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Copyright 2nd Ed. 2018 by A.M. Westerling
Cover Art by Michelle Lee
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
To my boys
Again, a very big thank you to Victoria Chatham and M.K. Stelmack. You always manage to (tactfully!) keep me on track.
And a special thank you to my parents – you taught me the joy of books.
Southern France
Icy water dripped off Alyna Caperun’s cap to puddle between her shoulder blades where the coarse woolen tunic touched her skin. She hunched her shoulders, shivering with what she hoped was only cold and not sickness. For in this year of Our Lord 1251, disease could cut down a man in his prime in a matter of hours.
As had happened to her brother, David, only this morning. She sank to her knees as she watched several men lower his shrouded body into a shallow grave by the side of the road.
Panic at the knowledge she was now alone far from home battled with hunger within her. And overall, anger. Anger at David for dying. Anger at her aunt’s treachery that had brought her here. And even anger at the unsympathetic skies that had unleashed a downpour, chilling her and turning the road into a quagmire.
Someone pounded a rough cross fashioned from two branches lashed together into the loose dirt at the head of the grave before the tonsured priest waved his hand over it in one last benediction. Then the group dispersed but not before casting anxious glances her way – she knew very well they feared she carried the same pestilence that had felled David.
Abandoned, Alyna remained on her knees with head bowed over the grave of her brother. Tears streamed down her cheeks but by now it rained so hard it was difficult to tell where the rain stopped and the tears began. Her lips formed in prayer and she took what comfort she could in the familiar words. Over and over, she repeated the lines, always to stumble over the same one: “Dieu li volt.” God wills it.
With gaze downcast she knelt for some time, lost in sorrow, lost in dejection.
Lost in despair of the certain knowledge she now had no way to return home to England.
* * *
After the heat of the Holy Land, the rain mercilessly pelting Warin de Taillur was foul indeed. Beneath him, the powerful muscles of his mount, Citadel, bulged and released as the mighty creature plodded through the mud, pulling each hoof free from the sucking earth that almost stopped them in their tracks.
Warin’s thoughts towards the weather were most uncharitable and his lips moved silently as he cursed the rain, the mud, and the loused porridge he had eaten earlier that day that now threatened to sicken him. Moreover, the nasty occupants of the lumpy mattress he had slept on last night left his body a mass of itchy red welts.
Wallowing in clammy self pity as he scratched the offending bites, he took no notice of what appeared to be a weathered tree stump by the side of the road until he was almost upon it. The stump shifted and brilliant blue green eyes beneath a rain soaked cap lifted to him for an instant before looking down again.
God’s blood, but what he had first thought to be a lifeless bit of wood turned out to be a sodden lump of humanity. He pulled his mount to a stop and peered down at the pathetic creature, one of many he’d seen on his travels home. Doubtless there would be many more. He shrugged and urged on Citadel. He had no time for rest until night fell.
“Take me with you if you will.” A thin, reedy voice wobbled through the air.
Compassion assailed him at the feeble entreaty and Warin wheeled around.
“Did you call me?” he asked politely, gazing down towards the slight figure hunched in the rain.
The person, a child judging by size, appeared not to hear him, so Warin tried again, raising his voice several notches. “Are you alone? Do you need help?”
Still no reaction, so Warin tried one last time, endeavoring not to let irritation creep into his voice – the child had hailed him, and if Warin had the decency to stop in this miserable weather, then the child should have the decency to answer.
“Are you lost?”
The bowed head bobbed with a quick nod. “I beg you to take me with you. I’m alone.”
Warin frowned. Shepherding a forsaken soul was the last thing he needed. Responsibility for another was not a task he took on gladly; in fact, he had vowed to avoid it at all costs.
“I only have one horse,” he replied brusquely. “The road is soft and the extra weight will burden the beast.”
“I can walk.” The child, a lad, actually, by the looks of his travel stained tunic and hose, kept his head bowed.
Warin groaned and inspected the piteous figure. A weakened lad would only slow him. “You don’t look strong enough.”
“I won’t be a bother.” The boy lifted pale trembling hands, clasped in supplication. “I beg you, I have no one.”
Neither do I, thought Warin, and that is the way I would have it. He glanced longingly at the road winding away through the trees. He couldn’t waste any more time, already darkness threatened.
“Don’t leave me here.” Panic edged the thin voice.
Common decency demanded he offer aid. That and the thought of receiving favor from above for his kindness to a stranger.
With a sigh, he slid down from his saddle, landing with a squishy thump in the muck of the road. “I’ve not seen your face, how do I know you’re not scarred with pox?”
The lad raised his face, slowly, as if expecting to be boxed about the ears, and regarded Warin through gem-colored eyes widened with fear.
Eyes that stood out in dazzling contrast to the grey mist hugging the earth around them, eyes that captivated Warin, eyes that stopped him in his tracks.
Until he realized he stood there, witless and silent, like a sack of grain. Warin shook his head and shut his own eyes to break the spell.
“Let me help you up,” he barked, annoyed at himself with his momentary lapse. He extended a hand, but the lad leaned back. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
The youngster grasped the outreached hand and stood up awkwardly, as if he had been sitting in the cold and the damp for some time. He jammed his hands into his pockets and stood silent, swaying slightly, teeth chattering with cold and gaze fixed on the ground.
He was a bit taller than Warin had expected, reaching perhaps to his shoulder and so he pegged his age at about eleven or twelve.
A thought crossed Warin’s mind – how like the capricious heavens to hand him a squire when he no longer had need of one. A year ago, he would have been overjoyed to have a squire accompany him on Crusade, to clean Warin’s armour and polish his shield, to serve his food and run his errands, to care for his horse.
But now? He had no need of a squire as he intended to lay down his sword and serve the Almighty in the monastery at Mont St. Michel.
However, squire or no, he couldn’t leave the child stranded at the side of the road and mayhap a good deed would begin to wash the stains of war from Warin’s soul. “How are you called?”
The lad’s lips moved but Warin couldn’t hear for the rain pelting his helmet.
He leaned closer. “Eh, what’s that?”
“Alyna. Alyna Caperun.”
Alyna? He must have heard wrong. Alyna was a girl’s name and a grubby young boy stood before him, not a girl. It must be Alan, then.
“Alan? A fine name to be sure.”
The lad shook his head and opened his mouth to speak but Warin held up a hand. “You’re a child, you must only speak when spoken to.”
The lad stared at him for a few seconds then shrugged.
Warin inspected him more fully. He guessed the youngster had not entered puberty as yet for the voice had been high-pitched and girlish and the cheeks, what he could see of them, were downy smooth. Just as well, for he wouldn’t have to concern himself with the lad chasing skirts.
However, he recognized the blank, staring eyes and dull expression as shock – he had seen it many times on the Palestinian battlefields as the mind tried to block what the eyes had seen. He dropped his hand on the youngster’s shoulder.
“I am Warin de Taillur,” he said simply. He gestured with his chin to the fresh mound and crudely fashioned cross, taking a stab in the dark. “Your travelling companion is now in a better place.”
Alyna nodded, mute in her misery, the words slowly penetrating her mind. Travelling companion. David. She blinked hard, once, twice, against the tears, forcing them back. She had no time to cry anymore.
She sucked in a huge, ragged breath. How rude the man must find her. First she had hailed him, now sorrow over David’s death held her tongue. In truth, she hadn’t expected the knight to stop but he had. She opened her mouth to thank him and lifted her gaze enough to finally look him full in the face.
And froze, mouth yet gaping.
He radiated power. It emanated from his every pore, permeating the area around him with a tangible force she could almost reach out and touch.
She could barely see the glint of his eyes behind the shielded helmet and she wondered why he would travel with it on for it must be uncomfortable. Belatedly, realizing she must look a fool, she clamped her mouth shut and again lowered her gaze, all the while inspecting him.
His surcoat, albeit of fine material, was stained and dirty, as were his hose. He – what did he say he was called? Warin? – wore a stained and dirty hauberk, badly in need of repair.
All in all, not a particularly reassuring display but something about him had driven her to call out to him as he plodded past her on the road.
She had taken a risk in stopping the knight on the mighty destrier but some nameless quality had drawn her to him – mayhap the white flag with the red cross pinned to his helmet signifying he had been on Crusade. It hung limply in the rain to pool on his shoulders yet it was the only clean thing he possessed. Someone who had chosen to serve the Almighty in the Holy Land and made sure all knew of it must be trustworthy.
Warin spoke again. “Alan? Are you well?”
Alyna looked around her. Alan? Who was Alan? Comprehension seeped through her when she saw no one, only mist draped trees and the muddy, rutted road. He must have misunderstood her. With the cap pulled low over her forehead and her nondescript, grubby clothing, he must think her a lad.
She at first thought to correct him then changed her mind. Mayhap it would be safer for her to let him linger with his misconception of her identity a while longer.
“I am well,” she replied, her voice husky and barely more than a whisper thanks to the chill air.
“You may ride.” Warin pointed towards Citadel. “I can walk faster than you.”
The horse stood forlornly, chewing on the bit. Rain dulled his normally shiny black coat, and mud clumped his tail and coated his legs up to his hocks. Like his master, the animal also needed cleaning and care.
Alyna flicked a dubious glance towards Warin but he ignored it and gave her a slight push towards the huge destrier.
“I will give you a leg up.”
“Thank you.” Alyna squelched through the soft mud to acquaint herself with the horse, warily scratching him behind the ears, which she could only do because the animal’s head drooped with fatigue. She ran her fingers down the white blaze between his eyes then patted him on the neck.
“What a lovely fellow you are,” she murmured. The massive animal raised his head then turned to look at her as if in acknowledgement of the compliment.
Surely only a knight of good repute would own an animal this fine. Besides, what choice did she have? To sit, hungry and cold, in the rain until another group came by? And even so, would they take her along? Or would they view her with suspicion and simply another mouth to feed? Or continue to go it alone, with only her dagger for protection?
Again she stroked the horse’s nose before gathering her courage to turn and face the knight.
* * *
Amazed, Warin watched the lad stroke Citadel’s nose. Many would be afraid of a steed that size. “You’re familiar with horses?” What a boon if Alan could also aid with Citadel.
“Aye.” His new companion nodded, exposing wet curls plastered to the back of the neck. The ragged hair along the nape appeared as if it had been hacked with a dull knife.
“Very well.”
Satisfied with the answer, he hoisted the boy up, watching as he confidently wriggled forward to wind grubby fingers tightly into the mane. The leather saddle bags draped over Citadel’s withers impeded the boy’s motion but with a bit of judicious wriggling and squirming, he managed to find a snug perch.
“You’re not very heavy,” Warin observed, “Citadel can carry us both.”
The lad nodded and leaned forward over the horse’s neck.
With the aid of a well-placed log, Warin hauled himself up onto the horse’s back. Awkwardly, for his heavy hauberk impeded him, he shifted around to find a comfortable position then adjusted the reins so that he held one in either hand with Alan ensconced in his arms. Normally he would let the lad ride pillion behind him but he appeared to be in dire need of warming.
“Ready?” he asked and at the answering nod, he nudged Citadel.
They plodded their way through dripping trees, their progress slowed by the road’s muck and mire. Notwithstanding the steady drizzle, the unspoiled forest around them had the crisp hue of early summer, and the fresh fragrance of pine needles and crushed grasses scrubbed the lingering foul odor of death from Warin’s nostrils.
“Pray accept my apologies for the lack of saddle.” His rueful voice split the silence, startling a thrush into flight. “I was a willing participant in a game of chance.”
He said no more. Losing the saddle still rankled for when the time came to sell Citadel, a destrier and saddle carried more value than only a horse. He had only himself to blame. Himself and the memories plaguing him that caused him to lose focus, thereby losing the match.
Alan said nothing, merely nodded. They proceeded along in silence for some minutes more until Warin could no longer contain his curiosity.
“Tell me,” he prodded gently. “Tell me what brought you here.” He gestured to the forest around them, his motion restricted somewhat by the rein held in his hand. He knew not if Alan would talk to him but airing the horrors that brought the blank stare to the lad’s face was the best way of ridding them.
At first he thought his words had not been heard but then he felt the body held so intimately against him draw in a deep breath in preparation of speech. He tilted his head closer to listen. Odd, was that the scent of lily of the valley? He glanced at the ground around them but couldn’t spot the spiky leaves and telltale stalks of tiny white bells. He shook his head. He must be mistaken.
His companion began to talk, haltingly at first, then stronger as the words tumbled out pell mell across the tongue like whirling dice.
“I hail from Caperun Keep in Gloucestershire, the holdings of Hugh Caperun, my father.”
The labored voice rasped in Warin’s ears and he had to strain to hear.
“We were four,” the boy continued after pausing to take a breath and clear his throat. “My brother, David and two others, Simon and Baldric, loyal knights from our household. We traveled to Vezelay to meet our father, for it was his decision that our duty as a family was to fight in the Holy Land. We traveled quickly and simply. Lacking coins, we camped mostly, but it was better that way – we lost little time in trying to secure accommodation, and too, food and forage were easy to find. We crossed the Channel easily.” He paused to wipe his nose with a tattered sleeve.
“Once on French soil we continued on with good pace and all was well until we reached our destination.” Here Alan stopped, drawing in several deep breaths in an obvious attempt to steady himself before continuing with his tale.
“Aye?” prompted Warin, enticed with the story that filled his ears. “What passed then?”
“We had sent a message to our father telling him we were on our way but he never received it. He left without us.” His head bowed with grief for a moment before he continued. “On hearing that, David decided we would all return home to England. It wasn’t a popular decision with Simon and Baldric, for both had relished the opportunity to find fortune while on Crusade. However, as leader, David’s word was final. That caused some dissent and the camaraderie we had shared began to unravel. Simon stood by his loyalty and it was not him but rather Baldric who became the traitor.” The girlish voice became bitter. “We awoke one morning to find Baldric gone, along with our horses and a few coins.”
“Aye”, Warin murmured sympathetically, “thievery is the curse of the innocent traveler.”
Citadel chose that moment to grab a mouthful of grass. They stopped, letting the horse eat several more mouthfuls before Warin jerked back on the reins and urged the animal on.
The rain yet fell, although lightening somewhat and Warin hoped fervently the sun would make a welcome appearance by the morrow. He glanced longingly at the only patch of sky he could see through the trees overhead as if he could will the sun to appear. His companion appeared not to notice and after a while, picked up the threads of the story.
“We had no choice but to continue on foot. Soon Simon, overwhelmed with our plight, disappeared. We suspected he joined a monastery out of despair.” Now the voice became sad and the gaunt shoulders sagged as if carrying a weighty burden.
“But David and I kept on, for what else could we do? We had nothing, only the clothing on our backs. We begged for food where we could and slept by the side of the road. We didn’t even begin to consider how we would find the coinage to buy our way back across the Channel but placed our faith in the Almighty that He would help us. And seemingly, He did, for David encountered a small group of tradesmen willing to take us along as far as Calais and for a time we traveled in safety. But pestilence struck and took first one, then another, then finally David. So great was their dread that I was not even able to see David buried in consecrated ground. Instead, he lies unknown in an unknown land.” Alan paused in his narrative for a moment to again wipe his nose, this time in the elbow of his sleeve. “Fearing I was also diseased, no sooner had we buried him than I was left behind and the others fled. That is where you found me.”
By the Virgin Mary, Warin thought sourly, what wretchedness befell him now to have offered aid to someone carrying pestilence. However, he didn’t voice his apprehension, saying only, “You’re safe with me.” He frantically wracked his brains, trying to recall if the lad had evidenced any sign of disease.
“More than once I’ve rued the day I ever thought to join David.”
The embittered voice interrupted Warin’s attempts at recollection and piqued his interest. “Oh, how is that?”
“I’m not entirely truthful on how the story unfolded. It wasn’t the intent of my father that I was to accompany them, but rather I was to remain back in the keep. Instead I followed them and begged them to let me go with them.” He rubbed his eyes before continuing, the voice now almost rasped to nothing. “It wasn’t a pleasant journey for me. One in our group was not in agreement with me being there and did his utmost to discredit me at every turn.”
Warin could feel the deep inhalation of his companion as if he prepared himself to say more. However, no words came forth.
He considered what he had just been told. He could picture it well, a small group, full of hopes soon dashed, and one that must take the blame. He didn’t envy the situation, for it wouldn’t have been easy travelling for the lad.
In truth, Alan’s tale wasn’t that unusual. Treachery and danger occupied the long road to the Holy Land. Many groups had faltered on the way, or even if they reached their destination, would fall to the dangers of active warfare or the parching climate.
Only one thing disturbed him greatly and it had nothing to do with the lad’s story – it was the stirring in his loins.
God’s blood, he had tarried too long without feminine companionship if the contact with the bedraggled young lad riding before him affected him. He knew of men with few scruples who were taken with young boys but he wasn’t one of those. The sensation troubled him.
“I only wish to return home, to England.” The thin rasping voice disturbed his thoughts, faintly pleading, pathetic in tone.
“England isn’t my destination. But you may travel with me for a day or two.”
“I thank you for your aid.” The voice grew a little stronger; the lad sat a little straighter.
“Alan, home is where you lay your head,” Warin replied briskly. “With your sword and shield by your side.” Whatever words he could offer wouldn’t lessen the pain of his young passenger but the lad must learn self-reliance to mature and reach manhood.
Alan shook his head. “Home is where you lay your heart.”
Warin snorted. Lay your heart? What boy would say such a thing?
He surveyed the sodden cap in front of him, just below his chin. Never mind the lad’s odd comment. What in god’s blood should he do with him?
They prepared to spend the night beneath the shelter of a fir, fringed and wispy with the new growth of spring. The tree reminded Alyna of the evergreens surrounding Caperun Keep which brought forth a surge of homesickness. She pushed it away and concentrated on the present. Fortune had swung her way. She had a companion, one who had rescued her and homesickness served no purpose.
Fallen needles padded the ground and they had to contort themselves to avoid the drips falling through the thick boughs. Warin, mouth twisted in exasperation, finally managed to maneuver himself such that he leaned against the trunk, body one way and legs sprawled in another.
Once settled, he gestured to Alyna, pointing beside him to the ground on his right. “It should be sheltered there.”
“Thank you.” Alyna lowered herself, carefully avoiding any contact with him. She sat there stiffly, peeping at him out of the corner of her eye, trying to gauge how close he was. When he moved to remove his helmet, she could no longer contain her curiosity and swiveled her head to stare unabashedly.
“Is there aught amiss?” He scowled at her, clearly uncomfortable with her frank perusal.
“Nay.” She shook her head. “Nay.”
And pointedly turned her head away. Yet, she kept her eyes skewed so she could peer at him sideways from beneath her eyelashes as he pulled off the helmet to place it beside him. He raked his fingers through his long coal black hair, massaging his scalp with obvious great relief.
His nearness caused the heat to rise in her cheeks and she knew she blushed. She tore her gaze away, pretending great interest in the prickly cones littering the ground around her. Then she lifted her gaze beyond the shelter of the overhanging branches to watch Citadel, hobbled and grazing a short distance away. Her feeble attempts at diverting her attention away from the man at her side came to naught.
She swung her eyes around again. Her knight protector ignored her as he rummaged through a sack he’d procured from the saddle bags.
He was dark of skin, whether naturally or because of the sun, or even because of the shadows under the tree, she couldn’t tell. The beginnings of a charcoal beard sprinkled the resolute jaw. Beneath the high planes of his cheekbones, his hollowed cheeks gave him the look of one who hadn’t eaten a decent meal in quite some time.
He must have felt her gaze for he turned to her. His icy blue eyes regarded her mildly and the streaks of navy blue and gold radiating from his pupils bemused her by their resemblance to the sun’s rays on a misty morning.
Her gaze wandered over his broad forehead and she spotted a thin, white scar that started in the hairline just over his left temple and curved its way around to end just in front of his left ear. It had been stitched with much precision so as not to leave too much puckering or buildup of tissue. Someone at one time had cared very well for the man.
Seeing her glance, he shrugged and said, “An errant blow,” giving no other explanation, nothing, leaving her to wonder whether it had happened on the battle field or on the jousting field.
Aye, he was sore handsome, she concluded, but in an exotic way that made him seem foreign and mysterious.
Warin handed her a piece of dried eel and ripped off a chunk of flat bread from the loaf in his sack. She ate with relish, alternating bites of the salty, greasy fish with the bread. By the time she finished, Warin had pulled out a wrinkled apple, which he cut in two before handing her half.
Nervousness made her clumsy and she dropped her piece as he passed it to her. They both leaned over at the same time to pick it up and their hands collided in mid-air.
She jerked back at the contact, an exaggerated movement that embarrassed her, for Warin gave her a quizzical glance, cocking an eyebrow at her obvious discomfort. Thankfully, he said nothing and this time, Alyna leaned forward to pick up the piece, brushing off the needles clinging to it.
She could still feel the imprint of his fingers against hers, an odd feeling, as if stung by a nettle. Trying to ease the sensation, she brushed her hand furtively, or so she thought, against her thigh.
“Did I hurt you?” he asked. He peered at her intently as if trying to see the veracity of her answer.
“N-no,” she stammered in return, angry with herself for appearing such a fool. Hoping to change the subject, she gestured at the apple in her hand. “Where did you find this? It’s not the season.”
Smiling at her transparent ploy, he merely said, “A gift from a grateful one.”
“Oh.” She nodded before popping the apple in her mouth.
He watched her. His scrutiny disconcerted her and her throat tightened around the dry, mealy fruit. Finally, with great effort, she swallowed.
“The apple is agreeable to you?” Warin asked with much amusement in his voice.
“Aye, thank you.” She lowered her gaze to the ground, not wishing to be the object of his regard much longer.
She heard him shuffling about his sack and then a disembodied hand holding a corked flask appeared in her field of vision.
“Ale,” he said simply. “Drink.”
She nodded her thanks and took the flask from him, fumbling with the cork before it finally came free to spill some of the foamy contents on the ground at her feet. The flush that had finally subsided arose again and her face grew hot. What ailed her? She acted like a simpleton.
Alyna took several long draughts of the bitter, amber brown liquid before cradling the flask in her hands to savor the smooth feel of the glass. She took one last quick swig before handing it back to Warin.
He took it from her and as he leaned his head back to drink, she seized the opportunity to steal another glance of him. His Adam’s apple bobbled as the liquid cascaded down his throat, the most intriguing sight she had ever seen. Her gaze must have been too obvious, for he lowered the flask to turn around and scowl at her yet again.
“I find your stare disconcerting, Alan. If you please, could you place your regard elsewhere?”
Caught staring, Alyna stammered, “Uh, ummm, of course, my lord, er, that is….” Her words trailed away and she bowed her head in embarrassment, shifting her eyes to the ground beside her. What ailed her, she wondered again, to become such a simpering idiot, a besotted fool. Many handsome men had passed through Caperun Keep over the years but why did this one affect her so?
Maybe because he’d rescued her, she decided, and treated her with kindness. More kindness than she’d been shown in weeks.
She blinked back tears to focus on the rusty colored fir needles littering the ground around her. Using her index finger, she began to trace a nonsensical pattern, scraping the needles aside to expose the dank, dark soil beneath.
Warin watched the lad play in the soil beneath the tree, noting the delicate, slender fingers as they disappeared beneath the grubby sleeve that hung down to the knuckles. The downy cheeks were yet reddened, but his flush was beginning to dissipate, revealing soft ivory skin. If he didn’t know otherwise, he could almost be persuaded that his young companion was female.
Mentally, he shook his head. Something wasn’t quite right about the lad. He simply didn’t project the strength and confidence needed to succeed on the long road to manhood.
Where could he take the boy? Obviously, Alan wished to return home to England but Warin didn’t have the wherewithal to take him. He meant to sell Citadel in order to secure a position in the monastery at Mont St. Michel. Although a destrier of Citadel’s caliber had value, there wouldn’t be enough to enable Warin to travel to England and back to France. True, he could enter a monastery in England but he had no desire to return there. England’s cool, rainy skies held no appeal for him.
Or mayhap the monastery would have a place for Alan, to help out with the chores.
He would sleep on it. A night of rest should clear his mind and he could decide in the morning what to do.
Satisfied, he hunkered down, leaning back into the solid bulk of the tree behind him, wiggling his shoulders about until he had them wedged comfortably. The only problem being, sleep eluded him. Every time he closed his eyes, all he could see were a pair of brilliant blue green eyes gazing mournfully up at him.
With a groan, he sat up and watched the ghostly form of Citadel move slowly through the gloom.
* * *
Alyna awoke the next morning to find her back tightly pressed against Warin’s leg. The warmth of him soothed her and that, coupled with the early sunlight slanting through the forest around them, gave her a decidedly different outlook on her predicament. True, hunger grasped her belly like so many clawing fingers but she couldn’t deny the feeling of wellbeing that filled her.
Behind her, Warin stirred and so she sat, slowly pushing her stiff body up with her hands, turning slightly to sit on her bottom, legs extended. She brushed away the needles sticking to her cheek.
“Good morrow.” Warin greeted her as seated, hands on hips, he stretched side to side, then forward. He appeared refreshed, as if he had just spent the night in fine accommodation and not beneath a tree by the side of the road.
She turned her head to reply and a fit of coughing overtook her. Warin began to pound her back. The fierce blows added to her discomfort yet the gesture showed consideration and she allowed him to continue until finally she could draw a full breath.
“Good morrow,” she croaked. She spent the next few minutes trying to clear her throat as the cool damp air of another night spent outdoors played havoc with the lingering congestion in her lungs.
“Are you fit to travel?”
She nodded. “It’s nothing.”
“Let’s be on our way, then. I’ll fetch Citadel.”
He crawled out from beneath the low hanging branches and disappeared from her sight. She took advantage of his absence to yank off her cap, smoothing her hair awkwardly with stiff fingers before pulling it back onto her head. She scrambled out and waited for Warin, tucking her hands beneath her armpits to warm them.
A minute or two later, man and beast ambled to a stop in front of her. By the Virgin Mary, he stood tall. Tall and with a powerful build. His upper arms strained against the fabric of his sleeves and she wondered what it would feel like to rest her head against his firm chest, engulfed in his embrace. Solid, she decided, sheltered. A haven.
She raised her eyes to his to find he watched her. It caught her by surprise.
“Oh,” she squeaked, hoping he hadn’t noticed her staring at his chest. “You have Citadel.” She pointed to the reins in his hand.
Warin gestured at the sun overhead. “Our prayers have been answered.” His relaxed, calm manner put her at ease – he hadn’t noticed her stare.
“Aye,” Alyna agreed. “The warmth will be welcome indeed.”
“You’re cold?” he asked suddenly, as if it hadn’t occurred to him that his young companion could have been chilled during the night.
“Only my hands,” she replied. “The woolens in my bliaut and hose keep me as finely as they did their previous owner.” A smile curved her lips. The first time she’d smiled in days, she realized with a jolt.
Because of Warin. Even David hadn’t given her the same sense of security and strength that Warin gave her in the short time they’d been together. She could rely on the knight to see her safe for the next day or two and beyond that she wouldn’t worry. Yet.
She smiled again. “Aye, my clothing serves me equally as well as—”
“The previous owner?” Warin interrupted. “Explain yourself.” He scowled at Alan, at the impish grin. Had the lad stolen his clothing? Did he have a thief on his hands?
“Sheep,” his companion chuckled. “My mother used to sing as she carded the wool. As a young child, I sat at her side and I remember the silly rhymes and verses for she loved nothing better than to make a jest on the words.” The boy’s face softened at the memory. “The one I remember the most is about thanking sheep for sharing their clothing with us. When I recall the words exactly, I shall recite them for you.”
“Oh,” grunted Warin. What a strange lad. Most boys would be mortified beyond belief to admit their memories of being at their mother’s side, listening to nonsensical rhymes. He seemed too, too – Warin grasped for the word. Effeminate. Yes, that was it – effeminate. That didn’t bode well for the lad, in this age of chivalry and battle.
However, Alan’s future wasn’t Warin’s immediate concern. His concern at the moment was to resume their travels, for his intention before meeting Alan had been to visit his cousin Ada prior to entering the monastery.
He valued Ada’s counsel; she could tell him what to do with the boy.
Warin dropped the reins and pawed through one of the bags, pulling forth the last chunk of bread. Not enough for two, he handed it over to the youngster.
Let Alan eat, he thought, he appears in need of sustenance much more than I. Instead, Warin quenched his thirst and dampened his own hunger pangs with the ale.
The youngster grabbed the bread and pulled off a piece, popping it into his mouth. He swallowed hastily, managing to spit out a quick “Thank you” before attacking the rest.
Warin tipped his head in acknowledgement. If nothing else, the lad was courteous.
* * *
Silver fingers of mist drifted through the woods as the sun began to dry the earth, giving the forest an ethereal air. Where the sun’s rays broke through the canopy, they illuminated the crystalline glory of spider webs that had somehow survived the rain.
Safe on Citadel and in the company of her knight protector, Alyna drank in the beauty. He was kind, she thought as they plodded along in silence, giving her the last bread this morning to break her fast while he went without. He had also given her the ale to finish and it washed away the last few bread crumbs that had become stuck in her throat. Then, he had assisted her to mount, leaning down from Citadel’s great height to lend her an arm, swinging her up when he could have quite easily insisted that she walk.
She sat behind him now, rolling easily with the destrier’s even gait, holding her hands lightly to Warin’s waist, feeling the ridged texture of the mail beneath her palms and basking in the warmth emanating from his body. Today he left his head bare, the helmet presumably stuffed in one of the saddle bags. Constantly he scanned the area around them. His wariness reassured her. Warin would not be taken by surprise.
“You are in need of respite?” His voice pierced her thoughts.
His question startled her. And bemused her. Again, he showed consideration for her needs, even though he thought her to be a boy. “No, my lord,” she managed to choke out past the sudden lump in her throat.
“You need not address me so,” he replied, amusement tingeing his words. “I’m no lord, merely a humble knight.”
“Then how am I to call you?”
“Warin,” he said simply. “That’s my name. I hold no illusions over my station in life.”
She waited for him to say more and when he didn’t, dared to ask, “Then what is your station in life?” As soon as she said it, she was aghast at her boldness. Truly, she had no business to pry.
“I only seek a peaceful place in the world.” He shrugged his shoulders as if in resignation.
Alyna puzzled at what he left unsaid, for his demeanor suggested to her that the subject pained him greatly. Then it struck her – her fierce knight protector needed reassurance and comfort. At this moment, whether he realized it or not, she’d glimpsed into his soul and found him wanting. Wanting of what, she knew not, but she was determined to find out.
“You have been on Crusade,” she said. “Your station in the Kingdom of Heaven is assured.”
“Is it? I’ve performed atrocities in the name of our Lord, atrocities that are supposedly excused in the name of Christian duty. Yet I cannot escape the fact I’ve killed many men. Infidel men, to be sure, yet men nonetheless. How is that right? Did they not have wives and sons, mothers and daughters, people who loved them? Did they not have the right to complete the rhythm of their natural born days, to see the sunrise and sunset again, to watch the first tottering steps of a grandchild? How is it that they died yet I live?”
His sudden outburst startled her and she thought for a moment, trying to find words to comfort him. “You were spared for it wasn’t your time to die. You’re not to blame, you did as you were commanded. Isn’t that your knightly duty?”
“This conversation wearies me, Alan.” The sentence was abrupt, the voice cold. Obviously, they had trespassed into emotional territory Warin didn’t wish to pursue.
“I am sorry.” Alyna bowed her head and minded her tongue, although questions milled through her mind. What memories wounded him? Where was the peaceful place he sought? And what of her – how long would he protect her?
By late afternoon, they reached the edge of the forest and as they left the shelter of the woods, the sun’s rays slanted before them like honeyed arrows, piercing the ground and gilding the track they followed. It led them towards a small village situated at a crossroads beside a river. Fields of barley and oats surrounded the scattered huts and down by the river’s edge, a crude pen contained sheep and goats.
Prosperous and peaceful, much like the village at Caperun Keep had been at one time. But there, the crops had failed over several cold winters, and invaders had attacked, leaving Alyna’s father, Hugh Caperun, no choice but to join the Crusades in search of riches to regain the keep’s former glory. One day, God willing, he would return to Caperun Keep.
And God willing, so would she.
When that day arrived, her father would set things right with her Aunt Philippa. Her aunt, who had usurped Alyna’s position and driven her away, now held the keep in her father’s absence. The bitter realization was, no matter how much Alyna wished to return to England, and home, Philippa would not welcome her. Not until Alyna had Hugh’s protection.
Alyna shook her head to bring her jumbled thoughts out of the past. Yes, one day, both she and her father would return to Caperun Keep but in the meantime, she found herself in an unknown country and in the company of a stranger with the goodness of heart to rescue her.
A stranger who looked over his shoulder at her even now as they halted at the last hut, a little larger and set slightly apart from the rest. “We stop here,” he said. “My cousin Ada will shelter us.”
At Warin’s hail, a tall, strong-featured woman with gray hair hanging below her head scarf opened the door. Dressed in serviceable clothing, Ada was a no-nonsense kind of person, one who would brook no foolishness from whence it came. Alyna liked her immediately.
“Warin,” Ada cried, advancing towards them, clearly pleased to see her guest. Alyna marveled at her smile, for her mouth did not lift at the corners, just increased in width across the face.
“Ada.” Warin slid off Citadel and turned around to greet the woman, enveloping her in a bear hug, made clumsy by the mail hindering his every movement.
“It’s been too long, you scoundrel.” Ada tapped Warin on the chest. “Tell me, how are you?”
“In time, in time,” he replied. He gestured at Alyna, still sitting on Citadel. “Ada, I would like to present Alan, late of Gloucestershire.”
Of course he still called her Alan but would Ada’s sharp eyes see through the disguise? Even now, Alyna’s skin prickled with the intensity of the woman’s gaze.
She slid off the horse’s back, staggering slightly when she hit the ground. She leaned against Citadel briefly before turning around to greet Ada.
“Good day.” Alyna almost bobbed into a curtsy before remembering her charade. Instead, she inclined her head in greeting.
“Good day and well met,” said the woman.
“I found Alan by the side of the road,” Warin informed Ada. “The poor lad had been abandoned by his friends.”
“Some friends,” Ada snorted. She peered curiously at Alyna, rubbing her hand across her lips as if to stop the words from spewing forth. She looked her up and down before her welcoming smile grew to include Alyna as well.
“Alan, welcome to my home. What is mine is yours to share as well.”
“I thank you,” murmured Alyna. Unsure of herself, she remained by Citadel, twisting her fingers awkwardly.
Ada noticed her discomfort for she waved Alyna immediately towards the door leading into her home. “In, in, Alan, I have a fine stew just waiting to be eaten.”
The woman turned around to face Warin, suddenly chattering like a giddy young girl. “You and your young charge are well received, Warin, for not many travelers have passed through. The winter has been long and hard. Yet, I felt in my bones I would have company this evening for normally I wouldn’t put on a rich pot for only me. I butchered a goat just yesterday, so the meat is fresh. And the onions are the first of the season.”
She poked again at Warin’s chest. “Shall we wait for you to care for your mount before we sup and will you want a bath? Your attire bespeaks of great hardship.”
Warin shook his head. “Nay, no hardship, only that of travel. And a bath would be welcome indeed.”
He gestured at Alyna. “Come, aid with Citadel for that way we’ll eat sooner.”
“Let the young lad rest inside, he’s almost asleep on his feet,” Ada interjected. “I’ll help you in his stead.”
“You’ll coddle the lad,” Warin muttered but he didn’t argue. “Wait for us, Alan.”
Alyna nodded then turned and walked toward the door. Ada’s voice, telling Warin of the twin lambs born earlier that spring to her favorite ewe, receded in the distance behind her,.
As she entered, her mouth began to water at the delicious scents swirling throughout the room: drying herbs, the stew pot simmering on the hearth and another, full-bodied malty odor. It took her a few seconds to realize it was ale brewing and she looked about before finding the tell-tale copper cauldron in one corner. Two barrels full of fermenting brew stood beside it with several sieves of varying sizes stacked on top of one of them. To strain the mash, Alyna supposed.
In the center of the hut, a stone hearth glowed with coals that heated the stew pot as well as warmed another bucket filled with water. Warm and cozy, the sparsely furnished room contained only a trestle table, several stools, and a pallet on the dirt floor.
Ada had a frivolous side for on top of the scrubbed trestle table stood a clay pot filled with jonquils, a cheerful spot in an otherwise utilitarian space. It drew Alyna and she moved towards it, stepping gingerly in the gloom of the hut. Just then, Warin and Ada returned and the next thing Alyna knew, she sat at the table.
“Eat, Alan, starveling that you are.” Ada shoved a stew filled trencher of bread in her hands then patted Alyna’s shoulder “I have ale at the ready.” And she scurried over to the barrels, dipping in first one mug, then another, then a third. All of these were set, still dripping, on the table.