Once a Knight (7 page)

David looked from the stocky, red-faced, fervently protesting Sir Walter to tall, aloof Lady Alisoun. Nay, Sir Walter hadn't rumpled her mattress.

But she
did
have emotions, he now knew it. Her face didn't show them, her posture remained the same, but behind her gray eyes existed a soul. And he would understand her, if he had to connive, spy, and enlist the assistance of all her people, and even the very heart of the cold and lonely maiden of George's Cross.

Under Alisoun's guidance
, Sir David stumbled into his chamber. Alisoun quailed at the thought of putting her safety and the security of George's Cross in this man's hands. In this man's
filthy
hands.

He'll look better when he's had a bath
, she argued back at herself, and snapped her fingers at the maids. They sprang into action, stripping him of his clothing and tossing it in a basket to be boiled.

“Maybe the poor will take this,” one maid said, holding the soiled rags David called his hose between two fingers.

“The poor won't want any of it,” Edlyn retorted.

Edlyn's voice roused Alisoun. “Go on, dear,” she said. “I don't think it proper for a maiden who is yet unmarried to bathe the guests.”

“Will
you
be bathing him?” Sir Walter demanded from the doorway.

Surprised, all the women turned to look at him, then at Alisoun.

“As I always do,” she answered.

He placed his fists on his hips. “Are you not a maiden?”

So angry she could barely speak, she said, “I am a widow.” By good Saint Ethelred, the man had lost his mind. When had he come to believe he had the right to question her activities? When had he lost so much respect for her that he believed he could insult her without consequence?

Oh, she knew the answer.

When she had confessed she'd risked everything to do what she thought was right. He didn't comprehend that she cared nothing about his disapproval or his opinion. She paid his wages; what she expected from him was his unconditional loyalty. He hadn't given it, yet still she recalled his earlier support and found herself unable to order he find another post.

Mechanically, she reviewed the arrangements for their guest. She spoke to Edlyn about the special evening meal, then sent her on her way. A fire burned in the fireplace. She pressed on the mattress. The bedding smelled clean and dry. Lifting the pitchers which sat on a table beside the bed, she found them empty and frowned. In their excitement over serving the legendary mercenary, the maids had failed to finish preparing the chamber.

At the tub, one of them squealed, and Alisoun glanced impatiently toward the little group around David. So frivolous! Did they think, just because he was a legend, he would be the answer to a maiden's prayer? She glanced at the furious Sir Walter. Is that what he thought, too? Is that why he stood off to the side, watching, bristled up like a mastiff?

The group parted briefly, and Alisoun caught a glimpse of David, naked and dripping. He was certainly
not
a maiden's dream. A cook's dream, because he was so skinny. Or a washerwoman's dream. She'd never seen a man so caked with dirt. It would take hard scrubbing to remove all the grime, but regardless of Sir Walter's opinion, she knew her duty and always did it. Rolling up her sleeves, she picked up the apron the maids had laid out to cover her. If she could have, she would have left him to the maids, but she dared not retreat now or Sir Walter would consider it a victory.

Her level voice cut the chatter. “Where is the wine and water, should our guest have a thirst in the night?”

Heath clapped her hand over her mouth.

She'd been Alisoun's personal maid before; she had been promoted to chief maid when Philippa had come, and when distracted, she occasionally failed in her duties. “Are there other chores left undone?” Alisoun asked.

The group around David melted away. Heath ran from one place to another, assessing each maid's performance. They all remained within the chamber, hoping, Alisoun supposed, to sneak glances at the legend in their midst. She didn't care about that. She feared only that their hospitality might be lacking, not that it would be done too well.

At her approach, David sank into the water as if it might melt him. From the look of him, he hadn't the experience to know otherwise.

Soaping the washing cloth, Alisoun tried to ease David's uneasiness with polite chatter. “Is the chamber to your liking?”

He leaned forward and let her rub his shoulders. “It's lovely,” he said politely. “Is it yours?”

Briefly, she considered digging her fingernails into his skin. She had hoped he wouldn't behave like an ass and make offensive comments that insinuated she
would warm his bed. So many knights and lords did when she bathed them, assuming that she must hunger for what she did not know and smugly sure they could satisfy that hunger. For them, a few cool words worked much like icicles dropped into the bath water, and she never had the problem again—at least from the same man.

Today she didn't feel so tactful. She, too, was exhausted from travel and this duty seemed onerous beyond belief. Running the washcloth up over David's head, she let strong lye soap drip into his eyes. Jumping to his feet, he yelled, and tried to rub it out. Heath ran forward with a basin of clean water and helped him splash water into his face. When he turned on Alisoun, red-eyed and snarling, she thought to apologize sweetly. Instead she found herself saying, “You'll sleep in here alone, Sir David, unless you choose another partner. I'm sure one of the maids could be persuaded to join you, out of curiosity if nothing else. Now, if you'll sit again, we'll finish with—”

He grabbed her hand in a firm grip, and she wondered if he would soak her. Her training told her she deserved it for allowing her temper to get the better of her, but Sir Walter's growl angered her even more. She didn't need protecting from David; she could handle him.

“This is
my
chamber?” David demanded.

She stood absolutely still. “I have said so.”

“I sleep here…alone?”

“Aye.”

Her soapy hand slipped from his grasp, and he made no move to recapture it. “You have chambers for everyone?”

“For my guests.” She began to realize the reason for David's amazement. “It wouldn't be appropriate for you to sleep on the floor of the great hall with the ser
vants. Sir Walter has a private chamber in the gatehouse where he can be at the ready in case of attack, but I thought that you should be within the keep.”

“Since I'm to guard you.”

She felt foolish now. “Aye. I need you to guard me and mine.”

Sir Walter stepped forward. “I can do it.”

Her hand trembled with frustration, but she answered as she always did. “I need you to preserve the whole castle and the village. There isn't enough time for the special care I have come to require.”

She expected David to say something, to step between them somehow, but he didn't. Instead, he sat in the water and looked up at them both as if expecting entertainment. She could have slapped him.

Sir Walter turned away with a grunt.

David didn't try to take the cloth from her, but leaned forward to let her finish his back. A scar snaked out of his scalp and down his back, and when she washed his neck, she discovered the lobe of one ear was missing. She tried to be gentle with it, but he said, “Go ahead and scrub. It doesn't hurt.”

Boldly, she inquired, “How did you lose it?”

The work within the room slowed as all the women strained to hear the tale.

“I made a mistake,” he said.

“Did the other knight—” Alisoun paused, not knowing how to continue.

“His widow has since remarried.”

His flat reply answered more than one question. He didn't brag about his triumphs, but she wanted to know. Not for the same reason as the maids, who simply worshipped without thought, but because she wanted verification of his prowess.

Then he leaned back to give her access to his chest,
and she saw further testament to the suffering he'd endured, both in battle and in his struggle to survive the drought. The wiry muscles across his shoulders lifted the skin in impressive ripples, but she traced the line of his prominent collarbone as she scrubbed. His arms clearly showed the effect of swinging sword and shield. The veins on the back of his big hands rose in massive blue lines, and he'd lost the little finger on his left hand.

Lifting his wrist, she asked, “Sword?”

“Battle ax.”

“Did his widow remarry, also?”

Sounding disgusted, he said, “Nay! It was only a melée.”

She looked again at the blank place where his finger should be. “You lost it in a play battle?”

“Not play,” he answered patiently. “Practice. We hold melées for practice, and to entertain the court.” He held up his hand and grinned at it affectionately. “If Sir Richard hadn't pulled back on his swing, I'd have lost the whole hand.” Tucking it back in the water, he added, “I was a fledging then, and lucky.”

“Lucky.”

She looked, and she didn't think he was lucky. A variety of weapons had gashed lines of flesh from his upper chest, leaving a gnarled pattern of black hair and white scars traced over his impressive pectorals. But immediately below, his ribs were delineated with dreadful clarity.

Perhaps he
could
eat the whole goose by himself.

She couldn't wash the parts of him still in the water, and she wanted to, badly. Not because she was curious. She wasn't, although the dirt and soap floating in the water might have frustrated a nosy woman. She'd seen, and washed, many men, and a legend such as Sir David
would be no different. But obviously, the man was not enamored of bathing, and she didn't know when she might persuade him to partake again. “Stand up,” she commanded.

He didn't answer, but slipped one leg out of the tub and shifted as if the tub were too small.

Well, it was too small for a man of his size and…“Fine,” she said, and washed his foot. Calluses deformed his toes and snagged the weave of the cloth, but he flexed and grimaced in reflexive action when she stroked the bottom of his foot. Purple scarring rippled the skin from ankle to knee.

“Fire?” she asked.

“Boiling tar poured from the curtain wall during a siege,” he answered.

“Did you take the castle?”

He watched as she lifted his leg and washed beneath. “In sooth.”

The muscles of his well-formed calf joined a bony knee, and his thigh was thin—too thin for a man of his size.

Holding out her hand, palm up, she silently demanded the other foot. He looked at her hand. She insisted with a wiggle of the fingers, and he deliberately drew his foot from the water and laid it in her hand.

He'd lost a toe on this foot, and the flesh stretched thin to cover the bone.

Before she could ask, he said, “Same siege as the boiling tar. I was running across the drawbridge and the portcullis came down on my foot. Praise God it didn't land on my head.”

“Aye. God is good to you.” Surprised, she realized she meant it. David had come to the very gates of death and somehow escaped every time.

He raised his voice so all within the chamber could
hear. “That's all being a legend is. Living long enough to brag about your own exploits.”

“Might it also be the willingness to be first across the drawbridge?” she asked.

“First one across gets best pickings.”

First one across usually gets killed
, she thought, but she didn't say that. That was obvious to everyone within the room. Instead she moved to finish the job of washing him so he could eat.

This time he made a funny little grunt when she scrubbed his thighs. She raised an eyebrow at him, but he tucked his lips tightly together and shook his head.

After rinsing out the cloth in clean water, she soaped it up again. “Stand up. I can't wash you if you won't stand up.”

He just sat there, gripping the sides of the tub stubbornly, as if the dirt in the tub had affixed him from the rear down.

Then Sir Walter mocked from his corner. “Perhaps more than his fingers and toes have been cut off.”

Every eye focused on David. Would he be angry? Would he climb from the tub and tear Sir Walter's gizzard from his bowels? Instead, a slow smile formed on David's face. His lips parted. His chest rose and fell in deep inhalations, and smoky satisfaction practically oozed from him. Like one of the monsters living deep in the mountain lake, he rose out of the water and revealed himself in all his glory.

 

Laughing out loud, David rolled over in his bed and pounded the feather pillow exuberantly. Never in his life would he forget the look that had transformed Sir Walter's sarcastic face. Even now, he could relive the gratification of seeing the old scoundrel's expression
right before he scurried out in abject humiliation. Nay, Sir Walter would never challenge him in such a manner again.

Alisoun…David rolled onto his back, wrapped his hands behind his head, and stared at the canopy above him as the misty morning light grew stronger. Alisoun was another story. He didn't know what she thought.

It was that washing that had done it. Alisoun had used a rough cloth, and she'd scrubbed until his skin felt raw, but he'd noticed only the touch of her hands as they grazed him again and again. He hadn't stood up when she commanded him to, for he didn't want to embarrass her by an untimely display.

But when Sir Walter had goaded him and he had finally stood, she didn't seem embarrassed. He didn't know what he'd expected of her. Exclamations of rapture? A beaming smile? A quick grope? He'd gotten none of it, of course. She'd stood without a quiver, a simper or a frown. If she'd been impressed, she hadn't indicated it.

And she should have been impressed. Hell, he'd been impressed, and he'd wielded that weapon all his life.

“Did you sleep well?”

He jumped, flinging the blankets up in surprise. He'd been thinking about her, and here she was, with her arms full of folded material and a pleasant smile on her face.

Again, he looked at her. Perhaps it was an exaggeration to call it a pleasant smile. It was more of a lift of the lips, performed because she'd been taught it was the proper thing to do. But he liked it. He liked her, the way she looked this morning, dressed for work in a faded blue cotte and a sky blue wimple wrapped over her hair and under her chin. A big iron ring of keys
hung from her belt, marking her as the chatelaine of George's Cross and a power to be reckoned with.