A True and Perfect Knight (6 page)

Haven nearly choked on his lumpy mouthful. What could he say?
I hate food cooked in the French style. I prefer poorly cooked partridge to rabbit stew that smells lit for the saints.
If he refused, his men would have to refuse. He looked around the fire. He had seen sterner looks on the faces of orphaned babes. Silently he reached out and took the bread.

Marie curtsied and moved on to the next man. Therese approached. She set the pot down, dipped her ladle, and then held it ready over the pot.

Haven thrust the bread forward with both hands. He watched thick brown sauce, great lumps of root vegetables and juicy cubes of meat drip from the ladle onto the bread. Therese dipped the ladle a second time and offered again. But Haven shook his head. He had already folded the bread around the stew and taken his first bite.

It was delicious and totally unexpected.

After Edward’s crusade to the Holy Lands, Haven had spent a month traveling to Paris and back on the king’s business. At every stop the food had been highly spiced and overcooked. Not burnt, just mushy. Nothing that a strong man could sink his teeth into.

This stew was nothing like any French food Haven had experienced. Delicate herbs mixed into the bread accented the flavors of meat and vegetables alike. He wondered if Rene could be hired away from the widow. Mayhap it was time to change his policy about who did the cooking. Potatoes, other roots, even the onions were crisp. His tongue wanted to dance. The only other time he felt like this was in the early stages of bed play. He laughed aloud at the thought.

Several of the men nearby jumped up, reaching for their weapons. Others swiveled their heads in his direction. Startled looks adorned their gravy-stained faces.

“What’s the matter? May a man not laugh at a passing thought?”

His men sat and looked away, all but Soames.

“Why did they start so at my laughter?”

Soames looked at his feet, then back up at Haven. “Sir, it’s just that…well, you have not…that is…”

“Just what is it that I have not and is…?” Haven bellowed, suspecting what Soames feared to say.

“You have not laughed, Sir Haven,” the man blurted. “Not since Roger Dreyford was convicted of treason.”

“Enough.” Haven held up his hand, neither wanting nor needing the reminder. Roger was ever present in Haven’s thoughts. Silently he cursed the marriage that had changed his friend from loyal subject to traitor. “Finish your dinner and set the guard. I am going to sleep.”

He turned his back on his men. Wrapping himself in the cloak that Watley had retrieved from the widow, Haven lay down. He prayed to God for guidance and forgiveness. Then, pushing guilt and regret aside, he forced himself to sleep.

He woke to a morning filled with fog. He could barely see his hand when he lifted it at arm’s length from his face. He called out to the guard and received an answer. Seeking Soames or Watley, Haven moved carefully around the camp, shaking bodies awake as he encountered them. By the time all his men were roused, the fog began to clear. The clang of pots sounded from the direction of the cook’s fire.

Haven could make out the glow and several figures moving near it. Good; the widow’s party was awake. Now he would set down the law with her. This was the only morning they would dawdle over a meal.

He passed Marie and Therese carrying bread and cheese to where his men sat. With one hand, Haven snagged a piece of bread from Marie. He shoved it into his mouth, chewed and strode toward the tent.

He tucked his gloves into his belt and moved through the opening.

Behind him the tent flap muffled Marie’s, “No, no, Sir Haven, you must not.”

But it was the widow who made him halt.

Chapter Five

A worn white sleeping robe draped the widow’s body. A subtle scent, like lavender and cream, tangled in his head, and he stopped, chained in place by the sight before him.

She stood at a right angle to him, her head turned away as she lit a branch of candles. Could this be the same woman? Certainly the form outlined against the translucent cloth was tall and slim, but this woman had curves. Rounded hips swayed beneath a tiny waist. Above that, as she raised her arms, a gentle swell hinted at delicate breasts. Haven’s whole body tightened. And that hair. No dark sodden mass this, but a wild tumble of curls that cascaded like stabled fire over the fine, pale column of her neck—a neck that swans would envy. He should leave, but he knew he would not.

“
Une moment
, Marie…”

At the sound of her sultry, sloe-eyed voice, lust jolted through him, hard and hot. Visions of twined bodies, limned in fire glow, hazed his head. He felt dizzy, as if a thousand feathers had stroked his skin from top to toe and lingered on the straining flesh between his…
This is Roger’s wife
, his conscience screamed at him. A thought which prompted him to offer up a prayer, for God help him, he seemed unable to stop the need she inspired in him.

“…I am almost ready for the salve.”

She dropped the robe from her shoulders, and fury choked the words that would have announced his presence.

Her shape was everything her silhouette had promised. But the skin that should have glowed with good health bore ugly purple-green splotches. The injuries looked so painful that he almost failed to notice that her ribs stood out against her skin, bespeaking long-endured hunger.

He grasped her shoulder with the anger-hard fingers of one hand and spun her round to face him. “How did this happen?”

She screamed once, and then stared at him, her body rigid, her eyes wide with some emotion—surprise, fear, anger or pride. He could not say which. She uttered a small gasp and moved to cover herself with her hands.

He looked into her eyes. He had seen too much of her already. More than enough to know that bruises like those on her back covered her front and legs too, just as they covered her face. Yesterday, rain, mist and bias—yes, bias, he admitted to himself—had obscured his vision. Then he had thought her face, beaten though it was, her only claim to beauty. Now he knew better.
Did she feel so much guilt over what she had done to Roger that she hurt herself in penance?

“How did this happen?” He repeated through teeth clenched against anger.

From behind him came the sharp whisper of steel. He shot out his free arm from the shoulder in a backward motion. At the same moment that a blade’s tip stung his neck, he grasped the wrist of his attacker with an iron hand. Cold fury threatened his reason. His gaze remained on the widow’s face.

“Get your hands off Milady Genvieve. Else I will sheath this dirk in your neck.” Marie’s cheerful voice had become a defensive growl. Despite his grip on her wrist, the blade never wavered.

Haven dropped his hand from the widow so quickly that she stumbled backward. Yet he stared at her, still. The wounded beauty of the widow was a greater lure than the unsheathed metal behind him.

Curtained by that stunning hair, the widow bent and retrieved her robe. She raised wary eyes to him, then scrambled toward the bedding, the robe shielding her body.

“Now, Sir Haven, please leave me to tend to milady.”

“Put away your dagger, Nurse. You need it not.”

“Aye. Ye’re right at that, sir.”

He heard the knife slide home in its sheath. What was wrong with him? He had not heard the nurse enter the tent and barely noticed when she drew her blade. He had even let that blade remain drawn at his exposed back, rather than tear his gaze from the widow. Never before had his reaction to a woman’s body made him stupid. So this could not be simple lust—but it had to be. No other explanation was possible.

What was it about the widow that dulled his brain and made him lose all good sense? Was she a witch? Was that how she led Roger astray? Did she now work her wiles on him? He shifted sideways, pulling the nurse into his line of vision, but he kept his focus on the widow. “You will explain.’

She gave him gaze for gaze. ‘I have already told you of the stoning. Besides, you have no authority to demand explanations.”

“I have the king’s authority over your person and all you own. That alone gives me the right. And stones do not cause thinness such as yours.”

He could see defiance build in her narrowed eyes and tightened jaw.

If the widow wanted a battle, so be it. He set his hands on his hips and leaned forward in challenge.

A figure in brown wool filled his vision. “Go break your fast, sir. Milady will fight with you soon enough,” Marie interrupted with all the bluster of a sergeant-at-arms.

Haven allowed the nurse to place her hands on his shoulders and turned him about. She gave his back a shove, propelling him out of the tent.

Behind him he heard the nurse mutter, “Good, milady. If you must butt heads with a mailed knight, do it after you are dressed.”

His lips formed a smile. Laughter grew in his chest and then cut off abruptly when he saw young Thomas barreling toward him.

“What…?”

The boy ignored the question. He stopped half a stride short of impact with Haven. A rapid series of blows to his knees and lower thighs followed, accompanied by several kicks to his shins.

“Do not hurt Mama.
Je vais te tuer!
”

Haven ignored the threat of death at five-year-old hands and looked down at his assailant. He grabbed the boy, pinning his flailing arms to his sides, then raised the child to eye level.

“Would you kill your king’s loyal servant, boy?”

“
Vraiment que tu et bete.
”

“Perhaps, but Edward Plantagenet does not share your opinion. Thus stupidity alone is not cause for murder of one of his knights.”

The child’s lip trembled, and Haven saw fear widen the boy’s eyes.

“
Ne t’approche pas de ma mere, ou je te tue
,” the boy muttered.

“So you will kill me if I come near your mother?” Haven admired the boy’s courage, a trait shared by both the child’s parents, as well as a tendency to take on more than he could handle. At least the widow had not made a coward of her son. But like his mother, the boy lacked discretion. “Will you now? And what makes you think you’ve need to kill me?”

The boy glared silent hatred at Haven.

“Answer me, young sir.” He stood the boy back on the ground. Haven loosened his hold and squatted to maintain eye contact. Still the boy had to look upward.

“The bad men, they hurt Mama when we went to live outside. I heard her scream at them. I wanted to kill them, Mama said I should not, and the men went away. Mama screamed at you. You are a bad man.”

“No. I am not a bad man.”

The child shrugged out of Haven’s grip, doubt drawn in the boy’s raised eyebrows and the mouth that had ceased trembling.

Despite the rage that poured through Haven at the thought of the woman’s pain, he kept his voice calm. He did not want to frighten the boy.

“What did these bad men do?”

“They stole our food. When Mama tried to chase them away, they threw stones at us and kicked her.”

“Did I throw stones or kick your mama?”

The boy crinkled his brow. “No. But she screamed at you.”

“Women scream for many reasons.”

“Not Mama.” Thomas’s expression twisted into a determined pout.

“Mayhap not. But you have my word that I did not harm your mama.”

“I do not believe you.” Thomas thrust his arms out and shoved with surprising strength for one so young.

Unprepared for this new assault, Haven swayed before bracing himself with his hands, then rose to his full height.

The boy ran in the opposite direction. “Stay away from Mama,” trailed behind him.

Haven stood, amazed that anyone, even a child of Thomas’s inexperience, would question his word.

Footsteps approached from the direction of the tent.

“Do you now bully children as well as defenseless women, Sir Haven?”

Haven felt anger tighten his neck and shoulders. Who was this sultry-voiced witch to think she could call him a bully? In one swift movement, he turned to face her.

“No, madame, I do not threaten children, or defenseless women. By all rights I should have killed your nurse for drawing a weapon on me. But I tolerate even that out of concern for your person.”

Incredibly she gave a snort of disbelief.

He had to put her in her place. “Do not imagine, madame, that your meager charms bewitch me.” Haven leaned forward and spoke softly, his face a quill’s breadth from hers. “I do not like you, Madame Genvieve Elise des Jardins Dreyford. I do not like your manners. I despise the treason you inspired in my good friend, your husband.”

He grabbed his gloves from his belt and saw her cringe. Did she imagine he would strike her?

“You are entirely too independent for your own good and will bring disaster on us all unless you learn how to take orders. Had I the choice, I would see you burn at the stake like the witch you are. But I do not have that choice. King Edward orders that I bring you to him. Bring you to him I will, and no one will be able to say you suffered harm in my charge.”