The Maiden and Her Knight (9 page)

“I am glad he was not alone among foreigners.”

“There were many Normans sick and dying with him.”

Before reaching the hall, Oswald turned him toward a corner of the courtyard which was relatively secluded. “I would speak to you in private a moment.”

Once in the alcove, Lord Oswald dropped his arm and faced him, his brow furrowed with concern. “I have heard that the Crusade was not conducted as one might expect, given the amount of money raised for it. I also heard that you said as much to the king himself, and suffered for it.”

How many other people believed that had been the cause of their quarrel, as if he were some kind of miser keeping watch over coins? “It was not of money I
spoke, my lord. It was the massacre of the unarmed prisoners at Acre that caused me to criticize my king.”

“As a man of honor, you could do no less.”

Although he was delighted to have someone agree that he was right, this was dangerous ground, as he well knew, for such talk could be accounted treason. “Many would say it was not my place to upbraid our sovereign.”

“Then they mistake the duty of a knight. Sometimes a man of honor must speak to those above him who lack it.” Lord Oswald slid him a glance that was at once shrewd and curious. “There are many of us who do not believe our king and his military adventures should be paid for by exorbitant taxes or by making bargains with our enemies. Why, he undid the treaty with the Scots king, a just punishment for their rebellion, in exchange for ten thousand marks. And he has said he would sell London, if he could, to finance his grandiose schemes.”

“I am a loyal subject of my rightful king.”

“Despite what he has done to your family?”

“My family?”

The nobleman's brow furrowed with puzzlement, as if he couldn't believe Connor didn't know something of vital importance.

His chest constricted. It had been two years since he had left his home a second time, and he had not written or heard from them since. Surely Caradoc wouldn't be stubbornly silent about anything serious. He would have sent word—if he had known where to find his roving brother.

“The taxes on your family's Welsh estate are three times that of similar estates in England.”

Not death. Not illness. Not arrest or imprisonment. Thank God.

Then the significance of Lord Oswald's words struck him. “Three times?”

“No other Welsh estates are taxed as your family's has been since you were sent from the king's presence.”

He had ascribed Caradoc's barely controlled rage during their final argument to anger about his banishment from the king's retinue because of the disgrace to the family, as well as the old conflict about the cost of his knightly equipage, but nothing more.

Connor slumped back against the wall. It wasn't like Caradoc to spare his younger brother's feelings—unless he had not had the chance. He had walked out during the argument and departed Llanstephan immediately. Perhaps Caradoc had not had time to get to the taxes.

“I am sorry, Sir Connor. I thought you knew. I also assumed you knew that Richard can be vindictive. This kingdom would be better off if someone would rid us of such a ruler.”

Was he talking about assassination?

“Perhaps God will take him sooner rather than later, eh?” Lord Oswald said with a chuckle as he once again put his arm about Connor's shoulder and turned toward the hall.

Not assassination, but only wishful thinking.

“Enough talk of Richard. I would rather hear about the Crusade. Osric never spoke of it in his letter, except that he was glad to be out of the fighting.”

He didn't want to discuss Richard or describe the Crusade. He wanted to ride home at once and find out for himself from Caradoc if what Lord Oswald said was true.

He would be a long time in the saddle getting home, and he knew from experience that could make a healthy man's body ache. Perhaps the holy brother could supply him with a salve or ointment to lessen the pain. “If you excuse me, my lord, I believe I should seek out Brother Jonathan for something to ease my aching shoulder.”

“Of course I excuse you, and I am sorry to hear that your injury troubles you, Sir Connor. I hope the good brother can be of assistance.”

“As do I, my lord, as do I.”

Connor headed across the courtyard toward the dispensary. He would go to the king's justiciar and demand…ask…request…that something be done. He could not go to Richard, even though the king was in England for only the second time in his reign.

For Richard had sworn to charge him with treason and have him executed if he ever saw Connor's face again, and he didn't doubt Richard meant that as much as anything he had ever said in his life.

Yet he must do
something
.

If there was anything to be grateful for in Richard's vindictive vengeance, it was that he had given him even better cause to leave Montclair, before his feelings for Lady Allis grew any stronger, weaving tendrils of desire and hope about his lonely heart.

A
s he stepped through the tent flap, Connor hoped Lady Allis wasn't there waiting to help with any of the squires' injuries. Just seeing her would tempt him to linger in Montclair, and that he could not do.

Thankfully, Brother Jonathan was alone, muttering as he took account of the items on the long trestle table before him.

He peered at Connor as he approached. “Ah, the shoulder out of joint,” he said, as if that were his name. “How do you fare today?”

“It is not too painful, unless I move it, but since it is my intention to leave as soon as I can pack up my things, I was wondering if there was a salve or ointment you could provide to dull the pain. I can pay you, of course.”
If it is not too expensive
.

“I see. Give me your right hand, please.”

He obeyed and Brother Jonathan felt his pulse. “Payment will not be necessary, for you should not ride.”

“I must.”

“Make a fist, please. Urgent business calls you elsewhere?”

“Yes, extremely urgent.”

“Ah. Now with the left.” Brother Jonathan pursed his lips. “Although I can perceive no serious damage at present, I would urge you to wait at least a fortnight before traveling.”

Impossible
.

Brother Jonathan let go and regarded him gravely. “By God's grace, there is no damage to the flow of your blood, or lack of sensation. However, if you do not let the joint and muscles around your shoulder heal properly—and that means gradually—you could do lasting harm, and the ball is much more likely to slip out again. Every time that happens, it will mean more trouble, until you may be permanently crippled.”

Crippled
. He forced away the images of knights missing eyes or limbs, wracked with pain, barely alive. “I can grip with my knees for a very long time, Brother. I have been hours in battle, when I held on only with my knees.”

“You may be able to stay upon your horse, Sir Connor, but have you considered that an injured man will be a target for every outlaw and thief along the road?”

Never having traveled alone while injured before, he had not. He could not help his family if he was dead.

Brother Jonathan seemed to realize he had made his point. “Beginning tomorrow, you may slip the sling from your arm and move it upward a little. Then a bit
higher the next day. By the Sabbath, you can lift some small objects.”

It sounded like a species of slow torture. “As gradual as that?”

Brother Jonathan's hazel eyes softened with sympathy. “Yes. I say this not out of some urge to do you further harm, Sir Connor, or to cause you any difficulty. I want you to heal as fully as possible, God willing.”

He resigned himself to the inevitable, and told himself that since Caradoc had been paying exorbitant taxes for two years, one more fortnight couldn't make much difference. “I understand and I shall do as you say. I shall stay until you think there is little chance of the injury happening again, and I can hold my shield. I also thank you for all the help you have already provided.”

The little man blushed as if unused to gratitude, then bustled over to his table. “You need have no concern about prevailing upon the earl's hospitality,” he said as he fussed about with his pots and potions. “I have Lady Allis's assurance that no one injured during the tournament should leave unless I think they are fit.”

“She is most generous.”

“Indeed, she is. A true example of Christian virtue.”

“Especially honor thy father and thy mother, I think,” he suggested as he strolled closer, ostensibly examining the objects on the table.

“The Ten Commandments are from the Old Testament, my son, but yes, she is a fine example of how a child should care for an infirm parent.”

He wondered if a man could go to hell for cajoling information from a holy man, then ignored any qualms. “I gather she has had some help managing
the estate from the Baron DeFrouchette. Have the earl's other friends also been as generous with their assistance?”

“No, but they did not need to be.”

He made a shocked face. “They
did
offer, did they not? Surely they did not abandon the earl's family when they realized he was not well.”

“No, not at all. The baron assured them he was taking care of everything.”

Or taking
control
of everything?

“Sir Connor, is there some reason you are pestering Brother Jonathan about my family's affairs?” Lady Allis demanded.

He wheeled around and found Lady Allis glaring at him, her eyes shooting veritable daggers of righteous indignation at him and he flushed with shame.

Allis was glad to see him blush, which proved he had some notion of the insolence of his questions.

“I meant no harm, my lady.”

He could apologize all he wanted, and look at her with those eyes all he liked, but he still had no right to inquire about such things. After all, it was not as if he could change anything.

She addressed Brother Jonathan. “I came to tell you the melee is about to start. Bob and Harry are already in the field with the litter.”

Brother Jonathan's eyes widened as if he had forgotten why he was in the tent. “It is? They are? By Our Lady, I must go!”

He ran out, leaving her alone with the inquisitive Sir Connor, whom she should chastise for his impertinent nosiness.

Except that the words stuck in her throat.

“Forgive my curiosity, my lady,” he said in a deep, gentle tone that sent warmth spiraling through her. “I was wrong to ask such questions.”

“Yes, you were.” She held her breath, waiting for him to explain. Then she realized it might be better if he didn't. Either he was interested in her because he liked her or else he had other, less benign reasons for asking about her situation, and if that were so, she would prefer never to find that out.

“May I be admitted to the armory to examine what is left of my lance?”

He sounded so calm, so logical, while her heart fluttered and danced just from being near him, in spite of all her vows and resolutions.

“Of course,” she said, trying to be as cool and self-possessed as he.

Their discussion, such as it was, was now at an end. He should be leaving. Or she should be leaving.

Neither one of them moved and the silence seemed to stretch tight like a line with a great strain upon it. She remembered being alone with him in the garden. The pleasure and freedom of his company. The way his smile made her feel, and his words. His lips upon her wrist.

How much she yearned to reach out and touch his face. She might have, had she been free.

“Brother Jonathan says it will be at least a fortnight before my shoulder will be healed enough for me to leave. I greatly appreciate your hospitality, my lady.”

Drawn back to reality, and away from winsome thoughts that could only bring her pain, she said, “It is my father's, too.”

He shifted closer. No, he was not as coolly aloof as
he acted, for in his eyes, she saw an echo of her own turmoil.

Joy and sadness, bliss and sorrow, contended within her, and beneath it all, as the bedrock beneath the sand, was burning, fervent desire. Longing—intense as the flames of a conflagration—unfurled and surged through her body, and she was powerless to move away.

“You have a fine family, my lady, one to be proud of. One worth sacrificing for.”

He knew. He understood why she was marrying Rennick. Why she had no other choice. “Sometimes love demands such sacrifices from us.”

She had never spoken of love of any kind to Rennick, or any other man. She had never wanted to, or thought they would understand if she did. Only here and now, with this man, did that word pass her lips.

“Which does not render it the less impressive.” He looked at the ground. “Not everyone is so unselfish.”

He glanced up at her, and the questioning, humble look in his eyes nearly undid her. She would never have suspected he could look so vulnerable.

“I have been selfish and unthinking. I have acted without regard to my family or how my words and deeds might affect them.” She realized he was trying to smile and it was all she could do not to caress his cheek. “I have also been impetuous, as you know, my lady.”

“I do not mind that you kissed me,” she whispered, flushing beneath his steadfast gaze, feeling again the gentle, wondrous pressure of his lips on her wrist, and remembering the restless thoughts that had kept her awake that night.

Relief crossed his features. “I feared you would think me a lascivious lout, and that would have given me pain as great as my injury.”

There was no false note in his words, but only sincerity.

She wanted to embrace him, to feel his arms around her. She wanted to hold him close and tell him how hard it was for her, that she wished time and time again that there could be another choice for her. She wanted to assure him that it took every morsel of her determination and self-control to do what she felt necessary, and there was not a moment that very same determination and self-control did not seem about to waver and disappear.

But she dared not, or she knew, just as surely as she drew breath, that her resolve would finally crumble into dust and blow away in the wind.

She could not allow that. She had to be strong, always. On her shoulders alone rested her family's security.

Even calling on all the inner strength she possessed, she could not bring herself to leave, although this would be the wise thing to do. Yet she could retreat to safer ground. “My brother finds you quite fascinating.”

He blinked, obviously unsettled by the change of subject. “Because I have been on the Crusade.”

“He hopes you will tell him all about it.”

“If I did, he would be sorely disappointed. There was little glory in the East.”

“Then you will not fill his head with exciting tales of great battles and daring?”

He grimly shook his head. “Not I, my lady. Indeed, I would rather not speak of those days at all. They hold little but memories I would prefer to forget. Perhaps you can tell him that for me.”

She should have talked of something else. “I am sorry for raising such a painful subject.”

“There is no need for you to feel sorry. You did not tell me exciting stories so that I was fixed upon going, no matter the cost to my family. I will not set another young man's feet on the supposed path to glory knowing that it more often ends in pain and sorrow.”

She moved away from him and his anguished eyes. “I have heard of your quarrel with the king. Did that cause you pain and sorrow?”

“In part, but we also suffered from deprivation because of his enthusiasm and his vow to take Jerusalem at any cost.”

“Which he did not accomplish, despite the cost.”

“Which he did not accomplish,” he confirmed, coming toward her. “There were many times I wished I had not gone.”

“You did what you believed was right.”

“Yes, my lady,” he whispered, so close to her now, his words seemed like the prelude to his kiss.

She wanted his kiss, his lips upon hers. Already she felt more affection for him than she did for Rennick and probably ever would. Surely it was no wonder, then, that she yearned for his touch, to be caressed as if she were cherished and not bought. More, she wanted him to possess her completely, as she would him. She longed to discover what it was to be intimate with a man she desired with every fiber of her being, the need burning in her like a fire burning out of control in the high summer.

If such dreams were a sin, she would sin. What harm did it do to picture him holding her, sharing her bed? Instantly, that image—and more—burst into her mind. His naked body over hers. The expression of
desire on his features, blatant and hot. She beneath him, anticipating his thrust, so eager for him it was desperation.

Then she realized why it was wrong to have such thoughts. She did not want to let them remain a maiden's fantasy.

As if God Himself felt the need to interrupt, voices raised and anxious sounded nearby. Flushing as if she had discovered Sir Connor had shared her lustful vision, she backed away. “Somebody must be hurt.”

Although he could do little with his shoulder injured, he might be of some use fetching bandages or medicines, so although Connor inwardly cursed himself for an impulsive cur, he did not leave the tent.

Once again, he had been too forward, too inappropriately intimate. She had only done him good and looked at him with gentle sympathy, but God save him, he had almost kissed her again, even though she was betrothed to another. It didn't matter that she was, without question, the most tempting woman he had ever met his life. He must be more careful. They were separated by rank, by wealth, by duty—by all the barriers society erected.

Bob and Harry, panting hard, ran in with their litter. On it, deathly pale and sweating, lay a young, red-haired squire. Connor saw no blood, but that didn't mean the youth was not seriously injured. His wound had not bled, either.

“What happened?” Lady Allis demanded.

“He was fine in the melee,” Bob answered. “Not hit or nothing.”

No broken lance, then.

“He got off his horse,” Harry continued, “and then
he staggered and fell. Fainted, we thought, and so he had, but it looks a sight worse than just that.”

Connor had to agree. He had known men who had trouble bearing the weight and heat of their armor, but this was the worst he had ever seen anybody suffer who had not been wounded, too.

“Let me see him,” Brother Jonathan cried as he rushed into the tent.

Connor quickly stepped out of the way to let him pass.

Brother Jonathan bent over the young man, examining him.

Then, suddenly, everything stopped. Brother Jonathan, Lady Allis and the two soldiers formed a tableau of shock and dismay as they stared at the youth.

Connor knew what that meant. The squire had died.