Knights of de Ware 01 - My Champion (3 page)

He suddenly longed to throttle the little fool.

“This could have serious consequences,” Duncan announced, glancing up at his father’s grim face.

Lord James had obviously reached the same conclusion. “England’s relationship with Spain is strained as it is,” he said. “An incident like this could—”

“It could devastate trade,” Duncan finished, “to say nothing of the threat to the townspeople. I hope the woman had sense enough to flee. Some of those Spaniards—”

“They’re bloodthirsty savages,” Holden interjected, his eyes narrowing in memory.

Lady Alyce gasped and brought a hand to her bosom.

“Although,” Robert added after a moment of thoughtful silence, “they do make a fine blade.”

There were nods all around, and a short discussion ensued concerning the quality of the latest steel from Toledo.

Meanwhile, the cogs began to revolve in Duncan’s head. He had to do something. The village was at risk, and the naïve little perpetrator of the trouble was wandering about like a cocked crossbow.

“Robert! Garth!” he called out finally, throwing down his napkin like a challenge. “The spring fair begins tomorrow. The three of us will go. You can find yourselves new Toledo swords while I keep watch to see what hives that wench has poked a stick into.”

“Spring fair,” Lord James harrumphed. “Nothing but rogues and swindlers to rob a man blind. Not to mention beggars. And waifs by the score.”

“Nonsense,” Lady Alyce said sweetly. Then she added in a whisper, “I’ll wager no more than six.”

“Pah!” Lord James replied, and then murmured, “My silver is on a dozen, madam.”

“What’s this?” Holden ventured. “Wagering?”

Robert leaned forward with a conspiratorial grin. “Aye. They’ve taken to wagering on how many strays Duncan will bring home with him each time he goes out.”

Lord James grumbled, “It’s the only way I can afford to feed them all.”

Duncan chuckled. He couldn’t be more content. With Holden temporarily home from the king’s service, and Garth and Robert by his side once more, things were exactly as they should be. The great hall teemed with members of his extended family, velvet next to linen, unwashed faces beside powdered ones, everyone partaking of the rich harvest the land provided. The room reverberated with the panoply of sound, from the rough heckling of seasoned knights to the murmured dreams of maidservants.

His father never truly understood Duncan’s taste for the full palette of humanity. Lord James was a man of his station. He adhered to the belief that only nobles should sit above the salt, servants had little capacity for learning, and common wenches were to be bought for a penny. Yet, Duncan thought with admiration, he’d never turned away the waifs Duncan inevitably brought home with him. There was always an extra trencher at the table and a little room by the fire.

Duncan swirled the wine around in his cup. His chest swelled with pride as he looked over dozens of his loved ones, lost souls he’d rescued from the streets, orphans he’d brought in from the rain. Lord James might complain about the extra mouths to feed, but he was always there with relief for them. Duncan smiled at the graying wolf of a lord who was still muttering into his beard and hoped with all his heart that when the time came, he’d be as fine a leader of men as his father.

He wiped his mouth, and then arose, rubbing his hands together. “Now,” he called out, “who would like to hear the tale of the miller’s wayward daughter and the enchanted frog?”

A high-pitched cheer arose in the hall, and a score of children came bounding up from the tables to gather around him. They clutched at his surcoat as he seated himself on the dais, begging him eagerly to begin the story. He grinned at them, placating them by holding as many on his lap as he could.

Some of the children had the same thick black hair as he. Some of them looked back at him with the sapphire eyes he saw in the looking glass each morn. Indeed, many of them were likely his own by-blows. But he’d be damned if he could even remember which ones they were. He felt as if they were
all
his.

Linet de Montfort elbowed her way along the crowded lane of the spring fair. All around her, patches of woaded linen, russet wool, scarlet velvet, and green silk fluttered on the breeze like a great beggar’s cloak.

She took a deep breath. Cinnamon, pepper, and ginger wafted tantalizingly over the smell of fresh fodder and warm apple tarts. The smoke from roasting meat mingled with the musk of strong ale. Leather and tallow lent their familiar odors to an essence laced with the more exotic scents of pungent cloves and oranges from Seville.

Sound filled the air around her: steel on steel as swords were tested, the bleating of spring lambs, the sweet tones of a jongleur’s lute, and the ever-present haggling over coins and wares.

Despite the excitement of the morning and the gathering crowd, Linet felt a pang of sorrow. It was the first fair she’d come to without her father, Lord Aucassin. Last year, dispirited after the shipment of his cloth had been stolen, he’d succumbed to a wasting sickness. For the first time, Linet would be selling her wares as a
femme sole
under the de Montfort insignia. Lord Aucassin, God rest his soul, would have been proud of her for that.

Tears threatened in her eyes, and she quickly blinked them away. She could almost hear her father now, chiding her for blubbering over the past when there was profit to be made.

Shifting the precious bundle in her arms, she perused several rows of colored ribbon with the discerning eye that had earned her entry into the Guild two years ago. Still, not a single English dyer could match the wondrous new shade of blue she’d commissioned from Italy. She might have trouble selling the cloth, she thought, if proper trims were scarce.

She sighed and turned to go. She’d been away from the booth long enough. While she could rely upon old Harold to keep an eye on her goods, the servant certainly couldn’t sell them. As the crowd tangled about her, she ducked in and out of the colorful tapestry of humanity, unaware that her own bright hair was like a thread of gold in the weave.

Halfway down the lane she felt it. Trouble. Following her.

She wasn’t alarmed. Trouble was part of being a merchant in the lucrative wool trade. Usually the inconvenience was no more than she could turn aside with a stern word or two. Only a few times had she needed a more formidable weapon.

Yesterday, that weapon had been the royal letters of marque she’d presented to the sputtering Spanish captain. She was still astounded by how well it had gone. The letters had been fairly easy to obtain, thanks to the good name of de Montfort and the wide-eyed innocence Linet could summon up when dealing with royal officials. And she’d felt gratified, standing on the dock, directing Harold to take possession of the casks of wine—after her knees had stopped shaking, of course.

In the end, good old English law had come through for her. There was justice after all. Once a debt was scribed on the king’s parchment, it was a simple matter to collect one’s due.

Dumping the wine had been honey on the cake of her revenge. She hadn’t really needed the monetary compensation. Already this season she’d profited enough to more than make up for the lengths of wool stolen last year.

Nay, the revenge was a final tribute to her father and assurance that no thieving miscreant would make the mistake of troubling a de Montfort again.

Still, trouble rode close on her heels today. A stranger dogged her every maneuver as she wove her way through the marketplace.

He wasn’t very subtle. Of course, anyone that tall and imposing was hard to miss. His mismatched, haphazard, tattered clothing marked him as a beggar. He walked briskly after her, his oversized hat pulled low, his patched cloak billowing out like a sail behind him. She caught a glimpse of a black beard and dangerous eyes. Quickening her pace, she silently rehearsed the speech she’d given countless times before.

I,
she’d tell him in no uncertain terms,
am not a woman to be trifled with. I am the daughter of a lord. The blood of de Montfort flows in my veins.
True, she thought, slipping as easily through the crowd as a Spanish needle through silk, the de Montfort blood was heavily diluted with that of a myriad other unnotables. But she’d not mention that. Her famous name was the one frail thread linking her to the privileges and entitlements of nobility.

With that comfort, Linet raised her chin and pressed on, so intent upon the beggar that she didn’t notice the two other commoners closing the distance.

Duncan cursed softly and loped after the unsavory pair. In his de Ware tabard, he would’ve been swarmed by urchins calling out his name and clinging to his knees and by maidens fluttering their coy lashes. But no one paid heed to him today. Today he was a bearded beggar. And beggars, for better or worse, passed through the fair unremarked.

True to Duncan’s fears, an inordinate number of rough-looking foreigners loitered in the marketplace this morning. And two of them were following his angel.

His angel? He shook his addled head. What was he thinking? No matter how innocent she looked, the girl was no angel, not with all the trouble she’d caused. And she certainly wasn’t
his
.

As he watched, the rogues caught up with the girl. One of them called to her, and she turned. Duncan tugged his hat down over his forehead to watch unobserved. From beneath the wide brim and through a break in the crowd, he got a closer view of her face.

His memory hadn’t done her justice. She was stunning. Her eyes, which he’d been unable to see clearly before, were as green and sparkling as a dewy spring meadow. And her hair—a man could lose himself in that glimmering cloak. A corner of his mouth curved up in an approving smile. Ah, his work could be so rewarding at times.

Then he lowered his gaze. The girl clutched a small, swaddled bundle to her breast, cradling the tiny thing with utmost care.

His smile wilted. The angel had a babe. One of the men he’d assumed was a troublemaker was likely the babe’s father.

Damn. Duncan shook his head in disappointment. Why were men most attracted to what they couldn’t have? He let his eyes rove over her once again in regret, wondering what delights that fine dove-gray gown concealed.

True, he mused wickedly while the three conversed, when he became lord, he could have whatever he wished, including the archaic
droit de seigneur
—the right to bed with whomever he chose of his vassals, married or not.

Then he sighed in self-mockery. He’d sooner sleep on nails than lie with another man’s wife, particularly since he’d never lacked for the company of
un
married women. He stole one last appreciative look at those beautiful golden curls, and then turned to leave the woman to her husband’s protection.

A clear, feminine shriek of protest jerked his head back around. Amid the masking noise of the fair, most of the passersby remained oblivious to the cry. But Duncan recognized the sound of a lady in distress.

One of the villains had laid hands on his angel. The other grabbed at her infant, tearing the child from its mother’s arms.

“What the…?” Outrage flooded Duncan’s veins. Scowling, he forced his way through the crowd, knocking aside a hapless peddler in his haste. While he apologized to the man, the two villains took flight.

He nodded once to his angel, who stood in open-mouthed shock, but he dared not tarry. Justice had to be served. He strode after her attackers, counting on the authority of his voice to clear a path. He swept his cloak aside, reaching for his sword.

And cursed.

Beggars carried no swords. He was armed with only a dagger. With a sword, he could have easily dispatched the two knaves. With a dagger, the fight might prove a more even match.

Linet watched in wonder as the dark beggar made his way through the crowd. Before, she’d suspected he was after her for some ill purpose. Now he was acting like her hero. But that was unlikely. In her experience, beggars didn’t normally go out of their way to help others.

Perhaps he was counting on a hefty reward for his actions.

She supposed she’d have to give it to him, as much as her father would have disapproved of her trafficking with his kind. After all, at the moment, the beggar appeared to be her only hope.

She glanced at her towering rescuer again as he strode off. He looked more muscular in his snug woolen leggings and sheer linen tunic than she’d first noticed. His cloak swirled about him as he moved with the power and grace of a knight’s steed. His shoulders were broad, and something about those strong, capable hands clenched in determination made her heart flutter.

She stared silently after him, until she realized he was disappearing from sight. Unwilling to be left behind, she picked up her hay-strewn skirts and scurried after her mysterious champion.

Duncan squeezed his fists in frustration. He kept losing sight of the culprits. As Holden had warned him, Spanish reivers were as slippery as river eels. Following no particular code of honor, bearing no respect for the rules of chivalry, they’d just as soon stab a man in the back as face him in fair combat.

Barreling past the stalls, Duncan caught only a glimpse now and then of the two abductors as they cast anxious glances over their shoulders.

Then, abruptly, the stalls ended. Beyond sprawled a small meadow where spectators stood in a ring for a wrestling bout. The thieves had disappeared again, melting into the crowd. He scanned the circle, sharpening his gaze. Palming his dagger, he approached the ring with measured steps, studying each face he passed.

Suddenly, his eyes were drawn to a spot across the circle. There, huddled within the inner ring, was his quarry. One scoundrel still gripped the infant. It would be a miracle if the child were unharmed, considering the rough care it was receiving. But the babe uttered not a peep. Perhaps the poor thing was killed already.

Duncan shuddered. He couldn’t afford to believe that.