Margaret Moore - [Warrior 14] (7 page)

And thus her sister was disposed of. He shouldn’t be so surprised that Laelia would speak with so much conviction of her sister’s fate, for such would be the portion of any younger sister who didn’t marry. In Lady Rebecca’s case, though, it seemed a very great pity. The only thing less suited to her than nursemaid to her father would be life in a convent.

The reverend mother of the convent wouldn’t know what had hit her—unless it be the devil in human form, refusing to obey, forgetting to be silent.

No, Rebecca would be much better suited running a man’s household and controlling a boisterous family. He could easily picture her surrounded by happy servants and joyous, noisy dark-haired children, with a few puppies at her feet to complete the scene. Her
loving husband would come sneaking up behind her and embrace her, making her start and curse, and then laugh as he turned her toward him for a searing kiss, regardless of servants, children and puppies—

Blaidd stopped picturing and surreptitiously glanced at the richly attired, beautiful woman riding beside him at a leisurely pace. She’d probably hate puppies. They’d be too noisy, too dirty. Maybe she’d think the same about children, too.

Not that it mattered. After all, he wasn’t really here to woo her…or anybody else.

It was midafternoon when Becca and Trevelyan Fitzroy returned to the castle. What an impertinent young rascal he was, Becca reflected as she prepared to dismount.

Meanwhile, young Fitzroy leaped easily from his horse and in the next moment was beside hers, holding his hand out to assist her.

Who else but an impertinent young rascal would dare to shout out as she galloped away from him that she had to stop or he was going to throw up?

Afraid he was ill, she’d halted, only to have him immediately and merrily confess that was the only thing he could think of to say to get her to slow down. Then he’d told her he would die—“Absolutely perish of shame!”—if he came back without her. Not only that, but Sir Blaidd Morgan would reprimand him as only that knight could, without shouting but, “Oh, my
lady, he can fairly flay the flesh from your bones with the look he gives you!”

Since she didn’t want the boy to suffer on her account, she’d agreed to let him ride with her. She shared her refreshments with him, too. During the time they sat on the grassy verge of the river, Trevelyan had revealed some very interesting things about Sir Blaidd Morgan, not the least of which was the esteem in which he was held at court, by men as well as women.

“He’s a trusted friend of the king,” young Fitzroy had boasted.

She’d wondered how her father would react to that bit of information. It was certainly no secret that he didn’t think much of Henry, or his method of government.

But she was not her father’s spy, and after the conversation that morning, he would have some inkling of Sir Blaidd’s political views without any help from her. Whether that would be enough to make him an unwelcome suitor for Laelia was far from certain, however. Laelia’s opinion of him seemed to improve daily, and thus far, her father had voiced no objections.

Becca could understand why. The Welshman was a genial, interesting, very attractive man.

“You must allow me to assist you, my lady,” Trevelyan Fitzroy declared, interrupting her reverie. “Otherwise, Blaidd is going to have my head. See, here he comes now, in high dudgeon.”

She followed his gaze, to find Sir Blaidd stalking toward them like a man on a serious mission.

Now she could well believe he’d win any tournament he entered. She could even believe he would do so with nothing more than his bare hands.

“Very well,” she conceded. She didn’t want to admit that Sir Blaidd could inspire her to do anything, so she continued, “But only because you managed to beat me to the river by jumping that fallen log and the one right after it. I was sure you or your horse would balk.”

“What, over a fallen log? Not likely. And how could we not, when you’d done it? I’d never be able to hold my head up.”

“And a handsome head it is, too,” she noted as he put his hands firmly around her waist. Still in his grasp, she slid to the ground.

Sir Blaidd Morgan came to a halt nearby, hands on his narrow hips, sword swinging because of his hasty pace. He crossed his arms and leaned his weight on one leg. “So, you both had a lovely time, did you?” he asked, his voice dripping honey but his eyes flashing fire. “You’ve been gone half the day.”

Trevelyan stared at the ground and flushed.

At the man’s arrogant sarcasm and the boy’s shamed reaction, Becca’s gloved hands balled into fists. “How dare you chastise him?” she demanded. “He was only heeding your orders when he followed me—orders that need not have been issued—and he stayed with me because he believed it was his duty to do so. If we’re later returning than you expected,
that’s not his fault. Or would you rather I had scolded him thoroughly for presuming I need a keeper, and sent him back alone?”

Sir Blaidd continued to stare at her for a long moment, then, still glaring, addressed Trevelyan Fitzroy. “Take the horses into the stable and see they’re looked after.”

“Blaidd, I’m sorry but—”

“I don’t want to hear any explanations or apologies. I’ve given you an order.”

“Yes, sir,” Trev mumbled as he hurried to do as he was commanded.

Regardless of the grooms, stable boys and any servants currently crossing the courtyard, Becca marched up to Sir Blaidd and jabbed him in the chest. “You arrogant bully! Why did you embarrass the boy like that? He was only obeying your unnecessary orders.”

Sir Blaidd grabbed her hand, his grasp warm and just tight enough to hold her still. “How I treat my squire is none of your business, my lady,” he retorted, his dark eyes still blazing. He released her hand and bowed with mocking courtesy. “I humbly ask your forgiveness for caring about your welfare. I should, of course, allow you to be attacked, possibly raped or killed, if that is what you want, and forgo the oath I swore when I became a knight.”

She put her hands on her hips. “Did I
ask
for your protection?”

Hands clenched at his sides, he leaned forward so that they were nearly nose to nose. “My oath does not say, ‘But only if she asks.’ And I assure you, my
lady, I take my oath to protect women as seriously as I do my vow to be loyal to my king.”

Becca wouldn’t back down, not even if his nose came into contact with hers. “Even if I refuse your protection outright?”

“You can try to do so, but it won’t absolve me of my oath.”

As they stood glaring at each other like two angry bulls about to charge, it suddenly occurred to Becca that it had been a long time since anybody except her family had spoken to her that way, and even then, her father never got
that
angry. Sir Blaidd Morgan’s fury made no allowance for her rank, her sex or disability. He treated her as if she were…his equal.

Another realization came hard upon that one. She remembered where she’d seen the expression on Sir Blaidd’s face as he marched up to them. It was the sort of look two rivals for Laelia’s attention gave each other.

Surely Sir Blaidd couldn’t be
jealous?
Of that boy? Over her? The thought made her laugh before she could help herself.

Sir Blaidd frowned darkly. “I amuse you, do I?”

She wasn’t going to admit that the notion he might be jealous had ever crossed her mind, or he’d be the one laughing. Still, the slightest chance that it might be so gave her a certain measure of confidence.

“I find it delightful that you have no qualms about getting angry with me,” she confessed evenly. “A lot of men treat me as some sort of delicate child.”

“I’m very aware you’re not a child, my lady,” he growled in his velvety, deep voice.

Although she was sure seduction was not his intention, her body nevertheless responded as it had in the chapel. Desire, sly and overpowering, began to stir within her.

“I’m glad to hear it,” she replied, attempting to subdue that wayward feeling. “Therefore, sir knight, if I choose to do a thing, you ought to let me do it.”

“As tempting as that may be, given your lack of gratitude, I remind you that my sworn oath forbids it. If you insist upon risking your neck, I’ll do all I can to protect you. Now, unless you’re planning another ride, I bid you good day, my lady.”

As she watched him stride away, Becca wondered if Laelia appreciated the sort of man who was courting her. Sir Blaidd was easily worth twenty of the fools who had come wooing before him.

B
laidd wiped the perspiration from his face with the back of his hand and bent again, swaying, preparing to strike with the broadsword clutched in both his hands. Blood oozed from the cut on his naked chest, made by Dobbin when he was a bit too slow to respond. He should have known better. Like his father and Sir Urien, Dobbin was still a strong and vigorous man, despite his age, and obviously skilled. He also possessed the wisdom of experience, and sure enough, none of Blaidd’s usual tricks and feints had worked against the older man.

His breath visible in the chilly morning air, Dobbin circled Blaidd warily. Blaidd slowly swiveled, keeping his gaze firmly on his opponent. He watched the man’s sword, waiting to see if it dipped, indicating fatigue. He noted Dobbin’s shoulders, low and relaxed, not tensed up near his ears. This man had fought many, many times, and had confidence in his abilities. He moved with slow deliberation, too, not
the jerky steps of a nervous fighter. All in all, Dobbin was an opponent to be reckoned with.

“What are you waiting for?” Blaidd heard Trev mutter from the group of foot soldiers surrounding them in the inner ward, watching.

Blaidd’s temper flared, but he quickly got it under control. He wasn’t going to get angry and behave like an apoplectic ogre again, as he had four days ago when he’d confronted Lady Rebecca in the courtyard.

Trev was still sulking over what had happened that day. Blaidd understood why; he’d wounded the boy’s pride with his public reprimand, especially because Lady Rebecca had been right—Trev had only been following his orders. Blaidd had apologized later, saying there was no excuse for him to lose his temper like that. He’d also pointed out that Lady Rebecca had reprimanded him in public, too, although in her case, she was quite justified. Trev had shrugged and tried to act as if nothing was wrong, but things hadn’t been the same between them since.

Another error since arriving here.

At least Lady Rebecca seemed to forgive him, after she’d so soundly chastised him. Her attitude since had been exactly as it was before, neither better nor worse. Because of that, Blaidd hadn’t told her he was sorry, especially considering what had happened the last time he’d done that.

The tip of Dobbin’s sword moved slightly lower, but not with fatigue. Blaidd recognized the preparation to strike, and waited a necessary split second before raising his own sword to meet Dobbin’s. Then,
with a twist of the wrist that could be agonizing if not done properly, he finally managed to unsword Dobbin, catching the man’s blade and sending it skittering along the grass to come to rest at…Lady Rebecca’s feet.

“Well done, sir knight,” she coolly said above the excited babble of the men. She bent down and effortlessly picked up the heavy weapon, then handed it to him.

She wore her usual gown of simple brown wool, and her thick, beautiful hair was covered by the sort of equally plain scarf servants wore.

Blaidd preferred such garments to fancy silks and velvets that limited their wearer’s movements. She looked ready to meet any challenge or solve any problem, domestic or otherwise.

Sheathing his sword, he tried to speak without any obvious emotion. “Thank you, my lady.”

“You’re bleeding. It’s not a serious wound, I hope?”

He glanced down at his chest, acutely aware that she was looking at him and that he was half-naked. “No. I’ve had worse.”

“Lady Laelia sends her regrets, but she is unwell today and will not be able to join you in the hall.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that.”

Averting her eyes from his sweat-slicked torso, Becca studied Sir Blaidd’s face. He appeared concerned that Laelia wasn’t feeling well, as anyone might, but not overly so.

All this time, and she still couldn’t tell how he
really felt about Laelia, or anything else. “It’s a headache, nothing more. She gets them sometimes, and a day of rest should see her quite recovered.”

Becca moved toward Dobbin, who was wiping his flushed, perspiring face with his tunic.

What Sir Blaidd was doing at that moment, she didn’t know, because she didn’t look. It had been enough to see him stripped to the waist, his lean, tautly muscled chest gleaming in the morning sunlight, while he wielded his heavy sword as if it weighed no more than a ball of wool. She’d been shocked by the cut, just as she had been to see who the combatants were, until she recalled Sir Blaidd’s request to train with Dobbin and his men.

“God’s wounds, I was sure I had him there at the end,” Dobbin complained to the men gathered around him, their expressions as consoling as if he’d lost a favorite pet. “That Fitzroy must be as fine a trainer of fighting men as they say. I’ve never seen such a move.” He raised his voice. “Can you show us how you did it, Sir Blaidd? Slowly?”

She glanced at the Welshman, to see that he had put on his tunic. Thank God.

Sir Blaidd’s brows rose. “What, now?”

“Or later, if you prefer,” Dobbin replied with deference.

Sir Blaidd grinned. “Now’s as good a time as any,” he said, once again drawing off his tunic, his movement smooth as silken fabric slipping over a merchant’s arm.

Becca turned to go, until Dobbin’s call made her
halt. “Stay a moment, my lady. After he shows us that move, maybe you can show him how you shoot.” He smiled at Sir Blaidd. “I taught her, sir,” he bragged, “and I reckon she’s as fine an archer as any of those Welshmen we hear about. She can’t shoot so far, because she’s not got a man’s strength, but she’s dead accurate.”

Although she was as proud of her skill as Dobbin was, Becca didn’t feel the need to demonstrate that particular talent to Sir Blaidd Morgan. “I don’t think that will be necessary. I’m sure he’ll take your word for it.”

“It so happens, Dobbin, that I’m considered a fine shot myself, my father insisting that all his sons be trained with every weapon, even if bows are considered fitting only for foot soldiers.” Sir Blaidd’s grin widened, but there was an unmistakable gleam of challenge in his eyes. “Perhaps a contest is in order?”

Taking up the bow had been Dobbin’s suggestion, made when she was lying in bed while her leg healed. He would teach her as soon as she was able to get up, he’d promised, and she wouldn’t feel so helpless then.

She’d seen the merit in his idea at once, and had been thankful for something to think about other than what she
wouldn’t
be able to do anymore. Afraid her father wouldn’t approve, they hadn’t said anything to him about it for a long time, until she was as good as any of the garrison.

She’d harbored a faint hope he’d be pleased, but
he’d given them both a skeptical scowl. “If I need her to defend Throckton, I’ll call,” he’d sniffed.

Well, she was being called upon to defend Dobbin’s skill as a teacher, and that was just as important.

She gave Sir Blaidd a patronizing smile. “How could I resist? I only hope your pride won’t be seriously wounded when I win.”

“I’ll send a couple of the lads for butts and targets and the bows and quivers,” Dobbin said eagerly, before Sir Blaidd could change his mind. “While they’re preparing things, Sir Blaidd can show us that move.”

Several minutes later, after Dobbin had perfected the technique of disarming his opponent with that particular twist of his blade, Blaidd and Becca prepared to shoot. Behind her, Becca heard a low murmur. Wagers were being made and she wondered who was the favorite. Dobbin would bet on her, she was certain, but she had no idea whether the other men might pick her or the Welshman.

Although Sir Blaidd was now properly clad in a tunic belted about the waist, Becca tried not to pay attention to her opponent as he tied the leather guard around his left forearm. One of the soldiers standing beside him held an unslung bow of yew, another a quiver.

Becca already had her guard on, and a soldier handed her a bow. Bracing the weapon against her foot, she quickly slid the string into place at the top
and plucked an arrow fletched with goose feathers from the quiver the soldier held in his other hand.

“Best two out of three the winner?” Sir Blaidd suggested as he, too, strung his bow.

“If you wish,” she said.

Now that they were ready, the soldiers who had been holding their accoutrements stepped back out of the way.

As Becca nocked her arrow on the bowstring and raised her bow, she put out of her mind everything except the bull’s-eye painted on a cloth tacked to a butt of straw. She took aim and waited for Dobbin to give the signal to let fly.

He did, and the familiar twang of a bowstring sounded in her ear as it snapped. Her arrow flew through the air, straight and true, to hit the center of the target. Smiling with satisfaction, she looked at Sir Blaidd’s target.

His arrow was likewise sticking out of the center of the bull’s-eye. A roar of both approval and dismay went up from the men as Trev and Dobbin trotted down the ward to see who had made the better shot. Becca waited, her toe tapping, as they conferred for what seemed a very long time.

“We must be close,” Sir Blaidd remarked.

“I suppose,” she answered.

“Dobbin said you were naturally gifted. So you are, in both archery and the harp. You would almost be worshipped in Wales with those skills.”

She wondered if that were really true, and how it
would feel to be approved of wholeheartedly, instead of being considered odd.

Dobbin held up his hand. “The lady wins!”

That got another roar of approval, as well as a few mutters, while the judges returned. Trevelyan Fitzroy looked as if he’d just been told the sun wasn’t going to rise tomorrow.

She’d noticed signs of strain between Sir Blaidd and his squire ever since they’d returned from riding that day. She felt a small twinge of remorse for being the cause of any animosity between them, but not much. Sir Blaidd had rebuked the boy unjustly, and if things were not the same between them, it was Sir Blaidd’s fault far more than hers.

At the moment, however, Sir Blaidd seemed to take everything in stride, including making the poorer shot. “I’ll have to do better with the next one,” he said evenly as he reached for another arrow.

Becca also selected another arrow. They raised their bows simultaneously, and again Dobbin’s cry to let fly filled the expectant silence. Her bowstring twanged and her arrow struck the target.

Off center.

With a gasp, she looked at Sir Blaidd’s target, to see his arrow in nearly the same place as the previous one. A curse flew from her lips, while several of the soldiers groaned. This time, no consultation was necessary. A delighted looking Trevelyan retrieved Sir Blaidd’s arrow, while a glum Dobbin plucked hers free.

“Forgive my choice of words,” she said through clenched teeth. “That wasn’t a ladylike thing to say.”

“You don’t like to lose,” Blaidd said, still as cool and calm as a pond on a windless summer day. “Neither do I. And as for being ladylike, many of the ladies at court could make a soldier blush with their language.”

“And you’ve been intimately acquainted with many, no doubt.”

“Quite a few,” he calmly replied. “Certainly enough to know that being a lady isn’t a state conferred by birth alone. Several women of lowly birth of my acquaintance are more ladylike in the best sense of the word—gentle, polite, generous, kind.”

She obviously wouldn’t fit his notion of being a lady. “Best two out of three, wasn’t it?” she said as she grabbed another arrow.

“Aye, my lady.”

He nocked his arrow and drew his bow, as did she. She pressed her lips together, determined to beat him.

“Let fly!” Dobbin cried again, and this time, to Becca’s joy and relief, her arrow hit the very center of her target, an even better shot than her first, while Sir Blaidd’s went wide.

She jumped for joy and nearly cheered, then settled down immediately. She didn’t want to look as if she was gloating.

Trevelyan Fitzroy rushed to the target, looking ready to snarl, while Dobbin was all smiles.

“A clean win for my lady!” he shouted.

“Alas,” Sir Blaidd said after a moment. “A poor shot. Trevelyan’s father would be ashamed of me.”

His lips twitched as if he was stifling a laugh, and another explanation, one that enraged her, came to mind.

“Maybe it was and maybe it wasn’t!” she called back. She faced Sir Blaidd squarely, so angry she could spit. “Did you shoot wide on purpose?”

He looked taken aback and shook his head. “I assure you, my lady, I
never
lose on purpose. It was only that
alas
was not the first word to come to mind.”

So firm was his denial that she believed him, but she needed to be certain he was not acting out of pity for her. “We’ll shoot again, and this time, do the best you can.”

“I did,” he protested. His eyes flashed with warning. “And I did
not
lie when I told you I’d done so.” After a tense moment, however, he shrugged his broad shoulders. “But very well. If you want, we’ll shoot again.”

“Good,” she snapped, as a mystified Dobbin and a confused Trevelyan reached them.

“What’s this about, my lady?” Dobbin asked.

“I fear Sir Blaidd thought it would be unchivalrous to let me lose. Perhaps you can assure him my pride will not shatter if I do.”

Dobbin tugged at the collar of his tunic. “Well, Sir Blaidd, she don’t
like
to lose, o’ course, but you’d better do your best.”

Sir Blaidd planted his feet. “I didn’t
let
her win. I
made a bad shot. Trev will confirm that it’s been known to happen before.”

Trev didn’t look pleased. “He’s an excellent shot.”

“Not all the time,” Blaidd insisted, which was the truth, and Trev should just admit it. This wasn’t a tournament, after all. “What about the time I shot your father in the leg?”

Becca’s eyes widened, while Dobbin whistled and the other men listened in stunned silence. “You shot Sir Urien Fitzroy?” Dobbin asked in a whisper.

“Aye. Last year. He was too confident in my aim and stood too close to the target.”

All eyes turned to Trevelyan, who blushed in silent confirmation.

“You should have heard the words he used on that occasion,” Blaidd added. “Colorful, to say the least. Of course, I deserved everything he said.”