The Warrior's Wife (12 page)

Kate smiled at her own foolishness. This wasn’t yesterday, when she and Rafe enjoyed the privacy of the woodlands. There were no trees or bushes outside the postern, and, more to the point, guards always stood atop the walls at either side of the gateway. She and Warin would never be out of someone’s sight. It simply wasn’t possible to kiss Warin without someone to see them.

With her virtue firmly in place, Kate straightened her gown and veil, then left the protection of the inner yard. Haydon’s original builder had set his fortress on the crest of a tall hill. For defense’s sake, that long-dead man had left only ten feet between the back wall and the hill’s steepest drop. Over time the need for more water than the kitchen well provided had carved a narrow path down the hillside to the stream below it. Common sense and a desire to protect the walls had dictated that none of Haydon’s succeeding lords allow the path to become wider than a single man could use at one time.

Kate glanced to either side of the gateway. Warin wasn’t waiting for her. Frowning, she went to the path’s head and looked down toward the gurgling water. No one was on the track. Where was he?

Turning, she scanned the wall behind her. From its farthest corner, deep in the keep’s shadow, Warin lifted his hand to her. A touch of concern rose in Kate. The spot he’d chosen was far enough from the gate that those coming and going might not notice him at all. Indeed from where he stood not even the guards on the walls could see him.

Virtue screamed that joining him there would make it too easy to give way to temptation and invite a kiss. She should wave Warin nearer to the postern. Instead, curiosity powered Kate’s feet as they took her directly to Warin’s side. Her beleaguered conscience managed to bring her to a stop arm’s length from him.

Still wet from his dunk in the river Warin’s usually golden hair was the color of honey. His cheeks gleamed, all hint of whiskers scraped from them. His mustache was neatly trimmed. The smile he sent her was meant solely for her.

“Lord, but your beauty fair takes my breath, my lady,” he said, bowing like the courtly knight he was, even though he wore naught but his shirt, shoes and chausses.

The thrill of love’s game rushed through Kate. Lord, how she enjoyed being adored. “Why thank you, good sir,” she replied with a deep curtsy. As she rose she smiled up at him. “I am a lady in search of a champion,” she said. “See here.”

She pulled the ribbon from her sleeve. In idle play she twisted its length between her fingers to show it to him. “I carry with me this token, but only the knight sworn to win the day’s prize in my honor might wear it next to his heart. Are you that man?”

“My lady, I’d walk upon hell’s coals for you,” Warin replied, his voice lowering a little as he stretched out a hand to wrap the tail of the ribbon around his fingers.

Kate knew this was the moment to release it to him, especially since she’d forgotten her gloves and her hands were bare. Propriety’s dictates died beneath her now all-consuming need to know just what sort of sensation his touch would wake. She held her end and waited.

Surprise danced across Warin’s face. In the next instant, the corners of his mouth lifted. As if he knew exactly what she wanted, he claimed the ribbon as his own then raised his hand to place his palm against hers. His skin was still cool after his bath in the river. Hard calluses marked his palm, testimony to his skill as a knight.

Kate waited. Nothing. Where was the breathtaking rush of heat and the thrilling tingles?

Warin’s smile widened just a bit. He slid his fingers along Kate’s hand until they reached the hem of her undergown’s close-fitting sleeve. There he traced the line of fabric against her skin.

Senses straining, Kate sought any hint of reaction to his touch. There simply wasn’t anything. How could that be, when yesterday the barest brush of Rafe’s fingers against her arm had weakened her knees?

An instant later and Warin’s head lowered. Kate almost sighed in relief. Aye, a kiss was what she needed. After all, Rafe had kissed her before he’d really touched her. Perhaps where love was concerned, a man’s kiss paved the way for other sensations.

Warin’s mouth came to rest against hers. Kate closed her eyes, wanting nothing to distract her. Unlike Rafe, whose mouth had been gentle on hers, Warin pressed his lips so hard on hers that it was almost uncomfortable. His mouth moved a little, as had Rafe’s.

There wasn’t even the mildest of quivers inside her. Then Warin’s tongue swept across her closed lips. Startled and a little disgusted, Kate shoved back from him.

“Warin,” she cried in protest.

A flash of impatience shot through his blue eyes, then was gone. “Kate, my Kate. You say you love me, but offer me no proof of your affections beyond mere words,” he said gently enough.

Lifting a hand, he traced his fingertips along the curve of her cheek. Again and much to Kate’s surprise, his touch stirred nothing in her. “At last this morning, you come to me as a lover should, promising sweetness and softness. Don’t retreat now, when I need you so.”

All his pretty words woke in Kate was the memory of Warin’s loosened clothing at the picnic. Lord help her. Rafe had been right. Warin had expected a tryst that day. Disgust drove Kate back a step from him.

Reaching out, Warin wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close once more. Shocked by his unexpected boldness, Kate didn’t even think to strain against his embrace. Warin’s mouth once more lowered toward hers. Not wanting to again experience his kiss, Kate turned her head to deny him access to her lips.

“Warin, I am a virtuous woman. I cannot give you the proof you desire,” she protested.

“Just a little kiss,” he said, releasing an arm from around her to catch her chin and turn her face to his. “Only a kiss, Kate,” he crooned, “that’s all I want.”

“Here it comes!” shouted a man from around the corner of Haydon’s enclosing wall, his voice alive with joy.

Warin nearly dropped Kate so quickly did he release her. As she stumbled back in surprise, he whirled toward the echoing sound.

“I’ve got it, Stephen,” another man yelled and Kate recognized Josce FitzBaldwin’s voice. There was something in the way his words echoed that said he was yet a goodly distance from the corner. “Now to you, Priest!”

Three or four men hooted, some in triumph, one in disappointment. “It’s mine,” Rafe Godsol shouted.

Guilt shot like a bolt through Kate’s heart. God save her, but she didn’t want Rafe to see her with Warin. For some reason it made her feel as if she’d wronged him.

Lifting her skirts, she turned and raced like a hoyden for the postern, not even sparing a glance to see if Warin noticed her abandoning him. Once safely concealed inside the arch of the small gate, she stopped to peer around its corner. Warin yet stood where he’d been, staring at the wall’s corner from whence came the voices. A moment later, Rafe, Sir Josce and their four companions raced full tilt around that same bend of stone. Dressed only in their knee-length shirts, they all had linen toweling draped about their necks. As they ran they tossed an inflated pig’s bladder from one to the other. The one with the curling golden hair and a merry smile stopped as they passed Warin and bowed low.

“We beg your pardon, sir,” this courteous knight said, “but the sport we planned for our bath in the river started a little before time.” His apology given, he lifted his heels and raced on to catch his companions.

Once they were past Warin turned, only now looking for his vanished lover. Shuddering, Kate retreated even farther into the postern’s shadow until she stood well inside Haydon’s courtyard. God forbid that Warin see her and think she wanted him to rejoin her.

Turning, she dashed toward the exterior stairway that crawled up the hall’s side to its guarded second-storey doorway. By the time she set her hand to the railing, confusion had Kate’s head reeling. What was she doing, running from Warin when he was supposed to be the man she loved? A lady was supposed to count the hours until she might again meet with her courtly lover, not hope she would never again be close enough to him to risk another of his kisses.

Understanding hit with so much force that Kate gasped and dropped to sit upon the stair, ignoring a servant who climbed up past her. At last, all Adele’s lectures made sense. With every tale she told Adele warned that a lady had to battle with all her soul to resist the temptation of her lover’s touch. Only now did Kate see that what she’d thought virtue was in truth merely absence of temptation. Not once had Kate ever craved Warin’s touch. It followed that if she didn’t long for Warin, she couldn’t be in love with him. In fact, she’d never been in love with him. Given that, it made sense that she’d feel nothing when he kissed her.

She couldn’t say the same of Rafe and his touch. A smile crept across Kate’s lips. Oh, nay, she couldn’t say that about Rafe at all. There wasn’t a moment when she didn’t long to feel his arms around her.

Why, it was as plain as the nose on her face. It was Rafe she loved, not Warin.

As she accepted this, the memory of Rafe’s kisses yesterday returned. Kate’s eyes closed. The throbbing heat he woke in her stirred at the core of her being. Oh aye, there was no doubting her temptation when it came to Rafe Godsol.

Kate gasped. Here she was once more lusting after her sire’s dearest enemy! This was wrong, terribly, terribly wrong. What sort of lady was she, if she couldn’t control herself, tame these untoward desires and leash sin? No lady at all, that’s what sort.

Resentment warmed in Kate’s gullet. Rules, always rules. It should be wrong that something so pleasant had to be denied.

“Lady de Fraisney?”

Warin’s call echoed against Haydon’s inner walls, ringing out over the subdued hubbub of busy servants in the courtyard. Guilt twinged. Lifting her head just high enough to peer over the stair rail, Kate watched the man she was now absolutely certain she didn’t love step into Haydon’s garden.

She should go to him this instant and confess that she’d been mistaken about her affection for him. Aye, at the same time she’d ask for her ribbon’s return. A wave of cowardice hit her. As angry as Warin had been after the picnic, he wasn’t going to be any happier to learn she no longer cared for him. Lord, but she dared never tell him that it was Rafe who’d replaced him in her heart. The last thing she wanted was for Warin’s bad mood to ruin what promised to be a wondrous day. Nay, until she was ready to tell Warin about her change of heart, she’d need a place to hide, a place well out of his reach. Someplace like Lady Haydon’s women’s quarters where Ami slept.

Leaping to her feet, Kate fled up the stairs to the hall’s exterior door. There was no gauging the depth of her relief when she escaped into the hall without Warin calling after her. Through that big room she went toward the area curtained off for the women.

Aye, she needed Ami, a woman who wasn’t afraid to face any man. If only she could find a way to tell Ami what had happened--without mentioning names, of course. Perhaps her new friend would have some advice. At least, Kate hoped some of Ami’s boldness might rub off on her.

 

Although the day was cool enough with occasional cloud, a harbinger of rain this evening, Rafe’s sun-warmed helmet made him sweat. Moisture trickled out from under the leather coif he wore beneath his mail hood. One pesky droplet made its way down his brow and into his eye. Rafe blinked away the sting, having learned as a squire just how dangerous it was to rub his face while he wore gloves sewn with tiny metal plates.

To distract himself he fidgeted in his saddle and juggled his shield. Beneath him, Gateschales chuffed and shifted. His horse seemed as eager as he to claim victory in the Godsol division of the joust so they might face the Daubney winner to take both purse and honor. There was but one man left for them to best before they did so: Josce FitzBaldwin.

What surprised Rafe about facing Josce now was that Josce was no Godsol. As he promised at the picnic Lord Haydon had made good use of the Daubney-Godsol feud; he’d divided the jousters between the shire’s warring families. To escape any hint that he favored one side over the other, unaligned families were apportioned to both sides. Josce had been apportioned to the Godsol side.

Since none of Rafe’s companions were yet landed or wealthy enough to take on a squire for this day they served each other. Simon appeared at Rafe’s side, a fresh lance in hand; Rafe’s previous weapon had shattered in his first run against Josce. Because Lord Haydon wanted no fatalities to mar his celebration, the potentially lethal lance wore a blunting tip at its end.

Fewtering his weapon, Rafe looked across the field’s width at his friend as Josce took a new lance from Hugh, hefting it as if testing for balance. A moment later, Josce shook his head and returned it to Hugh. Rafe grinned. The Godsol championship had just fallen neatly into the cup of his hand. The only time Josce ever refused his first lance was when he believed he’d lose the match. Now Josce would sort through the available spears, seeking the one that would lend him the confidence he should have had in his heart. All this because Rafe had twice lifted Josce from his saddle when they practiced two weeks past.

With Haydon’s bailey cluttered by tents, Lord Baldwin staged the day’s contest in a meadow not far from his home. Long and flat, its grasses scythed close to the ground, this wee plain was situated between two low hills and ringed by fields of wheat. There was even a small stream, which offered water enough to sate an overheated horse or man. Today’s event had drawn every serf and peasant for miles around, or so it seemed. All of them wore their best homespun clothing, dyed the rich hues of onion skin and nut husk. So many folk sitting behind the lists, dining on bread and cheese while their children played, gave the day a fair-like feel. Why, a few enterprising souls even hawked ale among their ranks.

Although the gentlefolk were scattered about the field’s edges, most clung to the meadow’s far end, where Lord Haydon had provided makeshift benches, rough wooden planking set upon barrels. A goodly length of tenting canvas had been raised for shade. At first, the only ones on the seats were the gentlewomen, the few churchmen and those oldsters who chose not to participate in the sport. They’d made quite a picture, all dressed in their finery. The scene had grown a little more ragged over the hours. As knights were eliminated from the contest they shed their heavy armor and hot woolen underarmor, then joined their womenfolk, wearing only their rough shirts, chausses and boots.

Rafe found Kate in their midst with ease. Her pretty blue gown glowed like a beacon next to Amicia’s scarlet. He was in time to catch Kate watching him. A brief but oh-so-pleased smile flashed across her face as their gazes met then bright color washed her cheeks. An instant later, she looked down into her lap.

That she could gaze at him so after he’d interrupted her with her lover this morning sent a rush of triumph through Rafe. His gaze swept across to the field to where the Daubneys ran. He didn’t know which pleased him more, the fact that it seemed he’d already stolen Kate’s affections from Sir Warin or that he was about to meet Bagot’s steward and prove to Kate he was the better man.

Sir Warin, it turned out, was a fine jouster although Rafe hesitated to believe him as fine as himself or Josce. Still, Rafe liked the thought of facing the steward as an equal. That way there was no chance that defeating Warin might stir a grain of pity in Kate’s heart for the man.

Just as with the Godsols, the Daubney division was in its final round. It was Sir Warin against Sir Gilbert DuBois, Lord Bagot’s neighbor and staunch supporter. As the herald gave the sign, the two men, lances leveled and shields high, spurred their mounts. The thunder of galloping horses resounded across the meadow.

Rafe shook his head. The match was Sir Warin’s. Even from this distance he could see Sir Gilbert’s lance tip drag. So did the steward. Sir Warin subtly shifted his shield to take advantage of the other man’s error.

Shield metal shrieked and lances groaned as they collided. In that split second Bagot’s steward gave a twist of his arm. Sir Gilbert’s lance tip dropped so suddenly that it caught the sod. With his horse galloping on to the alley’s end, the effect was to lift Sir Gilbert out of his saddle.

The crowd cheered, the Daubneys roaring as they welcomed Sir Warin as champion. After all he was Lord Bagot’s representative in business. Why shouldn’t he be his proxy in war games? Even Rafe offered his rival mental congratulations on the well-played trick. Aye, it would be a fine thing indeed, to meet and defeat Sir Warin.

With the Daubney champion revealed, it was time to determine the Godsols’ representative. Rafe looked back at Josce. His friend had finally decided on a lance.

The herald, played this day by a knight too old to participate, rode back across the field to where the Godsols ran. Reining in his horse, he called out the names of the contestants, not that anyone didn’t know who either Rafe or Josce was. With his announcement, folk all around the field dropped into a breathless silence.

Rafe hefted his lance. His knees tightened on his horse. It wasn’t necessary. Gateschales, well-trained beast that he was, was more than ready. There was nothing that this horse liked better than the joust, being a marvelous sprinter.

The herald retreated. Rafe positioned his shield. His hand tightened on the lance’s hilt. At the sign, they were off.

Gateschales breathed like a smith’s bellows as he threw himself into his fastest stride, his hooves tearing up great chunks of soft sod. As always, Rafe’s world constricted until all he saw was the spot on Josce’s shield he intended to hit. Leaning forward, he allowed long practice to lead his body where it must go.

Lance met shield in an explosion of noise and thrust. Every muscle in Rafe’s body strained as he absorbed the force of both Josce and his horse. He gave not a inch, nor did Gateschales, who strained to stride on when all nature tried to drive him back.

As had happened two weeks ago during practice Josce’s heart betrayed him. Rather than drive forward, he let Rafe’s lance shove him back in the saddle until he tumbled out of it heels over head. His horse veered to one side, trumpeting and raising in trained response to an empty saddle. Grooms raced to catch the dangerous beast.

Rafe drew Gateschales into a quick turn and rode back up the field to his fallen friend. Dropping shield and lance, he threw himself off his horse. Hugh and Simon were already kneeling in the torn dirt at the knight’s side.

“Josce!” Hugh shouted, lifting Josce’s head.

Simon tried to remove Josce’s helmet in case of injury, but the metal headgear clung to the mail hood beneath it and refused to give. “Damn me, but what if we have to bring him to the smith to have it off?” he muttered.

Rafe crouched at Josce’s side in time to see his friend’s eyes open. “God’s pain, Rafe,” his friend breathed. “Why do I keep letting you do this to me?” That he spoke was enough to make all three of the waiting men grin.

“He’ll yet live to spite his father,” Rafe said in abject relief, his hand closing over Josce’s shoulder in what was meant as a comforting touch.

Josce winced. “Only as a broken man,” he said, managing a laugh. Simon and Hugh put their arms beneath him to aid him in sitting. “I concede to you. Now go on and take the prize as is your due. As for me, I’ll slink back to my father’s house and lay poultices upon my bruises, hoping I’ll be limber enough for the morrow’s melee so I might make my fortune ransoming horse and armor.”

With a grateful laugh Rafe rose, only to find Lord Haydon standing behind him. It was a tiny, satisfied smile the nobleman sent in Rafe’s direction before he knelt at his son’s side. However short the glance, Rafe read the message hidden in it. Lord Haydon couldn’t be happier at his son’s defeat, for it meant the Godsol responsible for the uproar at the picnic would face one of the Daubney participants in that same event. Lord Haydon had what he so needed. The morrow’s mock battle would have nothing at all to do with politics.

Pleased with his victory for his own reasons, Rafe strode toward the groom who held Gateschales. As he went he threw a glance at Sir Warin. The steward had removed his helmet and now stood beside the defeated Sir Gilbert. Sir Warin offered his opponent a friendly hand, but smug satisfaction filled his face. Rafe smiled a tight grin. Sir Warin best gloat while he could. In a few moments, he’d be sitting on the ground in Josce’s place.

“Well now, if it isn’t our Godsol champion,” Will called, striding out to meet his victorious brother. Having long since shucked his mail in defeat, blood and dirt stained the hem of his rough shirt where he’d used it to wipe his face. Sweat traced the outline of his helmet’s eyepieces in the dirt on Will’s face. “Yon benighted horse is worth every pence our sire spent on his breeding and training,” Will laughed, pointing to Gateschales, complimenting the horse’s skill before acknowledging Rafe’s talent.

“Good work,” the eldest Godsol continued, offering Rafe a pat on the back. “Now go and take the purse from yon rat-kisser. Show all the world that the Godsols are the better men. In fact, you have my permission to kill the worm-eater if you so desire.” He smiled a wicked grin. “One less Daubney, even a servant like de Dapifer, is far better for this world.”

Rafe laughed as he picked up his discarded shield, shrugging it into place on his forearm. He left his used lance where it lay. There’d be fresh weapons for the final round. “I think I’d be better off saving the steward’s murder for the morrow when I can disguise so dastardly a deed behind the chaos of the melee.”

Will opened his mouth to reply, but Rafe held up a forestalling hand. “We’ll chat after I’ve taken the purse, Will,” he said, needing to hurry into his meeting with Sir Warin. Rafe knew well enough from sparring with Josce that sometimes the only edge a man had over his competition was what he held in his heart. If Rafe delayed even an instant Sir Warin might well garner confidence from the belief his opponent was reluctant to meet him.

Nodding, Will gave Rafe another congratulatory pat. “Go now and take that prize for the Godsols and our honor.”

“That I shall,” Rafe vowed as he mounted Gateschales.

As he started for the middle alley, where the run for the purse would be held, the Godsols bellowed their approval. Nearing the place where Kate sat, a place of honor beside the bride and groom, he dared a quick glance at her. She glowed as she gazed back at him. It was something better than desire for him that filled her smile and softened her face. She was proud of him and what she felt for him, the way a wife should be proud of her husband.

Rafe’s heart twisted sweetly. Images flooded him, none of them having to do with lust. They were pictures of mundane future events, such as sharing a meal with Kate, and holding her hand as they walked the lands they’d own. It was this, the quiet domestic bliss he’d never expected to own in his life, that he wanted from his marriage to Kate. Lord, but he couldn’t wed her soon enough.

Priest and Stephen, who’d ridden with the Daubneys, met Rafe as he drew his horse into position at one end of the alley. Both men grinned as they offered him their congratulations.

“Well run,” said Priest.

“Never doubted the Godsol champion would be you this day,” Stephen said, his voice filled with true pleasure over the achievement of a well-deserving comrade.

“My thanks for your confidence,” Rafe replied with a quiet laugh, grateful to have friends such as these. “Now, what can you tell me of Sir Warin?”

Stephen pulled a sour face and shook his head. “He runs like you Rafe, sitting in his saddle as if he were a piece of it.”

“I’ll add, for what little it’s worth, that he holds his shield low and tight,” offered the sober, priestly Alan, then he shook his head. “His confidence is supreme. Unless you shake him on the first run Rafe, I think you’ll fight hard to take the purse from him.”

Rafe grinned. “Then shake him I shall,” he said, “doing the deed with all my heart just as I always have and as I must. A third son knows his lot in life is to vie for the scraps that other men, those who are their father’s only heir, leave behind them.”

Alan grimaced at Rafe’s gentle taunt. “You may have my life if you want it Rafe, even the wife my father wishes to press on me. Let me take yours.”