle to wear.

When the beggar had shown up with a horse and cart, insisting upon accompanying her to Avedon, she’d almost wept with relief. She was going home at last.

And now the journey was almost over. The amber sun dipped behind the mountains as they crested the top of the rolling hill below which nestled Avedon.

Linet’s spine straightened with pride. The beautiful, thick-grassed glen was dotted with sheep and ribboned through by a silvery stream that meandered about the walls of the little town. In the distance lay fields of young wheat and barley, oats and rye, spread like a patched cloak over the fertile ground. From atop the hill, the thatched buildings of the village huddled together like gossiping neighbors.

As they passed through the city gate and along the cobbled streets, Linet breathed in the familiar smells of home—fresh cut fodder, mellowing ale, the acrid stench of the dye house, evening pottages warmed over a hundred different home fires. Most of the merchants had closed up shop and gone inside their dwellings. Twilight would soon wink its watchful eye over the land, and the city gate would close for the night.

A mistiness touched Linet’s eyes as she thought how much her life had changed since she was last here.

Duncan watched with narrowed eyes as they rolled past cottage after cottage. Out of habit, he sought out the penniless waifs tucked into the crevices between the buildings, wishing he had coin to give them.

At long last, they arrived at a sizeable thatched cottage with a wall around it, and Harold gestured proudly, letting him know it was the de Montfort demesne.

Linet, throwing caution to the wind in her eagerness to be home, hopped down and ran forward to the wooden gate, preparing to shove it aside so the cart could enter the forecourt. No sooner had her hands touched the gate than Duncan grabbed her forcibly by the shoulders, setting her aside.

“Let me go first,” he murmured.

Something about the house didn’t seem right to him. A wisp of smoke curled up from the chimney, but no firelight shone through its shuttered windows. The yard was well-kept, and the flagstone forecourt was clean, but no servants bustled out to greet their mistress. Duncan felt uneasy. “Wait here. I’m going inside.”

“But ye’ll—” Harold protested.

“Wait. I don’t want you walking into a trap.”

“I don’t think you’d better…” Linet began.

He slipped off before she could finish. Drawing his dagger, he stealthily approached and slowly pushed the door open.

The inside of the cottage was lit by a fire burning low on the hearth. The shadows cast by the room’s furnishings did a macabre dance upon the plaster walls as he strained to make out the faint details of the room. He took a tentative step forward.

The quick, slight breeze should have warned him, but it had been too brief for him to move away in time. Stars burst suddenly upon the darkness as he was bowled over by a tremendous bang against his forehead.

Duncan reeled like a drunken man from the bruising blow, shaking his head to clear his double vision. Somewhere, echoing in his addled skull, he heard the incongruous cackling of an old woman. Was it his disoriented brain, or was some ancient wench actually egging him on?

From outside, Linet smothered a gasp at the loud clang.

“I’ll see to the horse and cart, m’lady,” Harold muttered.

Linet picked up her skirts and hurried toward the cottage. She’d tried to warn the beggar. Now she could hear the old woman threatening him with more violence.

“Margaret!” she shouted. “Margaret, it’s me, Linet.”

“Ah, Lady Linet, ye’re home early! Don’t ye worry, lass!” the old lady beamed. “I’ve got the rascal! He won’t be seein’ straight for a few days, that’s for certain.”

“Margaret!” Linet scolded, squinting into the dim room. “What have you done? Where is he?”

Before Margaret could answer, Linet stumbled against the beggar’s weaving body. He clutched at her shoulders for support, nearly knocking her to the ground.

“Didn’t get past me, he didn’t,” Margaret rattled on. “I was ready for him, the slippery rascal.”

“Margaret,” Linet said, trying to remain calm. “Put down whatever weapon you’ve got and light a candle. I fear you’ve attacked a friend.”

“A friend?” Margaret shrieked. “He’s not a thief?”

“Nay, Margaret, and why you must toddle about in the dark when we have plenty of candles?”

“Candles won’t help these old eyes of mine,” Margaret complained. “If he’s not a thief, then why was he sneakin’ about like that?”

There was a painful ringing in Duncan’s head that wouldn’t go away. Only when a candle was finally lit did he discover the origin of that pain.

He almost wished he hadn’t. To his chagrin, a tiny woman at least seventy winters old clung tenaciously to a huge iron cooking pan, wielding it like a cudgel. Despite Linet’s reassurances that he was not the enemy, suspicion lurked in the woman’s bright, beady eyes, particularly when she perused his already battered countenance.

“You should sit down,” Linet said in concern as he cradled his forehead. She pressed him carefully into a chair. “Margaret, I hope you’re satisfied. You’ve addled his brains.”

To Duncan’s horror, Margaret looked rather pleased with herself.

She sniffed. “Looks like I’m not the first to take a whack at his head. If he’s not a thief, then who is he?”

“He’s—“

“Sir Duncan de Ware,” he supplied, ignoring Linet’s surreptitious kick at his shin.

Margaret’s eyebrows rose. “
Sir
Duncan?”

“Nay!” Linet blurted.

“Aye,” he countered, pressing a palm to his throbbing forehead.

Margaret lifted a fluttery hand to her cheek. “Well then,” she said, nervously clearing her throat, “I’ll fetch the servants and fix up a proper meal.” Aside to Linet, she whispered loudly, “Why didn’t you tell me, m’lady, that ye were comin’ home early and bringin’ a guest? A proper knight. Imagine. And me near brainin’ the poor lad.” She turned and marched to the pantry, her iron pan in tow.

Linet stood with her mouth agape. The scoundrel had told Margaret he was a knight. And worse, the old woman believed him.

“Why did you tell her that?” she hissed.

“What?”

“That you were Sir Duncan de Ware?”

“What would you have me tell her?”

Linet ran her fingers through her mussed hair in frustration. She didn’t know. It had been her idea to shield the servants from the mortifying truth. After all, she couldn’t very well dance in with a stranger on her arm, proclaiming him a beggar and the possible father of her child. But she feared the tide of deception was going to grow deep around her ankles if she didn’t stem it now.

Three pairs of curious eyes peered around the corner of the pantry screens. Margaret had obviously just broken the news to the servants—supper was going to be graced with the presence of a real knight.

Linet glared at the whispering girls. They ducked their heads back into the pantry.

“Perhaps you shouldn’t have come here so soon,” Linet muttered. “After a few days, after things have settled—”

“Linet,” he whispered, “you’ve killed El Gallo. He has accomplices everywhere. I can’t leave you defenseless.”

“I can—”

“Defend yourself? Alone? I don’t think so.” He quirked a brow upward, then rubbed at his forehead. “Although the old woman might do a fair job with her pan.”

The “old woman” made her entrance from behind the pantry screens, maids in tow. She sang out, “I hope you like mutton, m’lord.”

Did she have to call him that? Linet wondered peevishly.

“It’s one of my favorites,” he assured Margaret.

The girls fairly beamed.

The brash beggar picked up the candle Margaret had brought in and began lighting all the others about the room, like King Midas turning every object he touched to gold. They were nearly as
costly
as gold, Linet thought, distressed at the way he lit so many of them.

She wondered how long he intended to maintain his pretense at nobility. Already the maidservants cooed over his bruises and flitted flirtatiously about him, taking his cloak, questioning after his every whim. Damn him—right before her eyes and in her own household, he was usurping her authority.

Harold came in through the back door.

“Wipe yer feet!” Margaret yelled from the pantry.

“And a good evenin’ to ye,” Harold muttered back. He apologized to the beggar. “She’s a good-for-nothin’ old woman, m’lord. I hope she’s made ye welcome?”

The beggar massaged his temple. “Aye, Harold, that she has. Already offered me the hospitality of the kitchen.”

“So I heard. Is there anythin’ I can do for ye, m’lord?”

Before Linet could make a bid for Harold’s attention, the beggar began making demands.

“Aye, Harold. If I’m going to offer you protection, I’d like to meet the servants so I can learn their faces, know them by name. Will you invite them all to table for supper?”

“Aye, m’lord,” Harold said, his eyes gleaming.

Linet drummed her fingers on the back of a chair while Harold left to do the beggar’s bidding. “You can’t just order my servants about,” she said under her breath. “
I
manage this household.”

“Wouldn’t your servants think it strange if Sir Duncan de Ware didn’t exercise the authority he was born to?”

Duncan could sense Linet’s irritation, and he flashed her a cocksure smile. With so many witnesses bustling in and out of the room, she could do little more than glare at him.

He turned his back to her and took a moment to survey his surroundings. Even by
his
standards, the cottage was impressive. The main chamber was large with a floor made of neatly fitted flagstones. The walls were of light plaster, and the screens dividing the hall from the pantry were painted with vines and flowers of red and gold. In one corner of the room rose the staircase leading to the upper story, where the sleeping quarters were.

A half dozen chairs were placed about the room, as well as a large carved chest with matching cabinet, a desk furnished with parchment, a quill, and some sort of ledger, a stack of finished wool beside a loom, and a trestle table that could be set up for meals. The copious candles about the room lent a cheery glow to the cottage.

He opened a single pair of shutters and peered through the unglazed windows. The night was quiet, and the first stars of evening were winking on their points of light.

When Harold returned, the two of them assembled the trestle table. Margaret and the serving girls brought in great platters heaped with food and a bottle of expensive French wine. Duncan could see by the tense curve of Linet’s mouth that she didn’t approve of the maid’s generosity.

“I’m going to check the outbuildings,” she said tightly.

“It’s dark. Wait here,” he insisted. “
I’ll
check the outbuildings.” He bent to pile kindling on the hearth.

Margaret hummed as she fetched pewter goblets from the cupboard, and Linet hissed at Duncan out of her hearing. “This is
my
house. Please don’t order me about in front of the servants.”

Duncan blew on the coals till the kindling caught fire. “Nonsense, my lady, don’t worry about me,” he said, loudly enough for Margaret to hear, “although it’s kind of you to express your concern.”

Linet muttered an oath.

He grinned. “Best watch your language,” he whispered, nodding toward the servants fetching napkins from the cabinet. “There are ladies present.”

With a wink, he swept past her, past the screens, out the back door, and into the night to the outbuildings.

How Linet suffered through supper she didn’t know. The impudent beggar, obviously relishing the authority he’d appropriated, played the role of de Ware to the hilt, inviting even the filthy stable boy to the table and impressing everyone with colorful tales of his fictional past.

“My father was furious, of course, when I came home empty-handed,” he told them as he picked at the mutton in his trencher. “You see, I’d given my first kill to a hungry crofter I met on the ride home.”

The stable lad’s eyes grew round in admiration. The serving girls giggled adoringly. Linet frowned. The way the beggar told stories,
she
almost believed him.

Then it struck her. She realized now how he made his living. She should have figured it out long ago, with his penchant for disguise, his ability with a sword, his quick wit.

He was a player. A player’s very profession was deception. It was no wonder he could convince Margaret he was a gentleman, Sombra he was a reiver, El Gallo he was the cousin of King Philip. He’d spent a lifetime perfecting his acting skills. She sat back, smug in her newfound knowledge.

“Pray tell us more, sir,” Margaret bubbled, refilling his cup.

“Oh, nay!” Duncan wiped his mouth with his napkin and looked pointedly at Linet. “I fear I begin to bore my audience.”

“Nay!” the servants cried.

“Yer stories are marvelous,” Margaret gushed. “Are they not, m’lady?”

“Oh, they’re quite imaginative,” she dryly agreed. “But Gwen’s head has nodded thrice now, and Elise’s eyes will scarcely stay open. We have large orders to fill in the weeks ahead. I need you at your looms at dawn with your heads clear and your eyes sharp.”

Margaret clapped her hands. “Lady Linet is right, girls. Maeve and Kate, ye may remain to help clean up. The rest of ye, off ye go!”

The girls protested softly, but rose to obey.