A True and Perfect Knight Page 14

  Gennie swallowed. For the sake of her soul she must tell Haven all. Yet she could not bear to reveal such weakness to this man. He was so perfectly strong in both body and will. Gennie squared her shoulders. She couldn’t hope to match him in worldly strength, but her faith was as firm as any devout. She would draw on that. God would guide her.

  “I…I sinned.”

  Haven’s lips twisted. “That is the usual reason for penance. How did you sin?”

  “I felt lust”—Gennie’s face burned—“for a man I do not love.”

  Her husband frowned and tightened his grip on her hand. “Who was this man?”

  Gennie hesitated. What could she say? How could she make him understand, when she didn’t understand herself?

  “I am waiting.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “You.” She snatched her hand from his and covered her flaming cheeks. “Do you understand? I felt lust for you. Are you satisfied now?” She dared him with her eyes to push for more.

  Haven puffed out his cheeks. His forehead wrinkled as if in pain. “Nay!” he groaned and leaned over the ship’s rail.

  What? Gennie suppressed a gasp of surprise and looked closely at Haven, who clung weakly to the side of the ship. “You suffer mal de mere?”

  Her big, brave, oh-so-strong, oh-so-perfect knight uttered a truly pitiful groan followed by protracted sounds of wretching.

  Automatically, Gennie rubbed her hand over his back. When Thomas was sick the soothing strokes always helped.

  “It is no sin to lust for your spouse.” The faint words floated toward Gennie just before another bout of nausea shook Haven’s back.

  He was wrong, but she would not argue with him now. Now all she wanted was to find some fresh water and get him to a cot. She stopped a burly seaman, who promised to bring the water “right quick like”.

  Haven’s groans ceased, but periodic pains racked his body.

  Gennie continued to stroke him. She murmured soothing sounds, assuring him that he would soon feel much better.

  The seaman returned. He helped Haven to sit on a rope coil and steadied him while Gennie wiped his face.

  “Can you stand?” She had to get Haven to the shelter at the back of the boat, and standing was the first step.

  “Of course I can stand,” he croaked. Suiting action to words, he rose and would have toppled face forward had the seaman not caught him. “God, I hate the sea,” Haven muttered.

  “Sea prob’ly dunna like ye overmuch either.” The sailor grinned. “Seein’ as we ain’t left t’harbor yet.”

  Gennie put the basin down. “Can you help me get him to a bed?”

  “Aye.” The seaman suited actions to words. Aware of the effect that seeing their leader laid low might have on Haven’s men, Gennie shook her head. “Let us try together first.”

  “Verra well.”

  Gennie took up a position on one side of Haven. With the seaman on the other, they managed a credible imitation of a casual walk to the wooden structure that housed the beds where passengers might sleep.

  Gennie loosed her hold. The seaman lowered Haven to one of the small cots.

  “Thank you very much.”

  The seaman nodded. “He be the first, but ’twill be plenty more ’fore we’ve been at sea a day.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Aye. Most passengers don’t take well to the sea, nor the sea to them.”

  “Then I will need Marie. Will you get her for me?”

  “Which one is she?”

  “The short, round woman with red hair.”

  “I know the one, a fair buxom wench.”

  Gennie grinned. Haven moaned, drawing her attention from the seaman’s apparent fascination with her son’s nurse. “Ask her to bring water, basins and cloth.”

  “I will have her to ye ’fore two turns o’ the wheel.”

  “My thanks again.” Gennie slipped the words over her shoulder and stroked her hand down Haven’s face. He looked slightly less pale. The grim lines about his mouth faded.

  Haven’s lips moved.

  Gennie strained to hear his words. Failing, she leaned closer.

  His eyes opened, and his brown gaze searched her face. “My thanks to you, wife.”

  This time she caught the faint words. “Think naught of it, husband. A little rest will see you back on your feet again.” Unaccustomed to his vulnerability and his thanks, Gennie rose, intent upon finding Marie.

  Haven’s hand caught hers with a weak squeeze. “Nay. I cannot feel so vile and not die.”

  Gennie looked down at him and could not help the small upward turn of her lips. He looked so much like Thomas when life threw some unexpected obstacle between him and his current great desire.

  “I do not doubt that you feel most wretched. But truly, you will recover, especially if I can find Marie to help us.”

  “Stay with me. Please.” His eyes closed.

  She could have broken his grasp with a small shake of her hand, but her determination faltered in the face of his plea.

  “Oui, I will stay with you. But you must promise to sleep.”

  Haven’s hand dropped to the bed. “’Twill be no burden, to sleep with you near. I would…”

  His words trailed off as Gennie resettled herself beside him. His breathing evened, and Gennie knew he slept.

  Moments later, Marie bustled into the hut, her arms filled with everything needed to tend the sick.

  “So that sailor told the truth. I had not thought anything as simple as the sea could lay your husband low, milady.”

  “’Tis reassuring to know that he is not as true and perfect as rumor would have us believe.”

  “Surely you can not wish this mal de mer upon him?”

  “Non, I do not wish anyone ill, Marie. But you must admit that he can be somewhat daunting.”

  Marie studied her mistress, then set about preparing the sickroom. “Mayhap, milady. I confess I know little about men who daunt. Most of the ones I know be just like babies, yelling whenever their will be cros’t.”

  “Sir Haven does not seem to yell near as much as Roger did.”

  “Well, there’s yellin’ and yellin’. Some men do so in a quieter fashion than others.”

  Gennie nodded. In the few weeks of her acquaintance with Haven de Sessions she had become very familiar with his quiet authority, coming into conflict with his determination on more occasions than she cared to admit.

  “Marie, that sailor who fetched you to me, said others would be struck with mal de mer.”

  “Aye, milady. You recall how it was on our voyage from France.”

  Gennie shuddered at the memory of the foul stench and pitiful moans that she and Marie had encountered as they tended the other passengers. “Is there nothing we can do to prevent such sickness?”

  “None that I know of, milady. Indeed, most folk recover before any treatment could be of use. We only need worry for those who don’t recover within a day. They must have water and naught else. And we must watch for fever. That’ll be our worst enemy.”

  “How long would it take for fever to set in?”

  “’Tis hard to say. Some are sick for days but show no sign of fever. Others I’ve seen become feverish the minute they take to their beds. Had we a goodly supply of willow bark, I would not concern myself too much. But we’ve little left, and the sailor didn’t seem to think there was any on the ship.”

  Gennie frowned. “Think you Thomas will fall victim to this?”

  “I cannot say. But he is your son, and you showed no signs on the boat from France.”

  “True, but he is also Roger’s son, and I heard that my first husband sickened most severely on his voyage to and from the Holy Land.”

  “Mayhap you should check on the lad, then.”

  Gennie looked at Haven, torn between duty to her husband and worry for her son. “But…”

  “’Twill set your mind at rest. I can tend Sir Haven until you return.”

  Gennie nodded a
nd rose. “I will return the moment I have seen Thomas.”

  Haven woke to the sound of moans and wretching. His stomach hurt, but he didn’t think he would vomit. The thought surprised him. The past few days, he had spent most of his waking moments bent over a basin. Someone, usually Marie but sometimes Gennie, would wipe his face and give him water. Then he would fall back exhausted and sleep.

  The swaying of the cot told him they were still on board the ship. His stomach churned at the realization. Haven quelled the sensation. He had been laid low too long. Plans must be made for the coming battle with Daffydd. The ship’s master must be made to give up some of his archers. Determined to conquer his weakness and get on with his work, Haven sat up.

  A slim hand pushed him right back down again.

  “I must rise.”

  “Nay, husband. Not when you are so weak that a touch as small as mine puts you flat on your back.”

  “But…”

  Her finger against his lips silenced him.

  “Not another word until you’ve eaten the sops I brought you.”

  Haven’s stomach twisted in protest at the mention of food. He turned his face, and her finger trailed away down the side of his neck. “I hate sops.”

  “Oui,” she agreed with more cheer than anyone on a boat should possess. “Now hold my shoulders, and I will help you sit so that you may eat.”

  “I won’t eat that mess.” Nevertheless, he fixed his hands on her and let her pull him upright. Her scent smothered the other nauseating smells in the chamber. Deliberately he slid against her, so he could linger a moment near her lavender softness.

  “You need to eat to regain your strength.”

  “I will not grow strong on pap.”

  “Until you keep the sops down, ’tis all you’ll get.”

  Haven knew that he could not fight her and win in his present condition. So he must use guile. “You really wish me to eat that?”

  “Oui, it would please me greatly.”

  “And what will you do to please me in exchange?”

  He watched his wife blush. Having Father Jonas speak with her had been a good idea.

  “You cannot mean…” She cast a look about the room.

  “Nay, wife.” He took the bowl she had picked up from the table. “But I must speak with Soames before we regain the shore.”

  “That will be impossible.”

  “Why?” Had he the strength he would have bellowed his displeasure.

  “Because Soames is just as ill as you were two days ago.”

  Two days? He had been ill two whole days. That meant the boat would dock in another day. The need to have his plans in place became more urgent. But how could he accomplish preparations without Soames?

  Haven felt a spoon against his lips. He opened his mouth and swallowed the soft, fragrant stuff without protest.

  None of his men had the leadership skills that Soames’s experience gave the older warrior. Haven didn’t know enough about the new men…

  Since the food Gennie spooned into his mouth was too soft to sink his teeth into, he chewed on the thought.

  The new men; that was it. Owain had all the skills needed. Could Haven trust the man? Did he have any choice? He lifted his hand and took the spoon from Gennie. “Owain—is he ill?”

  “Non.” She eyed him suspiciously.

  “Good. Get him and bring him here.”

  “But your food?”

  “I can feed myself.”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “See.” He shoved a heaping spoonful of the sops into his mouth and nearly choked trying to swallow the large mass.

  Gennie smiled.

  “It would please me greatly, wife.” He purposely echoed her earlier words.

  “Well, I suppose it would not hurt you to talk to Owain.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But only for a few moments.”

  Gennie was gone before Haven could correct her. The plans he must make would take some time. Quickly he finished the sops and set the bowl aside. His stomach still felt somewhat shaky, so he leaned back against the wall that bordered the cot. Owain must not see his leader prostrate with sickness.

  The man entered the chamber moments later.

  Haven looked beyond the man-at-arms. “Where is Milady Genvieve?”

  “Since she knew I would be with you should the seasickness overtake you again, she wanted to take the air.”

  “A fine nurse you’ll make, I am sure,” Haven grumbled. “Still, ’tis best that this conversation be as private as possible. Are the others asleep?”

  Owain surveyed the sickroom. “Aye, they seem so.”

  “Good enough. Tell me how you’ve kept the men busy.”

  “All who are not sick sharpen their weapons, tend the horses or help the crew.”

  “How many are sick?”

  “Oh, no more than two or three at a time. You and Soames have had the worst of it.”

  “Will they be fit for battle?”

  “Aye. We have a three- or four-day ride to Two Hills Keep once we dock. Plenty of time to settle stomachs. I am more worried about you and Soames than about the men. None of them has been ill for more than a day.”

  Haven frowned at Owain’s clear implication. “I have never failed my king. I will not fail now.”

  “And Soames?” Owain raised a brow.

  “’Tis a good thing he’s asleep and not able to hear you question his abilities.”

  “Only a fool goes to battle when he is ill.”

  “Soames is no fool. If I order him to remain behind, he will do so.”

  Owain nodded. “What plan do you have for the battle?”

  “Since I do not know if Daffydd ap Gryffudd has gained the castle at Two Hills or not, I’ve prepared two plans. If Daffydd occupies Two Hills Keep before we arrive, we will need sappers.”

  “We can find diggers at Twynn.”

  “I am counting on it. I will lay siege until I can breach the castle. Then I shall crush Daffydd and his force within.”

  “We will have to take care not to alert Daffydd as to our arrival.”

  “True. We will send two men to scout the situation in advance. Then approach by night.”

  “And if we arrive first?”

  “We will occupy the castle. We’ll set patrols at two leagues out, keeping watch for Daffydd. My understanding of the ground is that the castle sits on a small rise, with another similar rise about one league to the east. I want men posted on that rise. No fires. I want Daffydd to think our entire strength is in the castle.”

  “’Tis a sound plan. Do you know the strength of his force?”

  “Only estimates. But, with the aid of ten good archers, thirty mounted men should be able to hold the castle and the road.”

  “Your pardon, sir, but we have no archers.”

  “True, but this boat has a complement of forty all told. And I have Edward’s writ to compel any man I need who is not currently in service.”

  “The ship’s master may argue that those archers are in service to him.”

  “Have you seen any enemy ships?”

  “Nay.”

  “And has the ship been threatened by a force from land?”

  “Nay.”

  “The ship is to return to Chester the moment we’ve been put ashore. Since there is neither current threat nor danger of future threat before replacements can be gotten, I do not see that the archers on board this vessel are in service. The master can spare me half his archers without fear.”

  “And if he refuses?”

  “It is your job to see to it that he does not refuse.”

  Haven followed the last of his men down the gangplank and stepped ashore. For the first time in days he felt his stomach settle. That offended organ immediately growled at him, announcing its hunger. Food. Yes, food was the first order of business. Then they would proceed to Two Hills Keep.

  “Watley.”

  “Aye, Sir Haven.”

  “Saw y
ou where my lady wife went?”

  The young man ducked his head. Haven could swear he saw a blush decorate his squire’s cheek.

  “I believe she went with the men who carried Soames to the inn at the end of this street.”

  “Good. When you have seen to the horses, join me there.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Haven walked down the street, savoring the feel of solid ground and the thought of well-cooked mutton. As he neared the inn half a dozen people hurried out, shaking their heads and muttering in Welsh. Shouts came from inside.

  “I won’t.” Rebecca’s mulish whine was unmistakable.

  Haven was too distant to distinguish the quiet reply.

  “You can’t make me.”

  He crossed the lintel and heard a crash.

  “Rebecca, calm yourself. These things do not belong to us, and we cannot afford to pay for them.” Gennie’s voice was low but strained.

  “Get your brute of a husband to pay for them. He has the king’s favor. He must be rich.”

  Haven decided to charge through the door to the common room and deliver a much-deserved lesson, when Gennie’s voice brought him up short.

  “That comment is unworthy. Haven is no brute, and you should not expect anyone to pay for your ill temper but yourself.”

  “Ill temper?” Rebecca shrieked. “I will show you ill temper…”

  “Non, you shall not.”

  An outraged howl followed. “Look what you’ve done. How could you?”

  Haven dared a look into the room. Like a drowned cat, Rebecca stood, soaked to the skin and spitting, at the far end of the room. Gennie faced her a few feet away, shoulders stiff, an empty bucket in one hand.

  The girl continued to wail. “You know I have no other clothing. This wool will never dry, and I will die of ague. I hate my life.”

  Haven watched his wife’s shoulders slump. She put down the bucket and reached for Rebecca. The girl crumpled into Gennie’s arms. What was going on here?

  “Please don’t forbid me to see him. He’s the only person who’s shown the least bit of kindness and understanding since we were tossed from our home.”

  Haven leaned back against the wall outside the room and ground his teeth at the girl’s blatant ingratitude. From the moment his escort started, nothing had been asked of Rebecca but that she have a care for her nephew. She no longer lived as a titled lady with lands, money and servants, but she lived. As the sister of a traitor, she barely deserved the life she so despised.