A True and Perfect Knight (4 page)

When Haven demanded an explanation, the boy cowered behind Bergen, while the man stammered that it was an emergency. The lady, he explained, said she would only be gone a few moments, and that he should teach Thomas how to be a proper guard. Haven almost inquired when tickling had become part of a proper guard’s duties, but he changed his mind. Instead he asked the lackwit which way the widow had gone.

Heading off in the direction of the man’s pointing finger, Haven found two pair of mushy footprints near the riverbank. The prints turned, and Haven followed them along the river, then into the wood. Before long he heard the sound of Rebecca’s sobbing.

Wondering what caused such caterwauling, Haven went to see. He stopped just short of a little vale beyond the tree line. No one noticed him, for the girl’s wails drowned all sound of his approach.

Rebecca lay in a heap of sticks, dirt and leaves near the riverbank. Mud covered her from head to toe. She shook. Whether from cold or fright, Haven could not tell. The widow sat on the ground, her arms around her sister-in-law. Rebecca rested her head on the woman’s shoulder and wailed louder. The widow let her cry. Soon enough, the tears ran dry, and Rebecca’s breathing evened out. “What happened?” the older woman asked.

Uncertain if he would be needed or not, Haven watched from behind the trees. He desired no entanglement with womanish tears if he could avoid it.

With her face still pressed to the widow’s shoulder, Rebecca told her tale. “I reached for one of those horrid sticks that Marie said we needed for kindling, and I swear it moved.”

The widow looked past Rebecca to where Marie stood shaking her head, arms folded across her ample chest.

“You think you saw a snake?”

“I did, Gennie. I truly did see a snake. I feared it so that I tried to run backward. But my arms were full of sticks. I could not lift my hem. I tripped and fell. My foot is stuck. The snake will bite me. Gennie, I am so scared.” Rebecca’s voice rose, and she started crying again.

How had Roger survived such a fountain for a sister? Haven wondered.

The widow waited patiently, rubbing Rebecca’s back and murmuring the same kind of sounds that Haven’s mother had murmured to calm him when, as a child, he had woken afraid in the night.

Soon Rebecca calmed once more.

“The snake is gone, sister.”

“It is?” The girl looked fearfully about her.

“
Oui.
Marie chased it off before she came to get me.”

Beyond Rebecca’s huddled form, Marie’s mouth rounded in surprise.

The widow was a good liar, Haven thought. He prayed that Marie would know better than to reveal the truth.

“Now you must help us get you out of here.”

“Me? How can I help? I am trapped here until a tree falls on top of me or lightning strikes me dead.”

“You can be a great help. Just lie back and let Marie and me take a look at your foot.”

“But I will get all muddy.”

“Rebecca,” the widow smiled and said with gentle firmness, “you are already all muddy.”

“Oh.”

“Now lie back. Marie and I will take care of everything.” She slipped from behind Rebecca, and the young woman lay down.

Next, the widow examined the root’s hold on Rebecca.

Even from his tree screened vantage, Haven could tell that when the girl fell, her foot had pushed the mud and stones temporarily out from underneath the root. The foot had slid under the root, and then stones and mud flowed back, wedging the appendage firmly in place. They would have to scoop the stones away to loosen Rebecca’s foot. The difficulty would lie in removing sufficient stones long enough for Rebecca to work herself free. The mud would make the stones slippery, complicating the effort.

The widow and the nurse dug for a while and threw great handfuls of stony muck toward the river. But with each throw, more rocks and mud would slide beneath the root, keeping Rebecca trapped.

Finally the widow sacrificed part of her kirtle to make a temporary dam by wrapping the scrap of cloth around some sticks that Marie broke to the right size. Marie dug like mad, and Gennie jammed the makeshift barrier in place. “Now, Rebecca,” the widow shouted.

The girl tugged, wiggled and pushed. Soon she was free of the root’s grasp. The widow sat back. Her bottom met a mud puddle, giving a great squish. Rebecca covered her mouth and made a choked sound. Marie sagged onto a tree, trying to hide her face in the bark. The widow rolled her eyes and gave in to the laughter that Haven knew the other women shared. In a trice they all hawed hysterically. When the laughter subsided into giggles and snickers, Marie helped the widow and Rebecca to stand.

“Are you all right, Rebecca?” the widow asked.

Rebecca moved a couple of steps to test her legs and feet. “Yes.”

The widow took her sister-in-law’s arm. “
Merci, le Bon Dieu.
The dirt will wash off. An injury would not.”

As Marie and Rebecca began walking toward camp, the widow stayed behind.

“Are you not coming with us, Gennie?”

“I need a moment or two alone, Rebecca. I will be there soon. Would you see to Thomas for me? He is with Bergen.”

“Yes, sister. Marie and I will watch Thomas.”

Haven did not want the women to know they had been observed. They were close enough to camp to be safe without his protective eye watching them every step of the way. He faded back into the forest, uncomfortable with the picture he had just been given of the widow Dreyford. Her patience, generosity and good humor did not fit the image of a greedy, power-hungry traitor that he had carried in his mind for so long. Deep in thought, he made his solitary way back to camp.

When the other women disappeared from view, Gennie let her head drop and her shoulders slump. She was so very tired. Only one clean gown remained in the small chests that she had rescued from her belongings at the Dreyford keep. Rebecca would have the clean clothing. Gennie did not know if she had the strength to wash her own long tunic. Even if she did, it would be damp on the morrow. Of course, she had been rain-soaked for days; what would a little dampness matter?

The thought occurred to her to walk into the stream with her clothes on and let the rushing water do the work. But the water was cold, and Gennie was relatively warm beneath her coating of muck.

She would ask Therese to clean the gown. The maid would complain, of course, but that was nothing Gennie had not put up with before. Therese would do the work, and tomorrow, Gennie would be damp but clean. The arrogant Sir Haven de Sessions would not have to soil his cloak when he took her pillion again.

Gennie turned away from the river and limped toward camp. What she would not give for a bath and a long, hot soak for her maltreated feet.

Haven watched Rebecca and the nurse return to camp muddy and laughing as if they had not a care in the world. They took Thomas from Bergen and disappeared into the relocated shelter without a word.

He paused near the fire, undecided as to whether he should still confront the widow over her tendency to forget that he was in charge. Since she was not available, Haven started for the bluff to check on the guard there, when a flash of movement caught the corner of his eye. It approached from the direction of the river. As Haven turned to investigate, he realized it was the widow hobbling into the clearing.

What was wrong with her? Whatever had happened, she was clearly in pain. Deciding to get the details later, when he questioned her about Roger, Haven strode forward, grasped the woman about the waist and hoisted her into his arms. Her body was sodden, cold and covered with mud. Part of her kirtle had been torn away. Had someone attacked her? Haven felt anger chase fear through his belly, until he remembered that she had sacrificed her own clothing to rescue Rebecca.

“Put me down.”

“No.”

“Why, you…you…you pompous, arrogant goat.” The fist she smacked onto his chest hurt less than a fleabite. He ignored her outrage and shouted for Watley, who had been feeding the horses.

The squire came at a run. “Aye, sir?”

With a jerk of his head, Haven indicated a nearby log. “Drag that log close to the fire. Then go and get my woolen cloak.”

Haven waited. When the log was in place, he set the widow down gently. Now he would have answers.

As her feet touched the ground, Haven heard pain whimper from her cold lips. He saw agony shudder through her thin frame. She raised her knees toward her chest and wrapped her rag-covered toes in the remnants of her skirt.

Toes!
Haven remembered the quick flash of long limbs as she had pulled herself onto his horse that morning. He hunkered down beside her and grasped her hand. Firmly, he pried her fingers from around her feet. The skirt fell away. Her feet lay revealed in his hands. Frayed, mud stained strips of cloth wrapped her from ankle to toe. He pulled his knife from his belt, intent on cutting away the offensive rags.

“
Non.
” She tried to snatch her legs from his grip.

“Aye.” He clamped her ankle beneath his arm and split the cloth with a deft stroke. Fury welled inside him at the sight of her bare feet. “How long have you been without shoes?”

“It is not important.”

“Pride is a sin. You are hurt. You will tell me the whole of it.”

She looked at him. Her face reddened. “And then what, oh great and wonderful knight? You’ll use your renowned strength and your reputation to fix the problem? Will you order my feet not to freeze or cause me pain and you undue inconvenience?” Anger roared out at him from those green eyes. Her words hissed at him with the speed of a drawn blade.

Impatient with her stubbornness, Haven bent to examine her injuries.

His gasp of shock echoed her gasp of pain at his gentle touch.

On top, where not covered by dirt or bruises, long, slim bones arched beneath translucent skin that was nearly blue with cold. On the bottoms, hard calluses decorated the pads of her toes, and blisters seeped and boiled over heel and ball. Elsewhere, skin that should have been baby soft was toughened through misuse. Scratches ringed her delicate ankles. One of them oozed bright red droplets onto his broad fingers.

“Why did you not tell me?” Anger and sympathy shook his voice.

“When had I the chance?” she challenged.

Haven felt his mouth thin. The woman was correct. He had not given her any chance for discussion. He had erred because he preferred to ignore her. She reminded him too much of his own part in Roger Dreyford’s death. Unfortunately ignoring her was less than easy.

He shook his head. Right now, her health must concern him more than his error in judgment. Injury was serious business, even when one had a roof and walls for shelter. He gathered her in his arms and felt her shudder. “You are cold and wet too.”

She opened her mouth. In the time it took for her to protest against his touch, Watley appeared. Haven took a large, fur-trimmed cloak from the squire and wrapped it round her twice.

“Soames has returned and asks to speak with you,” Watley announced.

“Stop pushing me about. I must…”

Haven placed a finger against her surprisingly soft lips. ‘No. You must sit and get warm.”

She glared at him.

He glared back. “Watley,” he bellowed.

The squire, who stood right next to him, jumped.

“Fetch the salve I keep in my saddlebags. Then tell that cook to prepare a healing posset.”

“Aye, Sir Haven.” The squire took two steps.

“Tell Bergen to gather more wood for this fire.”

“Yes.” Watley started to depart.

“And bring bandages from the pack mules.”

“Yes, Sir Haven.” Watley took another step.

“Tell Soames, I will be with him shortly.”

The young man halted once more. “Aye, sir.” Again, the squire made as if to leave.

“When you return, bring your spare boots for madame. See that she stays warm and drinks the brew.”

“Aye,” the squire waited.

“What are you waiting for?’ Haven shouted. “Cannot you see that madame shivers with cold and ague?”

“Yes, sir.” Watley ran off.

Haven focused on the widow. “When that posset is ready, you shall drink every drop.”

Genvieve emitted a raspy chuckle. “Oh,
certainment
, Sir Haven.”

Haven eyed her askance. What ailed everyone? The woman was too stubborn and prideful to inform him that she was in pain. She turned a warrior from a guard into a nursemaid. His squire suddenly had to have orders explained in detail, then be told to go about those orders. Did the widow have some form of contagion that caused thick-headedness?

The woman huddled into his cloak and leaned closer to the fire. She shuddered less. Her face appeared less pinched. He could not press her for answers now. His questions would have to wait.

When Watley returned, Haven surveyed the camp. Soames and the rest of the men not on guard sat as near the fire as they could get without disturbing their leader. Haven rose, walking over to where Soames sat. “You wanted to speak with me?”