Once Upon a Knight Page 35

  Dear God, her time was up. It was now or never—the sword was leaving!

  Bolting to her feet, Chrestien pounced upon the Wolf’s back. Locking her arm about his neck with all her might, she tried furiously to unsheathe his monstrous sword. It seemed hopeless! The thing weighed more than a fat sow! Frustrated, she bit the man's shoulder instead.

  Weston felt a thud on his back, then winced at the sudden pain in his shoulder. He reached around to tug the weight from his back, but the little man’s hold was stronger than he had anticipated. He grasped the hair of the little demon’s head, but when he did, he felt a tug at his own hair, and another sharp prick on his neck.

  The elf was biting him!

  Rearing back with both hands, he tried to throw his attacker from his back, but the grip upon his neck tightened ruthlessly. With a final powerful tug of the bony legs that were entwined about his waist, he pried them apart and flung the demon elf away from him.

  The boy landed with a thud, sprawled on his back upon the ground, but flew to his feet much quicker than Weston anticipated and charged again—this time, without success. Weston caught him, lifting him into the air effortlessly, holding the boy away from him.

  Michel stepped into the tent to see Weston holding the little demon in midair. “God’s teeth! What goes here?”

  Weston glared angrily into the dark eyes glowering down on him, making certain to hold the offending form well away from his body, lest he lose the use of his manhood with one swift kick. The little imp squirmed and kicked like a scolded child.

  He watched the dauntless eyes as they glittered with malice. Then, unexpectedly they widened, filling with terror, and the squirming ceased abruptly.

  He narrowed his eyes as he studied his captive. God help him, he had made the mistake of underestimating the little bastard once, but he would not do so again.

  Chrestien ceased struggling once the Wolf’s hands came to rest beneath her bosom. If she were to fidget any more, his hands would undoubtedly come to rest directly beneath her breast. And were he to discover she was a woman? Blessed Mary! She would not think of it! She stared straight into the Wolf’s eyes, afraid to move lest she be revealed.

  He had the most exacting blue eyes—not warm... yet not cold either. His shoulder-length black hair was a disorderly mass and peppered with silver, belying his youthful countenance. He was disconcertingly handsome—darkly so, and her breath caught in her throat as his lips parted to speak. Then he suddenly dropped her like the fruit tree releases rotting yield—completely and without warning.

  She fell to the ground with a sharp thud, her mail embedding itself like little daggers into her already sensitive flesh. As she watched dumbly, he spun on his heels and abandoned the tent—none too soon, for she could not think with him glaring at her.

  Michel wisely stepped out of Weston’s path, but eyed him curiously. “What the hell was that about?”

  “The little bastard bit me!”

  Weston had intended to give the elf a sound thrashing, but once he’d looked into the dirty face he had seen only a terrified boy—not a man. The face was clean-shaven and smooth, and he had dropped the lad with such sheer disgust that such a fledgling should be made a knight. Although he himself had been knighted upon the battlefield at seventeen years of age, at least he had been able to lift his bloody sword.

  Weston raked his fingers through his hair. “When I started to leave the tent,” he explained in a somewhat calmer voice, “the little demon attacked me.”

  He reached to touch the spot where the elf’s teeth had sunk in to his flesh, and when he brought them away there was a trace of blood. He spat an oath and extended his hand to show Michel the evidence upon his fingertips. “He bit me,” he repeated incredulously. “Can you believe it?” He let out a sound that was part groan, part chuckle. “Filthy little wretch!”

  Michel was trying hard not to laugh. Weston spied the telltale gleam in his eyes. “What shall we do with him?”

  Frustrated now, Weston replied, “I should have left him to fight his own battle! But I did not, and now until I can discern what to do with him I want two men to guard him at all times.”

  “So we plan to take him along to Lontaine?”

  Weston sighed. “It seems we have no choice.”

  “We could set him free,” Michel suggested, pursing his lips.

  Michel was toying with him, but Weston would not give him the satisfaction of letting him nettle him today. “Nay. The lad has questions to answer and until I am satisfied with the answers, he goes nowhere.”

  Halting before his tent, he smoothed his hand over his chin. “Give me a moment to think... and then bring the little devil to me.”

  Michel gave an exaggerated nod, then turned to leave and Weston shoved aside the tent flap and ducked within.

  He was furious with himself for giving his back to the prisoner, stupidly leaving himself open to the lad—not once, but twice. The first time was understandable, for he’d come to aid the fledgling and figured that should gain him a little gratitude, not a prick in the chest. But the second time? It was unjustifiable. It was foolish to discount one’s enemy, no matter their size. Picking up the flagon of ale that sat upon his war chest, he gulped from it deeply before stooping to right the fallen stool. He sat on it then, drinking the ale as he waited. It wasn’t long before Michel entered, flinging the prisoner in before him. Weston studied the boy a minute before motioning for his captain to leave. His scowl deepened as he spied Michel’s parting smile. As a balm for his anger, he fixed the boy with his most intimidating glare. “Who are you?”

  “Who are you?” the boy countered, his dark eyes glistening with rancor.

  Weston advanced on him, his patience near to an end. “’Tis I who will ask the questions, boy.” He was certain now that this boy, was naught but that, for his voice was more child than man. And yet he was intrigued that one so small could have the courage men twice his size did not possess, and he repeated the question, his voice strained with borrowed patience, “Who are you?”

  Lifting her chin in defiance, Chrestien fixed the Wolf with an icy glare.

  He seized her by the arm suddenly, twisting it harshly in warning. “Tell me, or I will break it.”

  Chrestien choked on her words. She didn’t doubt for a moment that the beast would follow through with his threat. “Christopher,” she said, wincing. Her fingers clawed into his, trying to pry his free.

  The Wolf narrowed his eyes as though he didn’t believe her, but thankfully eased his hold on her arm. But as the pain receded, her courage returned, until she could feel the heat of her anger once again.

  “From whence do you hail... Christopher?”

  He spat the name in such disgust that angry tears threatened to flood from Chrestien’s eyes. Outwardly, she remained calm, but inside she was a binding of nerves.

  Sweet Mary! There was naught that was gentle about this man. His blue eyes were cold, but blazed with the fire of contempt. “I will tell you naught but my name!” she replied with as much disdain as she was receiving, and fought desperately to quell her tears. A knight would never weep, she told herself.

  He glared at her, looming taller than any man she’d ever known—and her father had been a big man. Clad in black from head to toe, he looked diabolic, with that twisted wolf’s grin that curled his lip. In truth, he was the image of his device with its fanged grin blazoned upon his tunic.

  A quick twist of her arm served to remind her of the pain he would inflict, and instinctively she tried to remove his grip from her arm, digging her nails into his knuckles as she pried.

  He merely tightened his hold on her wrist. “You fight like a maid,” he spat. And with very little effort, he tossed her to the floor in front of his war chest. Chrestien hit her head on the corner of the metal chest, and her eyes misted from the pain.

  “If you’ll not tell me,” he warned, “you will stay exactly where you are until you do. I will get what I seek, boy... or you will get n
o relief.”

  It was obvious that the wolf’s anger was barely tempered, and Chrestien decided it was best she say nothing more. She eyed him warily as he opened the huge chest hunkering beside her and extracted from it a thick gold cord. Realizing he intended to tie her up, she tried to bolt. But before she could get to her feet, his hands flew out to stop her. He used the rope to bind her hands behind her back, then removed his dagger from his boot and cut the leftover cord from her wrists. The remainder he used to bind her feet. That done, he stepped from the tent and returned only seconds later with a young squire he called Guy.

  Without sparing a glance at Chrestien’s crumpled body, Guy immediately set to work, removing the Wolf’s sword belt. Once that was undone, he removed the black tunic and padded leather gambeson, inspecting them carefully as they were entrusted into his hands.

  The Wolf’s eyes never left Chrestien while his squire undressed him. When Guy turned his attention to the hole he’d discovered in the padded leather, the Wolf finally averted his gaze. He picked up the flagon of ale once more, using it well before returning it to the chest and then ran his hand through his silver black hair, stopping momentarily to rub at his temples.

  The announcement came with a sigh. “It needs repairs, my lord.”

  As far as Chrestien was concerned, Guy spoke with an ease in his voice that defied logic. To speak so impatiently with one so sinister-looking as the Wolf? Well, she just could not fathom.

  The Wolf tilted his chin in acknowledgment. ‘Very well, then take it... but return to me straightaway. I’d have you keep an eye on Christopher this eve.”

  “Christopher?” At last Guy acknowledged the crumpled figure upon the floor, his brows raised quizzically. Then, with a nod he turned to leave, but the Wolf stopped him. “Tell Michel to see to the other prisoners.”

  “Aye, sir Weston,” the man said. Then he lifted the flap and disappeared into the darkness.

  So that was his name... Weston?

  Why would the squire call him by his given name instead of his title? Did the wolf have no den? In any case, Chrestien preferred to think of him as Wolf. He was not deserved of a Christian name.

  The Wolf—that was the only appropriate name for him—removed his linen shirt, tossing it casually upon his war chest, then tilted his head to examine his newest injury.

  She’d watched her father’s men train with the quintains—which they oft did bare-chested during the sweltering summer—and never had she seen such sinewy flesh. She was shocked by the breadth of his chest. And then her eyes fell upon the jagged wound that held his attention. Was that all she’d done to him? He deserved to die for all he’d done to her father and her men. She mumbled an oath—despite that she had no idea what half the words meant—and the Wolf peered down at her, his eyes darkening to a smoky shade of blue. His twisted smile appeared yet again, and then he returned to ignoring her. He kicked off his black boots, then turned his attention to his crossbands and Chrestien couldn’t help but watch the muscles dance in his arms as his fingers fumbled with his laces. Once they were undone, the Wolf gave his attention to the ties on his braies, and Chrestien's eyes widened as he loosened the laces.

  Blessed Mary—he was undressing, she realized belatedly. If she turned away now he might suspect. In her confusion, she could only stare, and within seconds it was too late. The braies were down.

  She swallowed the nervous lump in her throat as she watched his nude form lean to pick up the flagon of ale from the chest. He was half turned away from her, but she had a perfect profile of him, and was mesmerized by the sheer strength in his powerful form, all of him muscular—although there was one part of him that didn’t look quite so fit right now, she noted, satisfied with having found in him a flaw. He was not so perfect after all, she decided, feeling triumphant—though she could not fathom why.

  She watched him take yet another gulp from his flagon, the muscles in his uplifted arm rippling as they held the object of his attention. His back was to her and she stared, wide-eyed, at his posterior as he walked away from her toward his pallet, the muscles in his legs and backside tensing and relaxing as he strode.

  She knew she should not be watching in such a wanton manner, but he thought her to be a man so it would not matter anyway... and she was thoroughly amazed by his physique. He ran deft fingers over unruly bangs, and, with his fingertips, rubbed his scalp briskly, letting them pause there briefly before smoothing them down to the mass of tangled curls at his nape. Every movement he made seemed to speak of untamed virility.

  His squire entered the tent with a fur coverlet in hand, tossing it at the Wolf’s feet. But the Wolf did not bother to cover himself. “Ye left it in the prisoners’ tent, my lord.”

  He nodded. Chrestien recognized the blanket as the coverlet she’d been lying upon, and she watched curiously as the Wolf took it, plopped himself down on his pallet and spread it over himself, leaving an enormously muscular leg ousted from the blanket. Leaning back on one elbow, he rubbed his closed lids with his free hand, then laid his head full upon the pallet to rest while his squire attended his armor.

  “There’s a rip in my braies as well,” he informed the youth. “I’ve laid it there upon the stool.”

  “I’ll return them at once,” his squire said, and started to extinguish the only candle lit within the tent. The Wolf stopped him. “Leave it. I want you to find John. Between the two of you... you are to guard Christopher tonight. He is not to sleep. I want him too tired to give me any grief on the morrow.”

  A curse lingered on the tip of Chrestien’s tongue, but she managed to suppress it. She was weary enough as it was, and in spite of her fear, she could scarcely keep her eyes open. What did he think she could do against a monster such as he? Sighing in resignation, she rested her head on the dirty floor, thinking that she might as well rest until the lackey came back with reinforcements.

  Oh, Aubert! Her heart grew heavy at the thought of him. She wished more than anything that she were at his side. Were he to die tonight—she might never forgive herself. But his rest was bound to be far more healing than hers. Once the Wolf's lackeys returned, every minute of sleep was hard won. While the Wolf snored like a rude beast, she was poked and prodded all night. Every time her eyes closed she was met with the angry butt of an elbow or foot. She knew his lackeys were taking their lack of sleep out on her, but Jesu they had bruised her until her skin was blue.

  Closing one eye to give it rest, she struggled to keep the other open, shaking her head in an effort to wake herself—anything to deliver her poor aching body from another blow. But her efforts were all for naught. Her eyes closed, her chin dropped, and she was kicked in the thigh yet again. Sweet Mary, but if she didn’t have enough bruises as it was!

  She heard scattered voices, but no longer cared what they said—nor who they addressed. If she could but get some rest...

  Her eyes closed once more, and she was jolted awake, lifted, roughly by her arms.

  This time she could not lift her lids to see who it was—but no matter. This time the pain didn’t last long. Blackness fell over her like a warm, welcoming blanket in winter.

  Chapter Five

  The scent of wet earth mingled with human perspiration accosted Chrestien’s nostrils. She envisioned herself in a deep pit lying next to Aubert and the others who had died trying to protect her. Damp soil fell in weighty heaps to cover her battered body, burying her, suffocating her...

  Had she died during the night? But nay, she wasn’t dead! Her lips moved to speak, but no words came. There was only silence and that awful feeling of being smothered to death.

  She awoke suddenly in the back of a wagon, her hands still bound, face down in soiled rushes. Only her legs were free. Her first thought was to run, but one look about told her that feat would be impossible. Armed knights surrounded the springless cart and she knew she would not get as far as the ground before they fell upon her.

  At least Aubert was in the cart with her—still alive—and s
he felt the relief tangibly.

  She watched him slumber, her heart swelling with pride. He had stayed with her throughout everything, protecting her as would a brother. And though he could have gone to offer his services to another lord, he had not. Gilbert de Lontaine would have been proud of him, to be sure. But he lay much too still.

  The longer she watched his still form, the more she feared he would never waken.

  Placing her cheek upon his chest, she scrutinized the rise and fall of his breath, and although his flesh burned with the fever, she was soothed by the rhythm of his breathing so much that she closed her eyes and drifted again into a fitful sleep.

  ‘They must be lovers,” Weston muttered, nodding in the direction of the sleeping prisoners.

  Michel grinned. “It would explain why the tall one called the boy’s name throughout the night. I was awakened time and again by his calls for Chris.”

  Weston raised a brow. “You slept in the prisoners’ tent?”

  Michel nodded and Weston frowned.

  “Alone?”

  “Nay, not alone, though I’d not realized ye cared overmuch.” Michel winked and received another frown for his effort.

  In the distance, one wall-enclosed tower rose along the horizon, its quaint size belying its underlying strength. It was a small fortress by most standards. There was absolutely naught exceptional about the stronghold to look at it. The curtain wall itself seemed only of moderate height, and the rectangular keep bore tiny, well-placed arrow slits for windows.

  As they neared, they could see that a profusion of well-kept wattle-and-daub huts dotted the landscape. The thatch roofs were obviously new and each hut had its own small but goodly stocked garden. Chickens scratched and children played, while the villein made busy with one chore or another. They stopped what they were doing as the cavalcade neared.

  No doubt they recognized his standard, and as it was Henry’s intent, he knew they would cede to him without lifting a single sword.