A True and Perfect Knight Page 6

  Three days later, despite acquiring more horses, they had made less than thirty leagues beyond York. Haven did some praying of his own. The party was stopped once again, and taking the widow to Chester by himself was now the only option, if he wished to arrive on time. He prayed for patience and for deliverance. He had had no idea that one woman not in holy orders had so many prayers stored up inside. And if he had to listen to one more supplication to le Bon Dieu for the softening of his heart and the saving of his soul, Haven was certain he would strangle the widow.

  After a mere league of constant prayer, he had ordered her to ride farther back, with one or another of his men. Haven savored a blessed silence until he had seen how his men behaved. Each and every one of them became simpering, mooning idiots.

  After York she had ridden next to Sutherland at the back of the party, and the warrior had become so distracted by her that he had let their horses wander from the trail. Once the disappearance had been discovered, precious time had been lost retrieving the two stragglers.

  In the process of rejoining the party, Sutherland’s horse had thrown a shoe. Haven sent Bergen off to find the nearest village with a smithy and get the horse reshod. Trouble followed the widow, and Haven began to believe she existed just to aggravate him.

  Is it possible that the widow somehow loosened the horse’s shoe unobserved? He shook his head at the ridiculous image. She’s driving you mad, de Sessions. No doubt that’s how she sent Roger to treason. She drove him mad. Do not allow her to do the same to you.

  Haven resigned himself to the necessity of traveling alone with the widow to Chester. That moment when he had seen her bruises and more, he had proven to himself that he was immune to her wiles, despite his strong physical reaction to her. It seemed he was the only one of his men to resist. Even Soames had come under the widow’s influence. Haven recalled his second-in-command’s disturbing offer of service to the widow.

  Haven surveyed the grassy bank where his men waited. Some time would pass before Bergen came back and they could turn their steps again toward Chester. Perhaps he should speak to Soames about the widow. As if conjured by thought, Soames approached.

  “Please you, sir, I would have private speech with you.”

  Haven nodded, checking to see that they would not be overheard.

  “Lindel reports finding tracks to the north.”

  “What direction are they traveling?”

  “The tracks parallel ours.”

  "How many men?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Did you have a man backtrack this trail?”

  “Aye, I sent Lindel to follow the trail forward and Sutherland to backtrack.”

  “Why Sutherland?”

  “He needed reminding where his duty lay.”

  “Good. The widow has charmed too many of my men into forgetting their duty.”

  “Sir, I think the problem lies elsewhere.”

  Haven paused. The last time Soames had contradicted him was before the battle where Haven and Roger had saved the day and won their spurs. But the cost had been great. Afterward, Soames, who had been his mentor to that point, had praised Haven’s prowess and fighting skill, then told him how foolish he had been. The criticism had hurt at the time, but he had never again rushed blindly into battle.

  “I value your counsel, Soames. Tell me where you think the problem lies.”

  Soames shifted and looked at the ground, then off into the distance, before looking squarely at Haven. “Sir, you know that nearly all Edward’s court calls you his most true and perfect knight.”

  Haven felt heat rise on his neck. “Aye. It’s a silly, womanish notion that a man as unsaintly as I might be perfect.”

  “You got that reputation for perfection because of your pleasing bed manner with the women. They gave it you. And the men, seeing your success with the women, agreed.”

  “’Tis no less silly.”

  “Lady Genvieve might agree with you. But your men hold you in high regard nonetheless. They have noticed that, with Milady Genvieve, your manner is less than gentle.”

  “And this is cause for acting like fools around her?”

  “They are proud of their service with a man of your repute. They think you are still overcome by grief at Dreyford’s death. They want the widow to believe about you as they do.”

  “They should not. The woman led her husband to treason.”

  “So you and our king believe. Have you proof of her perfidy?”

  Haven gave a quiet snarl. “Look you what became of Roger Dreyford.”

  “Despite your love for him, Dreyford had a passion for stories and danger. He would have come to a bad end regardless.”

  “His wife should have influenced him to remain loyal to his king and satisfied his passions at home.”

  “Are you so certain she did not try?”

  “On the scaffold, Roger said he could not trust his wife.”

  “And on the basis of Roger’s word, you treat Lady Genvieve as if she were Lucifer’s daughter, rather than a gentle dame whose husband’s lust for danger put her and her son at risk.”

  Haven felt grief and guilt surge sourly in his stomach. “Roger may have been careless, but he was not mean. He would not falsely accuse his wife.”

  “Did he accuse her? You said he could not trust her. That does not sound like an accusation of treason to me.”

  “You did not see him as he said the words. He was my best friend. He could mean nothing else.”

  “As you say, sir, I was not there. But you might talk to Lady Genvieve and discover if she loved Dreyford.”

  Haven bit his tongue on a sharp response. To discuss the more intimate aspects of Roger’s marriage with his widow seemed completely inappropriate, yet the idea pricked at him. Dark emotions stirred him. At their source stood the widow Dreyford. “I agree, Soames. I shall speak with her before we leave this place.”

  Soames gave him a long look. “I pray you and Lady Genvieve will come to a better understanding.” Then he turned and left.

  “So do I, Soames. So do I,” Haven whispered to the air as memory overtook him.

  Roger had stood at the foot of the scaffold, his wrists bound behind his back. The executioner motioned him forward. Roger set his foot upon the stair, but looked back at his friend. “My son is barely five, Haven. He cannot protect himself and I cannot trust my wife. Swear to me that you will guard his life in my stead.”

  Haven hesitated, feeling the pull of his friend’s request like a noose. “Roger, I cannot…”

  Roger gave a dry laugh. “You would deny me your oath, when you are the one who brought me to my death?”

  “Nay,” the word crawled from Haven’s throat “I did not bring you to this. For all that I love you as the brother I never had, you brought death upon yourself when you drew a blade upon the king.”

  “The king is a curse upon England, with threats to tax the clergy and his defiance of the Pope.”

  “That is folly, and you know it. The king seeks only the funds he needs to protect that same clergy who without that protection would fall prey to every thief and vandal.”

  Roger spit on the ground. “That for the king. He matters not to me now. What matters is that e’re this, you and I were friends. Sworn to each other in battle, the only oath that cannot be broken.”

  “I have never sworn to you, nor you to me.”

  “You would deny it.” Roger’s widened eyes and jutting chin dared Haven to oppose him.

  Haven’s eyes slid away. He could not look Roger in the eye and say him nay. “Not in words. I never swore to you in words.”

  Roger sneered. “Pah. We needed no words. How many times have you and I saved each other’s lives? How many times did we speak of the marriage of our children? When your family died of sickness, did my father not take you in and give you a home? How can you not promise to care for my son as my father cared for you?”

  Haven felt heat flush his face. To refuse an oath to a confessed traitor
was not wrong. So why did he feel guilty? Why did Roger remain defiant? Haven set his jaw. He had always done what was right, not just what was easy. Why else would he bring his own friend to the hangman, if it were not the right thing to do? ’Twas surely not the easy thing to do. Before Roger had been a traitor, he had been Haven’s friend. And the right thing to do was to safeguard an innocent child’s life.

  “Please, Haven. Swear to protect Thomas.”

  The priest who stood behind them silently urged Roger up the stairs, and the space between the two friends grew.

  Haven gave a curt nod. “Aye.” He reached out and grasped the cross that hung from the prelate’s neck. “I swear to protect your son and all his family.”

  The priest’s movements up the stairway pulled the cross from Haven’s hand.

  “Tell me one last thing, Roger.” Haven’s voice broke. His friend looked to him from atop the scaffold. The executioner gripped one of Roger’s arms in a meaty hand.

  “Ask quickly, Haven. I have little time left.”

  “Who wants the king dead? Who talked you into trying to kill Edward?”

  The executioner pulled Roger forward. As the noose was placed ’round his throat, he twisted his head and called out. “I don’t know them all, but Gennie knows the man who convinced me that England is better off without Edward Plantagenet on the throne.”

  The snap of the rope going taut did not hide the crack of Roger’s neck breaking.

  Haven swallowed the bile that rose in his throat and watched his friend’s body dangle in the gentle breeze.

  “A clean death, sir.” The executioner’s face swam into Haven’s view, obscuring what was left of Roger Dreyford. “D’ye want to dispose of the body yerself?”

  “Aye. “Haven reached in his pouch for silver to pay the man. A clean death was not usually given to traitors such as Roger. “I have a cart for transporting him.”

  “Very good, sir. Bring it ’round, and I’ll load the body on fer ye.”

  “Indeed,” Haven murmured to himself. “I should certainly have a talk with the widow. For it is not my manner that leads my men to foolishness, but the widow’s serpentine charm. She needs to understand just what the bounds of her behavior are.”

  Determined to set the widow straight about her behavior with his men, Haven walked to where she sat with her son.

  The sun gleamed in her hair as her laughter rippled forth at the boy’s pranks. Still too slim, the gaunt, dry look of hunger had disappeared. The bruises had faded, no longer hiding the fine slant of her cheekbones. Contentment shimmered in her green eyes, and her full mouth smiled berry bright. Did those lips taste as ripe as they looked?

  Her creamy lavender scent struck him hard. Haven shook his head. She did not affect him. Now that she was clean and healing, she was an attractive woman. Any man would wonder about the feel of her in his arms. But he knew what lay beneath the pretty surface of Genvieve Dreyford. He would not fall victim to her seductive glamour and betray Roger with his wife, no matter how tempting she might be.

  So when he stopped before mother and son, he spoke more sternly than he intended to the boy. “Thomas, attend your aunt. I must speak with your mother.”

  Thomas looked up at him. The boy’s lower lip trembled, but he stood up straight. “Aye, Sir Haven.”

  “It’s all right, Thom. I will only be a little while. When Sir Haven and I are finished, I will join you and Rebecca, and we’ll have some of Rene’s good bread.”

  The boy looked at her.

  “Go on.”

  “All right.”

  He left, peering over his shoulder every three steps, as if he feared she would disappear.

  Gennie studied de Sessions as he watched her son run off. The sun gleamed on the man’s mail shirt, surrounding him in a golden haze, much like the angels shown in the windows of the chapels In France. The mail-covered shoulders and chest could have been forged by God’s own smithy. His golden-brown eyes looked on her with the kind of blazing light that bards gave to fairy kings.

  But this was no magical being, she reminded herself. Sir Haven de Sessions was solid and real. His broad forehead, straight nose and unsmiling mouth seemed chiseled in marble. She knew that beneath his hose, his rock-hewn thighs were supple enough to guide a horse without the aid of reins and hands. And those hands. She had come near to swooning the day he had tended her feet, running his strong fingers over her, smoothing lotion into her pain-ridden soles, then binding each foot with a gentleness belied by his strength.

  The man was a danger to any woman who did not know he owned a heart of stone. ’Tis a good thing I know how pigheaded he is, or I might be tempted by all that manliness.

  “What is it you would say to me, that my son may not hear?”

  “Walk with me.” He grasped her by the elbow, giving her no opportunity to protest. He marched toward the riverbank and the screen of trees there.

  She sighed at his abrupt manner and doubled her strides to match his long ones. She had been on her best behavior since he had refused to ride with her. She had hoped that he might notice how cooperative and uncomplaining she had been with all his men. She had asked each man for aid or advice when she needed none. She had no desire to put the party at risk as Sir Haven claimed she would if she did not curb her independence.

  “You must stop trying to enchant my men.” He halted to hold back a branch so she could pass to where the bank broadened again.

  Upset by this unjust accusation, Gennie brushed past him, hoping he would not notice the flush of fury in her face. “Wh…why…yo…” She stuttered, trying to remain composed. She would not let his idiotic stubbornness make her lose her temper again.

  “Surely you must see why?”

  His words brought her to a halt. He thought she wanted an explanation of his request. In order to do so she would have to have tried to enchant his men. Her eyes crossed, and her breath choked in her throat.

  How could the man be so wrongheaded? Charming his men, any man, was the last thing Gennie wanted. Being married to Roger had taught her that men were generally more trouble than they were worth. Why could not de Sessions see that all she wanted was a safe haven for her son? “You are mistaken, Sir Haven.”

  “So you do understand; good. We can ill afford more accidents like the one that befell Sutherland’s horse.”

  Gennie gritted her teeth, pursed her lips and turned to face him. She held a stiff rein on the temper that threatened to run rampant at his words. “No, sir. I do not understand at all. What causes you to believe that I attempt to enchant your men? Have I not curbed my independent ways, as you requested? Have I not sought out your men to speed our making and breaking of camp each day? Have I not kept my eyes downcast, my words gentle and my manner seemly?”

  “That is just what you have done.” He took a step forward. “Such gentle pleading from a woman makes a man soft-brained; he loses concentration. My men are so distracted by attending to your needs that they fail to attend to their duty.”

  “Let me be certain of what you mean, sir.” Her hands went to her hips as temper began to override her control. “My manner with your men disturbs you, and therefore you would have me behave in an unseemly fashion.”

  “Yes.” His brow wrinkled. “No. That is, uh…”

  “I think it is not your men who’ve become soft-brained. Your men have been thoughtful of the needs of my family and servants. They have shown naught but respect and kind consideration for my son and my sister-in-law. I know only one person who is dissatisfied with my actions. And that is you, Sir Addlelpate. From the day we met, you have treated me as if I were evil incarnate. And despite some small consideration for my person, you alone behave with brainless stupidity around me. If you think for one minute that I—”

  “What I think is that you must needs be shown how a man behaves when a woman causes him to lose his mind.”

  On those words he closed his arms about her. Her feet left the ground. While she was busy trying to grasp h
is shoulders for balance, he kissed her. Gennie forgot to worry about having both feet in the air, so unexpected was the soft press of his lips against hers. She forgot to clutch at his shoulders.

  Instead, she tunneled her hands into the warm, dark silk at his nape. She nearly forgot to breathe until the gentle scrape of his teeth on her lower lip caused her to open her mouth in surprise and inhale. Then his hot velvet tongue was in her mouth, succulent with his personal flavor and seeking her own, until he teased her into response.

  A rapid beat filled her ears. Her entire body vibrated to that elemental rhythm. She inhaled more deeply. His masculine scent intensified her need. She pressed herself against him and felt his arms tighten about her. The sensation was wondrous, brilliant and dark, frightening and secure.

  She hung suspended at the boundary of a heaven created solely for her. At the very edge of her senses, a rustling disturbed the need that rose in her. She felt a change in the strength that held her safe. A tiny mewl of protest escaped her.

  But Haven set her on her feet, his arms already leaving her. The need to remain in his embrace confused her, especially when she looked into his face and saw not a gentle lover but a hunter.

  His head was up. His eyes searched the glade. His nostrils flared, as if scenting his prey.

  “Wait here.” And he was gone as swiftly as a hawk that sights a hare.

  Genvieve shivered but felt no cold. She put her hands to her cheeks. Her fingers warmed with the flush of heat on her skin. She could not be yielding to the horrid man, could she? When Roger had gone whoring, Gennie had vowed never to allow a man to dominate her again. But if she held to that vow, then what were these strange feelings that de Sessions inspired? Even in the first days of her marriage, Roger had never kissed her breathless. “Sacre bleu, what is happening to me?”

  Before she could answer her own question, Haven returned.

  He continued to scan the clearing as he spoke. “Whatever was in those bushes is small and fast, or I would have caught him. Come.” He held out his hand to her. “We’ve been too far from my men for too long.”