A True and Perfect Knight (2 page)

Haven ground his teeth. Despite her derision, she did not deserve his anger. Traitor or not, she had survived much. He should have asked what baggage she had. He shouted, “Soames.”

“Aye, sir.” His second-in-command rode forward.

“Go to the keep. Ask for pack mules. Offer this.” Haven tossed the man a pouch full of coins. “If they hesitate, insist in the king’s name and mine. Do not come back without at least two mules.”

“Aye, sir.”

They waited there, in the rain, Haven, the widow, her servants and family, and his troop of armed men, until Soames returned leading two mules with pack saddles on their backs.

“Madame,” Haven ordered, “make your preparations.”

Except for a slight shaking of her body, she did not move from her spot an arm’s length beyond his mount. Her hands gripped her cloak, and she appeared to choke back something. More honeyed words with which to wound him? he wondered.

“Sir Haven, we have little skill at loading packs. I beg you, ask your men to assist us.”

Why was he not happy to hear her beg his aid? “Bergen, Lindel, Sutherland, help the servants load the animals,” Haven snarled, impatient with the added delay. “Soames assign one man each to ride with Rebecca Dreyford and the servants. You there.” Haven pointed toward the plump woman who held the boy’s hand. “Give the boy to my squire.”

As the servant made to pass by, the widow stepped to the side and grabbed the plump woman’s arm.

“
Non
, my son should ride with me.”

Haven calmly walked his mount forward, forcing the widow to lose her hold. He looked to the servant and the boy. “Do as I have bid.”

The boy’s eyes were wide.

The serving woman nodded and hurried off with the child.

Haven turned to the widow.

“Do you see an extra horse, madame?”

“
Non
, but I will not allow…”

“I cannot constantly explain myself to you, madame.” He reached his hand down. “Be so good as to mount behind me.”

The widow looked up at him, then down at her skirts and up again. She threw instructions over her shoulder, and the small group dispersed among his men. She grasped his hand and lifted her hem to her knees. She placed a rag-covered foot atop his booted one and pulled herself onto the horse’s rump.

The horse sidled, and Haven had no time to think about the shape of her limbs.

Genvieve grabbed at the knight’s cloak and the mail shirt beneath. When the horse settled, she shifted her grip to the knight’s belt.

“Are you comfortable, madame?”

“I am ready.” She choked out a toneless whisper.

Speak loud and clear, Gennie chastised herself, lest the lout recognize your fear.

He raised his arm. Several shouts came from the mounted men, assuring him that all were in place and ready. de Sessions lowered his arm. The horse started forward at a bone-breaking trot. She grasped the man’s waist tighter to steady herself.

Still she was cold and had much difficulty keeping her seat. Winds whipped around her, and she struggled closer to de Sessions’s broad back, seeking what little shelter she could find there. She cast caution to those winds along with her voice and shouted, “If you continue at this pace, my son shall fall from your squire’s horse.”

“Be at ease, madame. My squire will have every care of your son.”

By afternoon, her arms ached with the strain of riding pillion for hours on end. What would become of them? Gennie did not worry for herself. Life had dealt her such blows that hanging might be welcome, even if she did not deserve it. But that would leave her son with his aunt as his only family.

Rebecca was barely fifteen. Old enough to bear children, yes. But the girl was too flighty and self-occupied yet to be a good mother, or even a good guardian for Thomas. Gennie shivered as the cold of worry settled over her. Unable to see her way through the terrifying situation, she sought guidance and comfort from the only source she knew would give ear to her desperate and silent plea.

Hail Mary full of grace protect my son and succor us all. Beseech our Holy Father to forgive my resentment at being married to Roger Dreyford. Thank the Lord God for never allowing Thomas to realize his father had been a drunken sot, whose lust for excitement put his son at risk. Give me strength to keep my son safe. To raise him as a brave, honest and noble man, like the knights of the Holy Grail. Please help me learn to accept my fate, for I do not know how to protect my son. If I am dead or worse. Grant the king a merciful heart that for Thomas’s sake Edward will spare my life. I pray this in your son’s name, Amen.

Weak with hunger and exposure, Gennie leaned against the mail-clad man before her.

The worst moment of her life had occurred when the new owners tossed her from her home. Or so she had thought until now. At least when she had been beggared, then stoned by peasants trying to impress their new lord, she had known what was happening to her. She had known what to do.

Now, despite her prayers, her helplessness rankled. The man she clung to was hard and big enough to shield her from the wind. But no warmth came through the cloak and steel mesh that covered his solid frame. Nor had she seen any warmth when she’d first looked into his well-armored brown eyes. His assessing gaze had calculated her value as a female and a human being and dismissed her. To him, like all the others who knew of her husband’s treason, she was worth less than the effort it took to grind her beneath his heel. She trembled with cold and worry. The constant drizzle had soaked her clothing through. Her stomach grumbled. Her life could not get much worse.

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.”