Knight Errant (2 page)

Robert shook his head, trying to clear his brain so he could act. She coughed. A trickle of water escaped her mouth. Another shudder ran through her.

“You are cold,” he stated.

“Aye, chilled to the bone.” A raspy chuckle echoed the obvious back at him. “And weary.”

He stood, carrying her toward where two older women and the other survivors on this side of the river had built a fire. He shouted for woolen lengths as he walked. “You will live,” he added quietly. “King Edward will be pleased.”

“Here, sir.” One of the older women approached. “We will take her now.”

Robert stared at the aging woman dressed as a Beguine.

“Indeed, sir,” the other beldame said. “You must let us tend her.”

His arms tightened, and he bared his teeth.

The women stepped back.

“Nay.” He did not want to give up the maiden. But he had no personal claim to her, and these women did. That made him unaccountably angry.

“Please,” croaked Lady Juliana, “You hold me too tightly, and I need their help.”

Shame washed over him. For his sins, he had vowed never to harm any woman.
Yet, I allow anger and guilt to override good judgment and cause pain to a woman already injured. And not just any woman, but one whom my liege has charged to my care. I must try harder at keeping my vow.

He listened to murmurs of pain from Juliana’s trembling lips and stared as the women fussed over her.

Someone thrust a woolen cloak at him.

He bent to wrap the material around her shoulders.

She whimpered at his touch, then smiled. “Thank you.” She tried to clutch the cloth about her with one hand.

’Twas then he saw her arm hanging useless by her side.

He placed his hand lightly on her shoulder to look closer.

A strangled sound came from her throat, and she tried to pull away from him, biting her lip at his touch. He lifted his hand.

She sagged back against him.

“What ails you?”

“My shoulder. I hurt it in the river.”

Robert did not hesitate. He lifted the cloth and tore her shift away from the injury.

“Sir,” the taller of the older women erupted in protest.

“Indeed, stop,” wailed the shorter one.

Ignoring the maidenly objections of her companions, he studied Lady Juliana’s arm and shoulder.

Her skin was pale and clammy everywhere but at the joint. There, angry red flared across a misshapen knot beneath the skin. “’Tis not broken,” he said.

“Not broken? What of the pain she has and the swelling?” the first Beguine doubted.

“Nay. I have seen such after battle. Through too much strain, some men’s arms leave their shoulders. When the shoulder is broken, the bones offer no support. If ’tis just displaced, the bones are still strong and can support the arm somewhat.”

“Can it be fixed?” Lady Juliana whispered.

“Aye, and you will be completely well, but ’twill hurt a great deal to put it right.”

“If you can fix it, then do what you must.”

She is right. Much though I prefer not to hurt her, ’tis best to get this over quickly.

Once he had preferred not to kill, too, but he had done what he must to defend the innocent. That death would stain his soul throughout eternity. Robert instructed the two older women to brace Juliana’s body against them. He lifted her arm and placed one hand over the twisted joint. “Ready?”

She smiled and nodded. “I forgive you.”

How does she know that I need forgiveness?
Rather than ponder that question, he gripped her wrist, pulled on her arm and pushed on the joint.

A loud
pop
sounded.

Juliana fainted.

“Monster,” the smaller of the two Beguines said. “You have made it worse.”

No good would come of wallowing; he had again done what needed doing. “Nay. I have caused her pain. For that I am truly sorry. But when she wakes, she will feel less hurt than before. Check for yourselves, then bind the arm. The joint must bear no strain for at least three days.”

The women turned away from him in stony silence.

He went to his gelding, hoping to find a dry shirt, but water soaked everything in his saddlebags.

“Here, sir.” A large peasant held out a rough-spun tunic and leather jerkin. “These should fit. They are dry and even summat clean.”

“Thank you . . . ?”

“’Enry, sir.” The fellow tugged his forelock. “I be groom for the ladies.”

Robert’s brow wrinkled.

“The Beguines. I tend the mules and help with loading and unloading.”

“Ah. Thank you, Henry. Have you ells of wool within your mule packs?”

“Aye, sir. Enough woolen cloth for all those poor souls and more.” He gestured at the survivors huddled nearby.

“What of those on the other side of the river?”

“They called across that they would camp the night there. They said summat of building a raft afore morning.”

Robert searched both banks to see that everyone was being cared for. “Excellent. When ’tis done I will speak with them about how best to bring the raft across the river.”

“Sir?”

“Yes, Henry.”

“The sun’ll set soon, and the ladies’ll need shelter.”

“Then we had best find some. Did you perchance pass a hospice, inn, or abbey on your way here?”

“Nay, sir. I was hoping that you had.”

Robert shook his head. “From the northwest, ’tis more than a day’s ride back to the nearest place that offers hospitality.”

“What will we do, sir? The women cannot travel far, and I think the guide has broke his leg.”

Robert eyed the heavily laden pack mules. “Do the Beguines have a tent amongst their belongings?”

“Oh no, sir. We allus slept at inns. Them mules carries all the things the ladies be bringin’ to the beguinage in Palermo. Was no room for tents wi’ all the supplies they brung.”

“Then we will have to make do.”

“Yes, sir.” Henry nodded eagerly, but the blank look in his eyes told Robert the man had not even a vague idea how to proceed.

“Here.” He handed Henry the destrier’s reins. “Be kind enough to tend to my horse, and I will search out a spot where we may all rest this night.”

“Oh, aye, sir. I’ll take right good care of yer ’orse, sir.” Henry heaved a great sigh, smiled, and left.

Turning his gaze on the spot where the women tended Lady Juliana, Robert stripped off his wet shirt and donned the dry clothing. Too bad a soul could not be changed as easily as clothing. If such were possible, his life would be much different, and he would never have met Lady Juliana Verault.

Juliana woke the next morning to the sound of cheering. Despite lingering aches, she hurried to rise and straighten her clothes, then rushed from the shelter to see what prompted the noise.

Her heart leapt to her throat as she spied her knightly rescuer walking slowly along the remains of the bridge.

On the far shore beyond the gap left by the fallen stonework stood a number of the male travelers who had crossed before the bridge fell. They busily knotted two coils of rope together.

Above, the knight grasped one of the few remaining stone posts on the bridge rail and leaned forward over the broken edge. What was he doing? He would get himself killed. Knowing only that she had to stop him, she ran for the bridge.

Henry stepped into her path, halting her beside a large boulder. “Nay, Sister Juliana. Sir Robert gave orders. I am not to let you onto the bridge,” the groom said.

Juliana opened her mouth to object, then shut her lips firmly. From the far shore, men tossed one end of the linked ropes to the reckless, Sir Robert. Even if more of the bridge fell, he now had a chance of surviving. But could the men keep hold of the rope?

She straightened her shoulders and plastered her most sympathetic expression on her face. “Henry, do you wish to receive your wages?”

“Aye, sister.” He nodded eagerly.

Across the water, the men took their end of the rope and tied it around one of the still-standing columns on the riverbank. That done, they returned to face Sir Robert.

She forced herself to concentrate on Henry. “To earn those wages, perhaps you should follow the orders of the women who pay you, not those of some interfering knight.”

Henry turned back to Juliana and swallowed. “Sir Robert says you will not be goin’ on to Palermo with the other Beguines, s-so you are not payin’ me wages no more.”

“Sir Robert is wrong.”

“He also said that I might not live long enough to enjoy any wages, if I was to let the king of England’s cousin set foot on that bridge. Are you truly Longshanks’s cousin, Sister Juliana?”

“Yes, Henry. Longshanks is my cousin,” she replied with greater heat than she intended. She was very upset that Henry took a stranger’s orders over her own. However, her groom was not at fault.

The guilty party strode in her direction from the bridge. When he reached the boulder, Sir Robert ran his end of the rope twice around the stone and tied off the line.

Juliana nodded in reluctant approval. With a second rope looped around the first, Sir Robert had fashioned an efficient means for hauling a raft back and forth across the river. However, they had no raft.

“Thank you, Henry.” Sir Robert approached them. “I hope you had no difficulty with the task I set you?”

Though he spoke to the groom, the knight directed his darkling-green gaze at Juliana.

“N-nay, Sir Robert. All went just as you said it would.”

“Excellent. Go now, tend the mules and help Sisters Berthild and Gretle prepare to cross the river.”

The groom left.

Juliana wanted to shake the knight. How dare he order her servant about! She hid her irritation behind a serene smile. “A word with you, Sir Robert.”

“I am at your service, milady.”

Startled by his formal address, she blinked but kept her smile in place. Then she turned to walk along the shore. “I am but a humble Beguine. ’Tis no need to address me as if I were a noblewoman.”

He grinned.

A disturbing flutter curled low in her stomach. She blinked in wonder at her sudden and seeming insatiable hunger. She had not broken her fast yet, so she could be hungry.

“Verily, you are Sister Juliana, as I heard your companions address you, but are you not also Lady Juliana Verault?”

She stiffened and banished the odd stomach pangs from her thoughts. “I do not deny that I have that title, but I prefer to be known as Sister Juliana the Beguine. You must address me as such.”

“I do not think that will be possible.”

“Why?” She blinked.

“You do not seem much like a sister to me.” His grin broadened, and that same stomach-curling look skimmed her body once more.

“What I seem is not relevant.” She lifted the corners of her mouth to prove how little he affected her.

“Relevant or not, I refuse to call you sister. Since I am a courteous man, I will call you Lady Juliana as befits the cousin of Edward Plantagenet.”

“You are a stubborn man, and stubbornness is an unappealing trait,” she accused with good cheer.

“Aye.”

Aye? How am I supposed to deal with such resistance, especially when wrapped in such great size and strength?
He reminded her of the bachelor knights she had known in her uncle William’s household. Men who thought to take advantage of her and her sister because their lord held his nieces in so little regard. Mayhap if she knew Sir Robert better, she might be able to circumvent his bullheadedness and retain her serenity. “Despite your attitude, we are cast together in a difficult situation, and I do not know more of you than your given name. I must insist you tell me from whence you come and how it is that you recognize me, for I am certain we have never met.”

“I am Sir Robert Clarwyn, Baron Ravensmere.”

“Oh,” she whispered. Shaken, she continued to smile. Even she had heard of Sir Robert. Though she did not know the details of the old scandal attached to the Clarwyn name, she did know that the offense had been so heinous, the Ravensmere lands had reverted to the crown. Sir Robert was a baron in name only; he had no wealth to go with the title. As a knight errant, he owed allegiance to the highest bidder. And because of the scandal, Sir Robert’s reputation was more violent than other mercenaries.

“I see you have heard of me.”

“You are one of King Edward’s hunters. The one the court calls the hound, for you have never failed to find any person my cousin sends you to seek.” How it was that Edward could hold the Clarwyn demesne and still command this man’s service? She wasn’t about to ask.

“Aye.” He shrugged in a semblance of indifference.

But Juliana saw the tension in his neck and shoulders. The man was far from relaxed.

She brightened her smile to battle back the despair that threatened. She swallowed again, her throat suddenly more than dry. “And how is it you recognize me?”

“I have been looking for you. I had word you were traveling with a caravan toward Palermo, and no other woman I have met has matched the description I was given.”

Uncle William had called her a stick figure with straw and mud for hair. Was he still determined to force her to wed to his advantage? He could have asked Edward to send this knight in search of her, but she doubted that was the case. William guarded his own power as carefully as Edward guarded his, and would avoid any obligation to the king.

“Why are you looking for me?”

“Edward of England asked it of me.”

She should have been relieved. But worry consumed any small relief. “What need has my royal cousin of me?”

“I believe he wishes a union between yourself and a Scottish nobleman. The ceremony is set for All Saints’ Day. Edward wants you in England before then.”

“But what of . . . ?” She stopped in midsentence, not about to mention the betrothal she had broken or the injury she had given her aged future husband.

“Of what, milady?”

“Nothing. ’Tis not important.” She would not return to England, but that was a discussion for another day. More immediate problems remained unresolved.

“What were you doing on the bridge?” she asked, presenting the illusion of calm.

“Arranging for Sisters Berthild, Gretle, and the other pilgrims on this shore to cross the river and rejoin the caravan.”