To Touch The Knight (28 page)

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Authors: Lindsay Townsend

BOOK: To Touch The Knight
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Giles stared then started to laugh, wild with relief. Whatever else he had planned for this day, he had certainly not aimed to be almost gored.
“My lord!”
“Sir, are you hurt?”
Snapping branches in their haste, pale with anxiety, the rest of the men rushed to them. Giles abruptly stopped laughing.
“I want that bitch cow.”
Ranulf shrugged. Revenge was so like Giles, though in truth they had been in error. Only an idiot threatened a cow with young. “You hunt alone, then. I must guide my courser to camp.”
“I will bring you its heart.” Giles was already brushing twigs from his hair and mounting up on his wide-eyed horse.
Ranulf nodded, turning again to his horse, relieved to be away from Giles and mightily glad to be returning to Edith. “I will keep the mead.”
It was a long walk back.
Chapter 35
On her return from the river, Edith skirted the tourney camp, clutching a pail she had found in the water. It had a hole in it and so was useless, but with the damp bundle of hastily washed clothes it made her seem a maid of all work. At a distance the illusion held, and that was all that mattered.
She felt naked and vulnerable with her face unveiled, but the other wandering maids did not look twice at her. She cut across the churned-up great field, spotting a few rotting beans and peas still in the ground, and made for the wood running alongside them.
Memories of the throng in the churchyard kept her alert to every rustle and bird, but Ranulf was right. The restive crowd was long gone, as if it had never gathered. The limes and oaks gave her cover, and any maids or grooms weaving between the trees were there on their own business.
As she hoped Teodwin might be.
She saw a blaze of purple edge into a huge, hollow-centered holly and knew she had found her steward at his morning ablutions. For a former pig-man, Teodwin was surprisingly shy.
She waited until he emerged from the holly thicket and called to him.
He approached, limping on his poor leg and scowling as he had done in Warren Hemlet village whenever any woman or child had asked him a question.
“What do you do out there?” he demanded. “My lord told me you were sleeping late within his tent.”
“I am Ranulf's prize, not his slave.” She had no time for further rebuttals. “There may be folk coming here throughout today, to the woodland near our camp. They will be frightened, Teodwin, very fearful. Have the others looking out for them and tell them to cover the strangers' heads and faces as they can. They should be brought within our great tent.”
Teodwin looked as if he was chewing on a stone. “More stragglers and wastrels?”
“More wretches like our Lucy, ill-treated by Giles and his men! We must give them shelter if they come.” Compelled by her own revulsion, she gripped her steward's arm. “He is branding them, Teo! On their foreheads, or cheeks. As if they are animals!”
“He would.” Teodwin spat and absently rubbed his lame leg. “So I will tell the others to watch out.”
Edith released the breath she had been holding. “How are Lucy and her babe now? And the children from the hamlet?”
A small smile finally tugged Teodwin's thin mouth. “You may ask them yourself. They are playing over there, on the swing.”
The swing was new to her, and Edith made ready to praise it, for she could guess that Teodwin would have made it. Following his pointing finger she turned, hearing the piping of youngsters' voices now, happy and unguarded.
“The North!”
That was Gawain, copying Ranulf's war cry as he flung himself and the rope swing into the air. Standing on the earth bank behind him, Lucy cheerfully pushed him higher as he swung back. With her other arm she held her son Rano as he suckled under her gown. Sitting at her feet and leaning against her, Mary, the younger child from the pestilence village, concentrated on stirring a badger turd with a stick. Mary's brother Simon meanwhile ate something in the long grass—he was always eating, Edith thought, hoping the lad would not make himself sick.
“She does well,” Teodwin said approvingly. “Maria moans about feeding and changing her babe and how weary she is, and she will not venture out of the tent, but see how good Lucy is with young Rano.”
A babe that is hers but not,
Edith reflected, frowning a little as she considered the “miracle” of the child's finding. In all ways, from nature to his first appearance, Rano seemed a blessed infant. Ranulf would say it proved the love of God and his saints. She was simply uncomfortable with the whole matter, but relieved to see Lucy thriving.
“Do you think she will have me?”
Teodwin's question was not unexpected, not with the way he followed Lucy with his eyes and seized every moment to be close to the young woman. “You do not think I am too old for her?” he hurried on.
“Adam was older than you when I married him.”
“I will raise the child as my own.”
“Lucy will be glad of that.”
Teodwin puffed out his cheeks and his chest. “I intend to speak to her once we are home.”
We have no home. Not anymore.
Edith felt the earth tilt beneath her feet as if she was on a swing.
“Back in Fredenwyke,” Teodwin chattered on, unaware of her reaction. “My lord has promised me a place there.”
Edith became aware that she still had a cloth wrapped around her betrothal ring. She quietly unwrapped it.
“Pretty!” Mary called out, but she pointed to Gawain's bouncing fair curls, not the ring. Gawain, lunging on the rope, thrust out his tongue and then shouted, “Come swing with me, Mary!”
Teodwin clapped his hands together. “Your lady is here.”
To Edith's surprise, Gawain skidded to a stop on the bank, unhooked himself from the swing, and began to untangle his hair with his fingers. Mary trotted to her calling, “Lady, lady!” and even Simon finished his mouthful and wiped his lips. Lucy bobbed a curtsy—whether to her or to Teodwin, Edith was not sure. She forced herself not to clear her throat, but she felt oddly shy with these young, wide eyes fixed on her.
“Forgive me for the interruption, but you, too, should know that we may have visitors to the camp today.” Given the poor creatures' appearances, her young ones deserved a warning.
“Mummy!” Mary shrieked, whirling round on the spot.
Edith's spirits plummeted and she said quickly, “I think these people will be strangers to us.” She held up a hand. “Strangers or not, I hope we can welcome them.”
“There are many in this camp,” Lucy remarked. “How will we know them?”
It was a sensible question, but Edith hesitated. These youngsters had already seen and endured so much.
“You have seen brands on animals? Our visitors are marked in the same way.”
“Why have they been punished?” Gawain asked. “Were they bad?”
Edith felt her gut convulse with mingled pity and rage against Giles and she shook her head. “No, but their master was cruel. So we must treat them very kindly.”
Now Gawain and Simon nodded as Mary sucked her thumb, the discussion thankfully beyond her. Lucy clapped both hands to the sides of her face as if she had a toothache. “Poor things!” Edith heard her whisper and was angered afresh. Giles had done what was allowed by custom, but why should such tortures be allowed?
“We will watch for them,” Lucy promised, and the others, even little Mary, nodded solemnly. “How many will there be, my lady?”
Teodwin, as she had done to him years before in the church at Warren Hemlet, sidled close and trod on her foot.
“Enough of that,” he warned in a low voice. “Should you not be going back? If you are missed at my lord's camp there will be a great outcry.”
“I am leaving now,” Edith said, hiding her ring again. No one had remarked on it, for which she was foolishly disappointed.
She gripped the pail with the hole in it again, and the bundle of cold, wet clothes, and looked through the trees, fixing on the bright banners of Ranulf's tent. If her luck held, she would be able to return there, steal back inside, and Ranulf would be no wiser.
A lie by omission is still a lie.
She flinched at the thought, but it was true.
“I will do better,” she vowed to herself, hurrying along the track with the broken pail clattering against her legs. “When Ranulf and my people are out of all danger, I will be as true as the most chaste knight in Christendom.”
She must be. She had to be, for Ranulf's sake.
Galloping after the careering cow, Giles howled as, again, the beast and her calf evaded him, twisting with devilish ease through briars and hazels that his own horse balked at.
“Hell's teeth and damnation!” Giles whipped his courser as the flitting haze of white melted into the undergrowth, the sounds of the cow's crashing hooves quickly deadened and lost in this gloomy maze of trailing ivy, spiders' webs, and flowering honeysuckle. Giles whipped a streamer of yellow flowers into the mud and trampled it.
“Where were you?” he bawled at his men, hurling his whip into the churned-up mud.
Their horses snorting as they themselves breathed heavily, his men hunched even lower into their saddles.
“Useless turds!” Giles spat at the nearest, his captain, who was looking anywhere but at him. “Get my whip!”
He knew no one wanted to dismount and risk a kick to the head from him. He lashed out at the hanging rope of honeysuckle for a second time and a belt of sparkling flowers floated down, a spray coming to rest over his boot. He stared at it, thinking not of honey-suckle but of lilies.
He patted the neck of his snorting courser. It was not his horse that had been gored, after all. If he returned to camp now he might catch Ranulf's men napping, as his had been now, on this useless chase. Why not? He might finally win some time alone with the princess.
“Your whip, my lord.” A low servile fellow was cowering near to his heel, offering him the handle. He snatched it away and stood on his stirrups.
“We return to camp, gentlemen! Right now!”
In a different part of the forest, Ranulf shook his head as Edmund threw a stone at a rolled-up hedgehog. “Scarcely worthy quarry,” he remarked. “I did say you could stay with the main chase.”
Edmund pursed his lips, his habit when considering if he should speak.
“Out with it, lad.”
“Your mount is moving well now, sir.” Edmund took a step closer, away from their following men. “You could leave him with one of the grooms.” His thin, homely face suddenly glowed with inward fire. “I have a flower for my lady, if I might be permitted—”
His ready blush overcame him and he studied a patch of sagging wild garlic.
“For sure you can.” Ranulf ran his hand over the courser's flank, glad that the good beast was no longer trembling. Edmund was most certainly right: he could safely leave the horse with a few of his men and ride to camp, perhaps catch Edith in her bath. He grinned at the thought.
A blackbird broke cover nearby and his men swung their horses toward the sound. Ranulf raised an arm.
“Those that wish to hunt, stay in the woodland. You, you, you, guide my horse back to camp; there will be extra rations for you. The rest, you will ride with me. We are for camp.” There was silence but no grumbles. It was still early enough for other plans.
You could take another courser and hunt on, so why not admit it? The lamed horse is an excuse. You want to go back.
More than that, he wanted to go home, to the north. He wanted to start packing and stirring his folk, and to show Edith off to his parents.
I wonder what tale she will tell them about her hands?

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