Knight Errant (15 page)

“No. You trust too easily, milady. You allow strangers into your home at the risk of life and property. You barely hesitate to journey for a day or more with the first person to tell you a sorry tale. And had I not been available to accompany you, you no doubt would trust your person to the care of a man you scarcely know and a priest at that. Worse, you ask probing questions with every expectation of true answers. You are either the greatest fool alive or an utter innocent. Either way you need a keeper, until you learn more discretion.”

“Is that what you truly think?” Juliana sat back as if struck. His words hurt more than one of Uncle William’s blows. Since Robert had never lied to her, she must believe he meant what he said. His disapproval should not have mattered so much. One hand on his eye, the other on his nose, Robert struggled to his feet. “What I think is that Edward will be lucky if one of us does not kill the other before we get to England. Now, let us be on our way.” He took one step forward and sank to the ground with a groan.

“Robert! What’s wrong?”

“My ankle. The horse kicked it when I tripped on that cursed rock.”

“Let me see.” She made to remove his boot.

“Nay,” he snapped. “Leave it.” His tone gentled when she backed away. “If I take the boot off, the ankle may swell. I might not get the boot back on again.”

He had a point. “Then let me help you to the horse.”

Robert studied the distance to the animal and the surrounding terrain. “Better to bring the beast here. Even if you could get me to him, there is nothing there to help me mount, and you cannot do that yourself. I must have twice your weight, if not more.”

“Well enough.” She nodded and went for the horse. That Robert was willing to ride meant he was truly hurt. What would she do if the monk and his men found them before they got to the beguinage?

When she returned, Robert stood unsteadily balanced atop a large stone. He dropped his hands from his face and tucked the compresses inside his sleeve. “Hold his head.”

She did her best to anchor the horse in place, speaking calmly to the animal and stroking its neck in reassurance.

Robert completed the awkward business of mounting with only one good foot, then held his hand out for her.

“I will walk.” If he could make sacrifices for her good, she could do the same for him.

“No, while I am injured ’tis important that we make all possible speed. We will go faster if we both ride. The horse can rest after dark when we stop for the night.”

She opened her mouth to protest but thought better of it. Robert had suffered much, and a concession from her could not hurt. She grasped his hand and swung up onto the horse’s rump.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

She gripped the cantle and settled herself firmly against the saddle. “Aye.”

• • •

By sundown, the crags and rocks had become gently rolling hills covered with low brush and dotted with trees. They had seen an occasional field in the distance but had deliberately avoided any contact with people. As the light dimmed, Robert pulled the horse to a stop beside a fallen tree in a small clearing.

“You will have to get down first and hold the horse.”

Juliana slid to the ground and walked to the destrier’s head. She moved as if she ached in every joint. If the horse decided to bolt, Robert knew she could not prevent it. ’Twas no alternative. His throbbing ankle protested at the least pressure.

He dismounted with some difficulty. Juliana busied herself with the horse. Next she set up a ring of stones and started a small fire.

Robert sat on the fallen tree, feeling useless and ashamed. He had been trained to pay attention to his surroundings. Every knight’s survival depended on the ability to quickly observe and correctly assess any situation. How did Juliana so distract him that he failed to see the stone? He deserved kicking for such rank carelessness.

He might excuse his lapse if he had been looking at Juliana. Her beauty was enough to distract the sun. But he had not been looking at her. He had been leading the gelding over rocky ground, and she had asked that appalling question.

Do you blame me . . . ?

His head had filled with instant images of the caresses they had shared that morning and more—what he would like to have done had he not come to his senses.

Hers were the most passionate kisses he’d ever known. How could he possibly blame her? Skin more smooth than the rarest silk. Breasts more downy than any pillow. Lips more lush than the ripest berries. A touch that set him mindless with need and longing. A scent that twisted his heart and loins. Courage that surpassed every woman he had known and many a knight. A solid belief in the goodness of mankind. A fundamental honesty and dedication that drew him as readily as her beauty.

She would linger in his soul for the rest of his days. And his life would be hell. He knew—if she did not—that those kisses were not her fault but his. That base part of him yearned to touch this most precious of women.

“Thank you.”

“What for?” he growled. Robert tried to shake his head clear. Not only could he never touch her again, but he must find a way not to think of her. Impossible when she would be his constant companion for the long journey to England.

She stood in front of him, that sweet, infernal smile upon her face, her shoulders tense, and her hands folded before her in the manner that told him she struggled to remain calm. “I thanked you for your rescue.”

“Hmpf. You seemed to be doing quite well on your own.”

“We both know the mare I borrowed was tiring. Had you not taken me onto your mount, my recapture was a certainty.”

Robert shrugged. “’Twould have been much more difficult, if not impossible, to aid you had you not been able to grasp hold of me and help me lift you from your horse to mine.”

“Verily?” The tension left her shoulders, and she sat beside him. Her arm brushed his.

“Verily. Now, cease this twaddle of thanks. I did nothing but improve your chances of success.”

“Then I thank you for that.”

“If you must.” Unable to bear the sight of her and not touch her, he shifted away slightly and looked at the small blaze she had set within a tall ring of rocks. The stones blocked all but the tiniest glow of the fire from sight.

“Why are you reluctant to accept my thanks?”

“I am not reluctant.”

“But you are. This is the third time I have thanked you for your aid, and you have rejected my thanks every time. Unless steeped in sin, even the lowest of creatures deserves gratitude for actions on behalf of another. From the way you act, one might think some dire stain marred your soul.”

Not about to confirm her suspicions thus frightening her out of her wits, Robert ignored the issue.

An awkward silence fell.

Juliana shook her head, then rose abruptly. “I had best tend our dinner or we shall go hungry this night.”

“I have a small pot and some dried meat in my saddlebags.”

“Excellent. While you were resting, I gathered some roots and herbs that resemble those I used in Ghent. With your meat to flavor them, we will have a hearty soup in no time.”

Quite a bit longer than “no time” passed before she brought the pot to him from the fire. He ate hungrily, then watched as she finished the soup with more delicate sips.

When the pot was empty, she took some of the water and walked to the edge of their camp where she used sand, the water, and a rag from her sack to clean the pot.

Robert twisted on his makeshift seat. He had a problem and could think of no way to resolve it. How did a man ask a woman’s aid when he needed to relieve himself? If he had been among men, he would not have bothered asking for help. Men injured in battle pissed wherever they could. The uninjured understood and simply moved away from the smell to a cleaner place in camp. He could hardly follow that example now. What to do?

“Here.” She held a long, solid stick out to him.

He gave only a small start at the sound of her voice in his ear. He was becoming accustomed to having her interrupt his thoughts. “What is this?”

“A walking stick. I thought . . . you might . . . that is . . .” Warmth flared on her cheeks in the glow cast by the fire.

She had anticipated his problem.

“Thank you,” he said, taking the stick to lever himself upward. He hobbled off to take care of his most pressing need. When he returned, Juliana lay huddled next to the dying fire. He draped his cloak over her, then settled on the opposite side of the stone circle as far from her as he could get and still remain near the flame.

Water splashing in his face woke him. It was raining. Sometime during the dark hours clouds had covered the sky, so ’twas still dark but not totally black. Dawn simply could not pierce the obscuring clouds. He used the stick to haul himself upright and made his way to Juliana. She stirred and woke before he got to her.

“It is raining.”

“Are you certain, milady?” He grinned at her statement of the obvious.

“What else would you call this flood from the heavens?”

“God’s mercy upon a dry and thirsty land.” He quirked an eyebrow at her.

“I suppose so.” She smiled. “Though thanks to God’s mercy, I am now covered in mud instead of dust.”

“A priest at Edward’s court used to tell the pages when they sinned that God’s mercy would wash them clean. If this rain keeps up, t’will, no doubt, wash us clean as well.”

She laughed. The sound stroked over his ears and skin like a lover’s touch. Heaven help the poor Scot’s laird destined to marry her. If she laughed even once, he would forever act the jester to be able to hear that trill again.

Robert turned as quickly as his sprained ankle would allow. “Let us be on our way.”

She came up beside him. Her hands held the dripping bundle of things they had used in the night past. “Aye. ’Tis no sense in letting a little wet halt our progress,” she agreed. She held the horse while Robert wrestled himself into the saddle. He held out his arm, and she mounted behind him as she had yesterday.

They set off at an easy pace, the destrier squelching through puddles with all the poise of a young child.

As the day passed, the downpour lessened to occasional spits and spats of rain but never completely stopped. Farms and other buildings showed more frequently. The muddy track began to resemble a road. Toward noon, Robert asked Juliana to remove two hard biscuits from his saddlebags. The rain softened the rock-like bread just enough for it to be edible.

She washed down the last of her biscuit with some water and passed the skin to him. They had been riding for a long time without a break. “When will we stop to rest?” she wondered aloud.

He guided the horse around a large clump of bushes. Before them lay the remains of a Roman road. “I believe this road will take us to Palermo. If we do not stop, we shall arrive at the beguinage before dark.”

Soon he would be able to escape the sweet torture of her presence for a short time. He must use that solitude to armor his foolish heart against the hours spent with her on the journey to England.

 “I would much rather rest there than in a puddle under some dripping tree.” The thought of warm, dry garments and hearty food should have comforted Juliana. However, since Robert’s tongue-lashing the previous night, she’d been unable to find that serene positive outlook that helped her endure pains great and small.

“I had the same thought.” He nodded.

As nice as peace and agreement between them was, Juliana felt as soaked with emotional and physical weariness as her clothing was with rain. She leaned forward, laying her cheek against Robert’s back.

Through his sodden shirt, his muscles tensed.

“Do not do that,” he growled.

Hurt at his harsh tone snapped her upright. So much for peace and agreement. “Why ever not?”

“Because your hand is promised in marriage to another man. Such casualness is unseemly.”

There was the answer to the question nagging her. That sweet melding of their lips had offended his honor. “I have not promised myself in marriage to any man, nor will I.”

“Edward has done it for you.”

“Then Edward is destined to be disappointed.”

“Think you to defy your king?”

“I not only think it, I intend it.”

“Marriage is a small thing over which to lose your freedom and possibly your life.”

“For a woman, marriage is a loss of freedom and any claim to a true life. The church teaches that a married woman must live through, for, and because of her husband. My uncle and my sister’s husband believe that most strongly.” And now Juliana had the means to prove those teachings wrong. Was that truly the best use of those letters? Until she knew her mind better, the vellum sheets would remain hidden.

 “Is that so bad? Did God not make woman from Adam’s rib to be man’s helpmeet?”

“Aye, but not to be his drudge for whipping.”

She watched a shudder run down his back.

“No married woman of my acquaintance is treated thus. Edward’s own Eleanor, God save her soul, wielded a great deal of authority as his queen.”

“How many married women do you know?”

He was silent for a while. “Twenty. Thirty-four if you count those who have died since I met them.”

“Through my Beguine sisters, I know nearly a thousand women, most of them married at one time or another. Nine-tenths of that number sought out the beguinage in Ghent to escape the thumb of some man, be it father, brother, guardian, or husband.”

“The problem,” he said carefully, like he knew whereof he spoke, “lies not in marriage, but in those men.”

How could Robert possibly understand? She held back a hysterical laugh. “One cannot have a marriage without a man.”

“True.”

“Since most men of my experience mistreat and restrict the women under their care, you can hardly expect me to enter willingly into marriage.”

“I believe you wrongly blame the sacrament of marriage for the failures of men.” His words came slowly, as if he were convincing himself. “Such thinking is likely to lead you into trouble.”

“Then it will be on my head, and not because some man has pushed me into it. Besides, I doubt I would make a very good wife.”