A True and Perfect Knight Page 16

  “Lindel, take nine men. Escort the women back across the ford. Protect them at all costs.”

  “Aye, Sir Haven.”

  As the warrior departed, the guard reined in.

  “Report.”

  “Welsh warriors. About fifteen mounted. Some bowmen, but I was spotted before I could take their number.”

  “More than ten?”

  “Less.”

  “Did you see Daffydd’s standard?”

  “Nay, but their mounts reveal them to be Welsh. None is taller than a large dog.”

  “Do not underestimate the advantages of a small horse. What of the terrain ahead?”

  “Just around that bend”—the man pointed down the road—“is a small rise. The height would give our archers advantage. The trees are thin there. We could array our horses to defend the flanks of the archers.’

  Haven nodded. “Form the archers and march out double quick. I will organize the mounted men and come on behind you.”

  “As you wish, Sir Haven.”

  From the opposite side of the stream, Gennie watched the battle preparations. Haven’s men had gained experience during their long journey from Yorkshire. Confusion was minimal. In moments, two bands formed and moved out.

  Behind her Gennie heard a commotion.

  “Let go this instant,’ Rebecca snapped the command. “I must see Watley.”

  “But, mistress, we are ordered to stay here.”

  Gennie turned, ready to make peace and calm Rebecca, when the girl’s horse shot by, splashed through the stream and headed straight toward the point where the first warriors rounded the bend in the road.

  “Lindel, go after her before she causes more harm.”

  “But, milady, Sir Haven said…”

  “Think you that those men want fear for Rebecca to stay their arms in battle? Go now.”

  Lindel nodded and leapt into pursuit at a full gallop.

  But Rebecca had gotten a good start. “Watley!” Her shriek echoed through the trees.

  Haven and two of the men at the rear of the troop turned in their saddles.

  At that moment, an arrow sliced the air.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Welsh poured out from the surrounding trees. Haven pulled his sword from his scabbard and kneed his mount to face the nearest opponent. “A de Sessions,” he shouted and swung. The Welshman fell. Haven’s cheek twitched. He wheeled his horse.

  Three grinning enemies separated him from his men. The melees in the Holy Land flashed through Haven’s mind. Unbidden, the ululating battle cry of the Saracens welled up from his chest. The sound so startled the three men that he spitted one and unhorsed a second in the time it took the third to land a blow against Haven’s chest.

  Haven ignored the pain and sliced at the exposed shirt under his opponent’s outstretched arm. The enemy sword dropped, and the fellow turned tail, opening the way for Haven to join his men. His horse was already in motion when Haven saw a burly Welshman wrestle Rebecca from her mount. The girl clawed at the man, making things as difficult as possible. She managed to delay him long enough for Haven to change directions.

  He prayed she would keep fighting just a few moments longer. From the corner of his eye he saw Watley, with surprising agility, dispatch two enemies and start toward Rebecca on a course intersecting Haven’s. Good; the squire’s aid would be welcome.

  Haven’s horse faltered over some obstacle. He gathered the reins and tried to help the animal regain his stride. As the steed crashed to the ground, Haven flew over the saddle, straight into the squire’s path. The breath smacked out of Haven on impact. Watley would never be able to stop. Still Haven tried to call a warning.

  Time slowed and sound vanished. All Haven could see were the hooves of Watley’s mount aimed squarely at his head. The horse lifted in midstride. From below he watched the animal pass over him. Haven would have sighed his relief had he breath enough. The thought hit him at the same time as the rear hoof of Watley’s mount.

  Haven’s vision cleared slowly. His head throbbed. He had to stand up. He had been warned. The Saracens spitted any enemy unable to stand. If he wanted to live, he had to stand.

  “Haven. Haven, can you hear me?”

  From a long way off a woman’s voice called. What was a woman doing on a Saracen battlefield? Where was Roger? He shook his head to clear it and moaned as pain pounded through his skull and twisted his gut. Despite the agony, he rolled to his side and emptied his stomach onto the dirt and grass. Dirt and grass, not sand. This wasn’t the Holy Land. Wales. Gennie. Rebecca. Watley’s horse. Roger is dead, because of me. Pain pushed the thought aside.

  Haven groaned and sat up, cradling his aching pate in his hands.

  “Husband, lie down.” Gennie’s hand touched his shoulder.

  “Nay.” He shrugged off his wife’s hand and her concern and stood. The world spun, and Haven was grateful for Gennie’s quick support. A glance showed his men to be the victors. Most of the Welsh had run off or lay dead. Two sat bound, their backs braced against a stone. Owain knelt to talk with them.

  Haven wanted to know what the Welshmen said. Still leaning on Gennie, he stepped forward. A sharp pain in his side joined the pounding in his head. He bit back a gasp and touched his hand to his ribs. His fingers came away red. “I am bleeding.”

  “Oui, and you should be lying down, not dancing around a field of battle.”

  “I am grateful for your consideration, wife. Now, if you will guide me to yon stone, I will cease dancing, as you put it.”

  The short walk to the stone exhausted him. Haven did his best to conceal his agony from Gennie. He failed.

  “Owain, keep you this lunkhead from toppling over and doing himself further injury while I seek out medicine and bandages.”

  “Aye, milady.

  Uncertain which was more troublesome—his pain or his wife—Haven growled a curse at her retreating form.

  “God will punish you for your ingratitude, husband.”

  Haven, who knew he had already received sufficient punishment for his sins, ignored his wife’s taunt. “What say our prisoners?”

  Owain frowned. “Pah. The braggarts say we will never find Daffydd. That he is already flown north to aid Llewellyn.”

  “Do they speak true?”

  “Who can tell? My people were ever given to exaggeration. They talk of a battle three days past and sapping some castle that might or might not be Two Hills Keep. One describes a crossroad and two hills. The other claims but one hill and a ford.”

  “What were they doing on this road?”

  “Again they gainsay each other. They are either innocent travelers headed to market in Twynn or they are part of Daffydd’s rear guard.”

  Haven eyed a growing pile of weapons deposited by his men as they cleared away the mess of battle. Then he eyed the Welshmen’s chain-mail hauberks. “I doubt innocents would be so well prepared for a fight.”

  “Aye. Shall I beat the truth out of them?”

  “Nay. Two Hills Keep is less than a day’s ride from here. Most likely the truth is completely different than what either of them says. We’ll find out soon enough.”

  “What shall we do with them?”

  “Keep them with us until we get to the keep. Once we determine its strength, we can send them to the king along with our report.”

  “As you wish, Sir Haven.” Owain lifted the Welshmen to their feet and shoved them toward the ford, calling for a guard as he went.

  de Sessions closed his eyes and slumped where he sat. If Daffydd had slipped past before they could arrive, securing Two Hills Keep became even more important. It now sat at the most likely route of retreat for Llewellyn’s forces, should he somehow escape the net that Edward casts over northern Wales.

  Weariness sapped Haven’s stamina. He had not fully recovered from days of seasickness, and the battle had left him drained. Yet he knew he could not afford to rest.

  “Husband, you must lift your arm if I am to examine yo
ur wound.”

  He opened his eyes at Gennie’s quiet order. “Aye, wife.” Gritting his teeth against the pain, he stretched his arm over his head.

  Gennie bent to look closely at his rib cage. “Your mail is embedded in the cut. Watley, help me get Sir Haven’s armor off.”

  “Aye, milady. What would you have me do?”

  “I will loosen the metal from the wound. As soon as I have it worked free, lift the armor and the shirt from my husband’s body. Haven, raise your other arm.”

  Tired as he was, Haven complied.

  “Now, husband, this will hurt.”

  “Aye, so get it over with.” He set his jaw against any cry that pain might steal from him.

  An age later, Watley whipped the shirt over Haven’s sweat-drenched head. Haven dropped his arms and drew in huge gulping breaths.

  “Watley, get Sir Haven water to drink.”

  “Aye, Lady Genvieve.”

  Haven felt Gennie dab at his side. He looked down. Blood covered the entire left side of his chest and still seeped from the ragged cut that decorated his ribs. “That doesn’t look good.”

  She finished cleaning the area and began to wind a bandage around his rib cage. “You are right. It should be stitched, but I have no needle or thread with which to do so. You should have medicine, a poultice for the wound itself and potions to ward off fever and infection. I have none of those either. The best I can do is to bind the wound tightly and tell you to rest.” She looked up at him. “I don’t suppose you will listen to me.”

  “If I could, Gennie, I would. But I must get to Two Hills Keep. Perhaps I can take a day of ease once the place is secured, but not before then.”

  “Then I must check this bandage at every halt. Even now you lose blood. Riding will not help you heal, and if the bleeding does not stop, you will faint. Then you will rest whether you want to or not.”

  He put his hand under her chin. He wanted to do more, but the effort was too great. “Thank you for your care of me.”

  “Much good your thanks will be when you sicken with fever or collapse from loss of blood.”

  “Ah, but then you will have me at your mercy. And you may punish me as you wish.”

  “Do not tempt me.”

  Haven smiled. “We will not talk of temptation. Now go and tend the others. I know I am not the only one with hurts.”

  “But you are the worst, and I fear to leave you alone.”

  “Here is Watley with my water. He will aid me should I need aught.”

  “Very well.”

  Haven watched her walk away. He took the cup from Watley, then said, “Go fetch my horse. ’Twill take long for me to mount, and I would be ready before the others.”

  “Are you sure you should, Sir Haven?”

  “Verily, I am certain I shouldn’t. But there are needs greater than my own, and I must see to those first. Now do as you are bid.”

  The young man hesitated. “Sir Haven?”

  “What is it, Watley?”

  “Your horse. It fell in the battle.”

  “Ah.” Haven paused for breath. He had no time for the sorrow he felt. A sad loss, that. He was a good horse. “I will not get another as well trained any time soon. Well, find me what steed you can; just don’t give me one of those Welsh animals. My knees would drag the ground.”

  Gennie watched Haven weave in the saddle. The sword wound had stopped bleeding, but it wasn’t healing cleanly, and he still had headaches. Despite her many requests that he rest, he refused, insisting that duty to his king came before all else.

  He didn’t realize the effect his stubbornness was having. She had spent a good ten minutes assuring Thomas that his newfound hero wasn’t going to die. No sooner had the party gotten underway than Bergen, Lindel, and Sutherland in quick succession made discreet inquiries about her husband’s wellbeing.

  Watley shared his guilt with her. She gave him what assurance she could that he had done his best to avoid harming Haven. She offered praise for his persistence in battle and his rescue of Rebecca. He thanked her but fell silent when the object of his rescue joined them.

  Rebecca rode a small horse taken from her would-be captor. The mount she had ridden since York had been given to Haven as replacement for the steed he had lost in Rebecca’s defense. It was the only consequence Gennie could think of that she had the ability to enforce. Fortunately others in the party let Rebecca know by their actions what they thought of her foolish behavior. None would speak with her. Even Therese, who took every opportunity to complain, refused to honor her mistress with a word.

  “Did God answer your prayers?” Rebecca asked.

  Gennie considered carefully whether or not to answer this conversational gambit. Like her brother, Rebecca rarely concerned herself with the needs or wishes of others.

  “God answers all prayers.”

  “He did not answer mine.”

  “Truly?”

  “If God had answered my prayers, I would still have fine clothes and a home. I would not be riding this ridiculous beast.”

  Had the girl no understanding? Gennie couldn’t believe her ears. She observed the stern look in Watley’s eyes and the painful longing in the set of his mouth.

  “Perhaps that ridiculous animal, as you call it, is the answer to your prayers.” His words hanging in the air, the young man rode off.

  Gennie looked to Rebecca. Astonishment showed plain in the girl’s open mouth and wide eyes.

  “What did he mean by that?”

  “Perhaps he means that God sometimes says no, even to our most heartfelt prayers.”

  “Oh.” Rebecca fell silent.

  Gennie let the silence continue. She had her own worries, foremost among them her husband. She looked ahead to where he rode at the front of the column. His horse paced quick and straight under his urging, but Haven seemed less steady than before. Every now and then his body shuddered, as if he felt a chill.

  “Do you think Watley still cares for me?”

  Gennie almost didn’t hear the quiet question. “Do you wish him to?”

  Rebecca paused a long while before responding, “More than anything.”

  “Then you might think carefully on the things he says and does.”

  “You mean about how God answers our prayers.”

  “That and other things.”

  “Like obeying Sir Haven’s orders.”

  “Perhaps. I will let you be the judge of your own thoughts.”

  “Thank you, Gennie.”

  “You are most welcome, but for what?”

  “No one else will talk with me.”

  “Ah.”

  “I think I will go and offer Thomas a ride on my ridiculous beast.”

  Gennie acknowledged Rebecca’s smile with one of her own and watched the girl ride off. Clouds massed on the horizon, and Gennie caught the rumble of thunder on the rising wind. More rain. That would do her husband no good. How could she help Haven if even the elements were against her?

  Owain’s horse fell into step beside hers. “Your husband is a stubborn man.”

  She frowned, still trying to discover a way to surmount the weather and her husband’s obstinacy. “He has proven so throughout the short time I have known him.”

  “You are well matched.”

  Startled by his blunt comment, Gennie lifted her head to get a good look at his expression. “Do you suggest that I am stubborn?”

  He smiled. “Oh, nay, milady. A woman who prays for days on end is merely determined, not stubborn.”

  Gennie relaxed a bit. “I have had to be.”

  “Aye. Roger was not an easy husband.”

  “de Sessions is far from easy.”

  “But a very different man than Dreyford.”

  “Oui.”

  “Sir Haven is the better man.”

  Privately Gennie agreed, but she was not about to say so. “Roger had his good points.” She hoped Owain would not press her to name any, for at that moment she couldn’t think of a
single one.

  The warrior raised an eyebrow. “True. Dreyford was game for any pleasure, and he always had a ready story.”

  Thunder grumbled in concert with the memory of the many times she had sat ignored by a husband who sought greater attention with his antics and tales. Gennie told herself that Roger’s neglect had been a blessing in disguise. Had she been more dependent upon him, she might never have survived his ultimate neglect—treason. “Oui. Roger could be very entertaining.”

  “Did you ever notice that most of his tales were about his great and valorous friend, your present husband?”

  Gennie looked at the darkening sky and thought back. She recalled the small amount of envy she had experienced early in her first marriage. She had soon become used to being last in Roger’s regard and armored herself with prayer against his preference for whores and distant friends over his own wife. “Non, I had not noticed. Why do you mention this?”

  “You and Sir Haven seem to be often at odds for such a well-suited couple.”

  “And you think the praise of my former husband is a recommendation. Why should I attend the words of a traitor well known for his foolishness and disreputable associates?”

  “I had hoped that you would not hold such a recommendation against Sir Haven.”

  The wind soared, thrashing through the branches.

  “I am not so foolish.”

  “Are you not?”

  Gennie gasped at his audacity, but the warrior continued.

  “Why then do you resent him so?”

  Gennie had no reply. Despite her prayers that God would remove her anger, she did harbor resentment. It had been easier to blame her changed circumstances on the unknown Haven de Sessions than where they belonged—on Roger’s foolishness. But with each day, her resentment toward Haven became harder and harder to maintain. Mayhap God was answering her prayers. Now she prayed that Haven would live long enough for her to discover the truth of her own heart.

  Drops of rain spattered against the leaves. Ahead, the road rose and left the trees behind. Haven’s horse dropped to a walk. She saw his hands go slack on the reins. Owain must have noticed too, for he kicked his horse into a trot with Gennie.