A True and Perfect Knight Page 2

  She had done her best to defend and provide for her small band. That morning, she had given her portion of their scant supplies to Thomas for his breakfast. Days ago, when Rebecca lost her shoes, Gennie had given over her own hand-sewn slippers. The constant rain and chill winds had taken their toll. Her head ached. She still felt every rock thrown at her. But until she assured Thomas’s safety, she refused to coddle herself.

  The only certainties she could cling to were this saddle and the harsh man who carried her to the king. Life, in the shape of Sir Haven de Sessions, rushed away with her. Where would it take her?

  Chapter Two

  A watery glimmer of sunlight seeped under the clouds at the western horizon’s edge. The small cavalcade wound its way through the countryside. de Sessions brought his horse to a stop and raised his left hand. Behind him, the entire column halted.

  He turned to Soames. “We’ll stay the night here.”

  “But, sir, we’ve stopped so often this day that we’ve barely traveled four leagues.”

  “Dark will come soon. I want the widow and her party well rested so that tomorrow we may make up the distance they caused us to lose today.”

  Too tired to take umbrage at de Sessions’s comments, Genvieve looked about her. No keep or abbey broke the tree line, not even a farmstead. What in the name of le Bon Dieu was the man thinking? “Sir, what shelter do you plan to offer us in this place?”

  de Sessions twisted his body, peering at the widow through the damp mist. Had the swelling in her face lessened? he wondered. Her rain-drenched hair still hid most of her countenance, so he could not tell. With one sweep of his arm he grasped her around the waist.

  “Unhand me.”

  Before the words fully left her mouth, she found herself placed on the ground, her eyes on level with his knee. His arm left her. Her angry gaze traveled up his long, muscular thigh, past his broad, mailed chest to his clear, brown eyes. She felt her own eyelids widen at the strong emotion she saw there. An eternity passed in the instant before he blinked. Exhaustion threatened to overwhelm her. She reached out to steady herself against the horse.

  de Sessions dismounted.

  The action brought that disturbing breadth of chest within a quill’s length of her nose.

  He fisted his hands onto his hips and leaned forward, crowding her.

  She refused to yield.

  “Had you used the sight God gave you, madame, you would see that He gave us yon bluff to block the wind and rain. Water to drink runs just beyond that spit of sand. These trees”—he pointed to the encircling copse—“provide firewood, bedding and food.”

  He spoke to the top of her head. His breath passed her ears. She shivered again.

  Unable to see anything through the broad chest in front of her, she backed one step from his arrogant barrage of words and locked her gaze with his. She lifted her chin at what she hoped was a haughty angle and surveyed him top to toe and back. “I see quite well, sir, as perhaps you do not. For I see before me one of le Bon Dieu’s less modest creations.”

  Several male chuckles sounded, and de Sessions’s brows lowered. He looked as if he could not decide whether to be flattered or insulted. His wide mouth thinned. He tilted his shoulders forward, crowding her once more. The open clearing shrank to the small patch of earth that separated her from him. Her heartbeat quickened. Heat wrapped around her. She forced herself to breathe. The smell of damp leather and male musk filled the air.

  “Madame, I have no time for nonsensical banter.” He pointed to a nearby fallen log. “Sit you, while I instruct my men. Then, madame, I will have answers from you about treason.” Turning away, he stomped off, shouting for Soames.

  de Sessions’s behavior reminded her of Roger, who turned aggressive when he was confused. Her jaw tightened against the pain that thoughts of Roger brought. She set her mind to the present. A bien. If the noble lout is confused, so much the better. As for treason, she had nothing to tell him. She lifted her hem, ignored the log, and walked toward the pack mules at the back of the cavalcade, calling for her servants.

  “Marie, Therese, Rene, attendez moi.”

  The three came running. Thomas and Rebecca approached at a slower pace.

  “Madame,” huffed Rene, her skinny cook. “What is it you desire?”

  “That man says we must make camp in this place. I will have decent food for us all. Rene, I know we have little. Can you manage?”

  “Aye, milady.”

  “But, milady…” Rebecca’s maid, Therese, protested.

  “No buts. We are in difficult circumstances. However, we all know our duty and shall not lower our standards simply because our surroundings are unusual. I have confidence that you can manage. Rene, build the fire and prepare the meal. Therese may assist you.”

  “Madame, I cannot…”

  “Do not be foolish, Therese. Of course you can.”

  “But I am a lady’s maid.”

  “And a very good one. Yet Rebecca shall have to do without your skills, as she has done these past weeks. Rene needs you more.” Before Therese could object further, Genvieve turned to her son’s nurse. “Marie.”

  “Aye, milady.” A smile beamed from the plump woman’s countenance, soothing Gennie’s sorely tried temper.

  “Take Rebecca and gather what wood you can from those trees over there.”

  “Aye, Lady Genvieve.” Marie turned to her task with a speed belied by her size and shape.

  Rebecca lingered, a mulish look on her face.

  “What is it, sister?”

  “Why do I have to gather wood? I am no servant.”

  Two weeks living as a beggar and the girl still failed to understand their situation. Studying her sister-in-law, Gennie could imagine the younger woman’s feelings. The pampered child of doting parents, Rebecca had been second in their affection only to her wayward brother. As a mere in-law, Gennie presented no threat to Rebecca’s status. However, when Thomas’s birth eclipsed his aunt’s place with her parents, the girl had become jealous.

  Rebecca doted on her nephew but turned sullen resentment on his mother. Anything that needed to be done was deferred to Gennie. Then the elder Dreyfords had died, followed less than a year later by Roger’s execution. Rebecca had become even more difficult.

  So much loss hurt unbearably. Gennie knew that from the loss of her own parents.

  Instead of chastising Rebecca, as Gennie might have a fosterling or a servant, she drew the young woman into her arms for a hug. She stroked the girl’s back.

  When she felt her sister-in-law relax, Gennie pushed herself away. She looked Rebecca squarely in the eye. “You have been a great help to me these last weeks,” she lied encouragingly. “I do not know what I would have done without you to support me and help Marie with Thomas. We’re on our way to the king. You will not have to labor like this for much longer. Please, hurry to help Marie find the wood. The fire we build with it will warm you all the faster.”

  Gennie took her son’s hand and watched Rebecca depart. No sooner had the girt left than Rebecca’s maid approached.

  “What is it, Therese?”

  “Madame, you must see that staying here is impossible.”

  “Impossible or not, we shall remain here for the night. Best get on with your duties, before you find yourself unable to share our meager food and shelter.”

  Therese’s mouth snapped shut. “Oui, madame.”

  Gennie watched her stomp off. With a shiver of cold, she bent to her son. That Thomas appeared warm and no worse for his ride with the squire pleased her. “Shall we go walk among the trees a bit? We might find some eggs to give Rene for our dinner.”

  Thomas nodded, light shining in his eyes, eager for the adventure she offered.

  Gennie took his small hand in hers “Good. I must speak with some of Sir de Sessions’s men; then we will go hunt for eggs.”

  With Soames and half of the men sent off to hunt, Haven told those remaining to picket the horses, build a fire, and erect
a shelter. He tethered his mount. Deciding to wash the mud from his person before he questioned the widow, Haven headed for the river, with Watley, his squire, in tow. As they walked, Haven observed the other side of the clearing, where the widow directed her small retinue. What was the woman up to?

  She had ignored his order to rest on the log, when other women would have complained about the lack of a cushion. His mother would have commandeered half of his men to see to her comfort and that of her family. The widow Dreyford neither complained nor added to his men’s work.

  She marched off and spoke quietly to her family and servants. She sought no assistance from him or his men. She took on a difficult task for a noble lady, two children and three servants, none of whom were trained to survive out of doors for very long. But she had, he reminded himself, survived for weeks, when circumstances forced her to it.

  His thoughts still on the widow, Haven proceeded to the stream. He found her appearance and demeanor…unexpected. She did not seem the type of woman to incite a man to treason either for greed or power. Her attention to her son, her sister-in-law, even her servants bespoke a sober woman who cared too much for the wellbeing of others. Such a woman did not fit with the picture of the scheming temptress that he and the king believed her to be.

  With Watley’s help, Haven removed his mail, tunic and breeches, and then plunged his body into the stream. The rushing water loosened the aches of several hard days’ ride. The tension resulting from the woman’s hands on his belt washed downstream.

  Oh, it was not the widow’s fault, he assured himself. Place any woman’s hands at any man’s waist and he would suffer similar consequences. He felt again the surprising jolt of desire that consumed him at the sound of the widow’s voice, and heat flushed through him.

  He scrambled for mental control before the water would boil and steam around him. He should not feel such heat for his best friend’s widow. This is ridiculous. She’s much too independent and probably not as pretty under those bruises as I imagine. He stood, allowing the evening air to shiver away what the water could not.

  Watley handed him a cloth. Haven stepped from the stream. He dried himself and then donned the dry clothing that the squire held ready.

  Could the widow truly possess such an alluring voice and not own a body to go with it? Mayhap he had misjudged her. Who could tell what lay beneath that shapeless, sodden exterior? Nor should her shape matter to him. She was a traitoress. Who was behind this conspiracy to kill the king? What did she know about her husband’s activities? As he rubbed water from his own countenance, he promised himself that he would ask those questions and more of her when he returned to camp.

  The widow was nowhere in sight. But what Haven saw at the campsite stopped him in his tracks. The men went busily about their preparations. However, nothing was as he had expected.

  The fire blazed on the opposite side of the camp from where it belonged. The horses were tethered too close to the trees and thus vulnerable to attack from wild animals. The low profile and poor location of the shelter showed all too clearly the inexperience of the new men in his troop. Edward had ordered Haven to take every able-bodied man he encountered into service against the Welsh. Since the best warriors were already with Edward’s army, most of the men Haven found were green youths or ham-handed slackards.

  Haven stalked to where a fellow named Bergen put the finishing touches on the shelter. “Did I not tell you to set the tent nearer to the bluff?”

  Bergen jolted upright. “Aye, sir.”

  “What then is it doing here?”

  “The widow, sir, she said you would be displeased if your tent were too far from the water.”

  Haven held his temper. It was not his tent, but Bergen could not know that.

  “She is wrong. The oilcloth will provide greater shelter for more people if it is attached to that rock overhang on the bluff, thus giving at least one solid wall and a roof, as well as providing some dry ground on which to sleep.”

  Bergen darted an anxious glance across the camp.

  “Did the widow say anything else, Bergen?”

  “N-nay, Sir Haven.”

  Precious time would be lost correcting the widow’s mistake. She should have consulted me. He nodded to Bergen. “Move the tent, then continue with your work.” Haven walked off to solve the problem of the fire while he contemplated what to do with the horses.

  “Cook.” Haven eyed the thin man who tended a pot suspended over the fire. “What is your name?”

  “Rene, sir.” He stirred the pot’s contents.

  “Did you order the fire built here, Rene?”

  The cook cast a quick glance at Haven. “Nay, sir.”

  “Who did?”

  “Milady Genvieve wanted the cook fire placed where the wind would not blow smoke and sparks back toward your shelter.”

  Haven felt his temper jab at him again. Why did the widow seem to think he would let her sleep in the cold and wet while he stayed warm and dry? Still he bit his tongue on the sharp words that pushed to be said. Rene had no knowledge of his intentions.

  Rene continued, “When she saw your men also building a fire but in a different place, milady suggested they stop. One fire is enough for the whole camp and will conserve wood.”

  Haven could not fault the widow’s intent to help. Yet, in trying to save wood and effort, she had created a problem. The horses could not be moved closer to the river until the fire was moved elsewhere. More wasted time and effort. All because the widow chose to give orders without asking him. Just who did she think was in charge?

  “The tent will be placed against the bluff. I want that fire moved across the clearing before my men return with meat. When they do, you will take a fair share for your lady and allow my man to cook for us. I will not have my needs or those of my men increase your work.”

  Rene raised his eyebrows. “Aye, Sir Haven.”

  Haven stalked away. Why should the cook be surprised that he be shown consideration? I have every right to be as thoughtful of others’ needs as the widow. More than a little cross at the widow’s misguided intentions and failure to ask his permission, Haven approached the men tending the horses. None of this would have happened if the men had been seasoned warriors. Warriors who knew that women, especially women suspected of treason, did not give orders in camp.

  “Sutherland, Lindel, why did you not picket the horses nearer the river?”

  “Sir.” The two dropped their curry brushes and snapped to attention.

  “Well?”

  The men looked at each other, then faced Haven and spoke in a rush.

  “It was the widow…”

  “The widow Dreyford, sir…”

  “Wait.” Haven held up one hand, palm outward. “One at a time. Lindel, you first.”

  “The widow, sir. She told us that you would be unhappy if the horses were placed above the level of your tent. She said they would make an unappealing mess and might interfere with your sleep.”

  Haven’s mouth thinned. By the Rood. As soon as he finished here, he would find the widow. He would inform her that he was in charge. That he was not a selfish, overbearing ogre who left women and children to sleep in the rain when shelter was to be had. She would sleep safe and cozy inside that tent if he had to sit on her to make her do it.

  In that instant the memory of her slender arms wrapped around his waist popped into his mind. Again he felt the softness of her skin as he touched her face. What if she was just as soft all over? His body hardened. What would it feel like to sit upon that pillowy form? Haven groaned. Why must he think of such things now? He did not want to ease the tightness in his groin on the widow. He absolutely did not.

  “Sir, sir, your face is red. Are you ill?” Lindel shook Haven’s shoulder. “Sutherland, run. Find Lady Genvieve. A woman will know how to soothe Sir Haven’s pain.”

  “Nay!” Haven’s tone knocked away Lindel’s grasp and halted Sutherland in his tracks.

  ’Twas the last thing he
wanted to think of—having the traitorous woman soothe what ailed him. She was his best friend’s widow and a suspected traitor. “Nay, I am not ill.” He gritted his teeth against the need surging through him. “As wise as the widow is in ordering the horses down slope from the tent, they are much too close to the forest. Move them.”

  Haven pointed to a flat grassy area a few paces from the running water. “That spot is flat enough, and the horses will be neither too close to the fire nor the woods. Do you understand?”

  “Aye, sir,” Lindel agreed.

  Sutherland nodded.

  “Good. When you have done with the horses, get Bergen and post yourselves at guard. Sutherland, I want you on the bluff. Lindel, patrol the perimeter at twenty paces out. Bergen can patrol the edge of the clearing. Is that understood?”

  The men nodded. Haven set off to find the widow. As before, she was nowhere in camp.

  He asked his men if they had seen her.

  Bergen answered. “I thought I saw her take the boy into the trees earlier, sir.”

  “What direction?”

  “Over there, by that fallen log.”

  Haven’s jaw tightened on his thanks. “You mean they left alone?”

  “Nay, sir. They left together.”

  Perhaps I should just slit my own throat and save Edward the trouble. Not only must I bring the king a pack of bumbling fools to add to his army, but also the widow must endanger herself and her son by wandering about a strange wood, alone. Frustrated beyond patience, Haven plunged into the trees and cursed his oath to protect Roger Dreyford’s family.

  Chapter Three

  Gennie limped a bit as she and Thomas stepped out from among the trees opposite the side of the camp from which they had left. She held the hem of her kirtle lifted in both hands and cradled two dozen or more quail eggs within the fold. Thomas too had formed a sack from the folded-up hem of his tunic and carried a load of berries. Juice stained his little mouth red. Gennie had pretended not to see him sneaking the plump tidbits. The two laughed as they approached Rene, and Gennie called out, “Sir cook, we bring you eggs and berries. We’ll have a fine dinner tonight.”