If Not For The Knight - Debbie Boek (reading eggs books .txt) 📗

Finally, all knelt save for a dozen men, most of them soldiers. Calder closely studied the faces of those still standing. He saw stubbornness and defiance and knew he would do well to remember these men.

“Draco, have all of the cottages been searched?”

“Graeham is approaching, Milord. He will tell us.” His voice, low and gravelly, came from deep down in his barrel chest, the result of too many battle cries and overseeing the training of too many young, green recruits.

Calder waved Graeham over, then paused to look up toward the sky. Clouds were blowing closer, blotting out the sun and darkening the day. He was pleased to see it.

“The cottages that survived the flames have all been cleaned out, Milord," Graeham called as he approached. "We found a few poorly made swords and knives and added them to the pile of weapons we took off these curs.” He added the last as he nodded toward the circle of captives.

“You didn't harm the women, did you?” Calder asked curtly.

Graeham looked quickly up into Calder's face. “We all understood your orders, M'lord, and none of the women were touched. A few jumped on the men and screamed at us when we entered their homes, but we did as you instructed, one held them back while the other searched.”

Calder nodded, realizing that he had insulted Graeham by asking such a question. “Thank you for handling it so well. We must try to be as gentle with these people as possible. They do not want us here to begin with, and I do not want to antagonize them anymore than need be. It would serve only to set things even more awry for my brother.”

“As long as we are not so gentle that we allow the pigs to stab us in our sleep,” Graeham replied, his tone clearly indicating his disdain and distrust of their captives.

“Those of you on your knees,” Calder's deep voice carried easily across the courtyard "go back to your cottages now." The men scrambled up and raced back toward their homes, or what was left of them, without a backward glance.

His voice lowered as he glared at the men still standing within the circle, their arms crossed in front of them, their legs spread wide and their eyes focused solely on Calder.

“You men who have refused to kneel before me will stand as you are until you submit.” As Calder spoke, it started to drizzle; a stroke of good fortune in the knight's opinion, though the men standing in front of him might not agree. It would make them even more miserable in the coming hours and, Calder hoped, might get this over with more quickly.

“Graeham, set three men to watch over this group,” he said, nodding to the dozen or so men still standing. “If they kneel, let them return to their homes, once they have spent enough time in the mud.”

Lowering his voice so that only Graeham could hear him, Calder added, “Make sure that our men are out of the rain while they watch, but are readily visible to these simpkins.”

“Garrick,” he continued, “get some of the other men together and take these bodies farther away from the Manor. Cover them and let the relatives collect them in the morning for burial.”

Removing his armor and handing it to his squire, the knight turned toward Draco. “Would you come with me? I need to get away from the stench of death for a bit.”

Draco nodded his assent and the two men rode away from the village, the hooves of their great beasts thundering as they spurred them on to greater speeds. The drizzle changed to a light, but steady, rainfall. Calder basked in the cleanliness of it, lifting his face toward the sky and allowing the fresh, clean water to wash the stink of blood, fear and death from him.

They had ridden their horses hard that day, so they slowed to a walk as soon as they were away from the village.

“Come, Draco, we will see what lies atop this hill. It might be a good place for Aric to build his castle.”

“Would be easy enough to protect,” Draco returned, as he glanced up the slope. “Good view of the surrounding valley.”

Calder nodded his agreement as they made their way up the steep incline. Halfway to the top, he spotted something lying in the grass. Reining in his mount, he rode slowly toward the object, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

He quickly dismounted as his gaze fell on a young woman. He put one hand to the pulse on her throat and the other on her wrist. Looking at her pale, waxen face, he could not be sure if she was dead or alive, but the slow beating of her pulse confirmed that she was still among the living.

Lifting her off the sodden ground and cradling her in his arms, he breathed a sigh of relief. He had been responsible for enough deaths that day and did not want this woman's blood on his hands, as well.

She had high cheekbones and her skin felt like silk as he brushed the long, wet strands of hair away from her face. A thin stream of blood trickled from a cut on her temple and he tenderly wiped it away.

Laying her gently back down onto the ground, Calder hastily removed his chainmail hauberk. Pulling off his aketon, the heavy, padded tunic that he wore underneath it, he wrapped it gently around her cold, damp body. Her wet clothes clung to her body and he knew they had to get her warm soon, or she may still die.

Draco sat quietly astride his horse, watching in bemusement as Calder ministered to the wench. He found his leader's gentleness quite out of character, particularly since the woman was a Saxon, but kept his thoughts to himself.

“Help me put her on my horse,” Calder ordered.

Draco dismounted and lifted the waif up into the knight's arms.

“We must get her back to the Manor quickly,” Calder said, his voice tense as he kicked his horse's flanks and headed back toward the village.

Calder's horse had barely come to a stop when he jumped off its back and caught Regan as she slid toward him. Kicking open the front door of the Manor and carrying his burden upstairs to one of the bedchambers, he never noticed the furious glare directed at him by one of the Saxon men still standing in the courtyard.

Draco followed him inside after bellowing to Calder's squire, Skeet, to wipe down and feed the horses. His voice boomed throughout the building as he yelled orders to have a fire lit and food and ale provided as soon as possible for the Lord and his guest, leaving the servants quaking in their shoes as they hurried to respond.

Draco stopped at the entrance to the bedchamber, watching quietly as Calder gently removed the girl's sodden clothing. He moved from the doorway only when a servant brought in an armload of wood and hurried to place it in the fireplace, then set it ablaze. The servant carefully kept his eyes averted from the bed as he scurried back out of the room.

Two women arrived, carrying trays filled with ale and food. Calder had removed all of the girl's clothing by then and had covered her with a heavy blanket.

“I've a broth here, M'lord, for the lass. There are special herbs in it that will help her sleep restfully.”

The servant's eyes traveled furtively between Calder and the unconscious woman on the bed.

“Out, hags!” Draco roared, noting the curious looks. The women stumbled over themselves as they tried to escape from the room.

Draco strode over to the fire and stretched out his hands toward its warmth, trying to get the chill out of his bones. “What will you do with her?” he rumbled.

“See if she lives,” Calder replied softly, as he stared down at her.

He shook his head, pulling his eyes away from her angelic face and trying to forget the satiny feel of her skin as he undressed her.

“I'm starving.” He grabbed a drumstick and took a large bite out of it. “Join me, Draco. There is much here and it does not appear that she will be sharing in it.”

After they finished eating, Draco went downstairs to check on their own men, as well as the stubborn Saxons still left in the courtyard. He shook his head in disgust at the few who remained. Drenched to the skin and standing in mud up to their ankles, still they stood defiantly, their faces set with a stubbornness born of disgrace and contempt.

“You are fools,” he told them dryly, “and you will learn respect, later rather than sooner, it seems.”

The prisoners watched him closely, fear mingling with their hatred as they took his full measure. He stood a head taller than any of them and, even in the cold rain, wore only a Jack over his leggings. The leather tunic was reinforced with metal plates and, unlike some of the other knights', it had no sleeves. With his cloak thrown over one shoulder, it was difficult for the village men to look at his thick, muscular arms and not envision them effortlessly swinging the great broadsword that hung in its scabbard at his side.

Grunting at them in disgust, he walked away. After changing the guards, he returned to the Manor and took up his position at the bottom of the stairs. His large body blocked most of the bottom step; no one would be able to get past him to approach his Lord's bedchamber.

Calder stood next to the bed,