One Knight in the Forest: A Medieval Romance Novella Read online

  She had to fight the pain. To run. Run—

  The wolfhound dropped down from the log to land a few paces away from her.

  “Go away,” she sobbed, hobbling forward.

  “Lady Suffield.”

  She spun, to find the archer standing by the log. With an injured leg, she couldn’t possibly outrun him. He’d take her captive, and then he’d hand her over to William.

  Terror clutched at her, making her want to vomit.

  He stretched out his hand again, palm up; not an offer of help, but a silent command to yield.

  His lips parted, and he spoke again, but whatever he said blended into the shrill hum filling her mind. The noise grew louder. Louder.

  The forest before her blurred into an inky nothingness.

  ***

  Lord Cynric Woodrow knew the instant she lost consciousness. Her green eyes, filled with fear, closed as if she could bear no more. The tension suddenly left her body. Rushing forward, he caught her before she would crumple to the ground.

  His arm slid around her waist, and she slumped against him. The side of her face pressed to his shoulder, while her hood slipped all the way back from her head. Her wet hair, wavy and dark chestnut brown, tickled his jaw as he leaned his bow against the log and carefully lowered her to the ground.

  Her head listed to the left as she settled on the loam. Strands of hair stuck to her cheek, and with gentle fingers, he pushed them aside, noting as he did so her thick lashes, slim nose, and well-formed mouth. Surrounded by the silken mass of her hair, her pale, oval-shaped face was exquisite.

  Disquiet wove through him, for he’d seen a similar loveliness before. He’d visited Glemstow Keep several times through the years, and he’d seen Lady Suffield in passing, but this sense of recognition rooted deeper; it revived a treasured memory from his childhood.

  How could that be? How could this maiden resemble the beautiful lady by the lake?

  Mentally shoving aside the thought to ponder later, Cyn glanced over her cloak, for he’d heard her cry out in agony before he’d reached her. His gaze moved down to where the edges of her outer garment parted, revealing the slender length of her legs outlined by her green silk gown; the fine bliaut was ripped in several places, showing hints of her gauzy, ivory-colored chemise underneath. His gaze slid lower, to find the crimson stain spreading across the gown’s hem.

  The wolfhound whined and pawed at the ground. “Easy, Lancelot,” Cyn murmured.

  He gently lifted the edges of her gown and chemise. Blood trailed down her calf into her shoe and onto the loam. The wound looked deep and would require stitches.

  Shaking his head, Cyn swore softly, for he’d never meant for her to be hurt. She’d gotten this injury running from him, and thus, he was obliged to help her. Even if he hadn’t been a knight who’d vowed to uphold the rules of chivalry, he would have helped anyway. He had to know why she looked so much like the woman from his past.

  He was also damned curious what William wanted of this lady. William hadn’t seemed himself for many days, and this woman might know why.

  Mayhap she’d learned about William’s secret meeting with one of the King’s men days ago in this forest—a meeting Cyn’s steward had witnessed, but had been too far away to overhear. Cyn hated to think that William, his closest friend, had turned traitor. Yet, more and more noblemen—even officials in the London courts, if rumors were correct—were supporting the idea of a rebellion against King John. If William was involved in such a plot, and Lady Suffield knew, ’twould explain why he was so anxious to capture her.

  Whatever was going on, as sheriff of this county, he had a duty to find out.

  Men’s voices carried from a short distance away. No way in hellfire was he going to let them take her from him. Cyn slid one arm under her shoulders, the other under her lower back, and lifted her into his arms. Her cheek rested against the front of his cloak, while her hair tumbled down over his arm. He picked up the longbow and walked out from behind the fallen log, Lancelot loping beside him.

  One of William’s men-at-arms ran to meet him. “Sheriff Woodrow. Thank you for catching the lady.”

  “She is injured.”

  The man’s gaze sharpened on her bloodstained hem, and then he reached out to take her from Cyn’s arms. “She will be cared for at Glemstow—”

  Cyn stepped away. “I am taking her to my home.”

  The man-at-arms scowled. “Milord, Lord Langston’s orders—”

  “I do not care what Lord Langston ordered. She is coming with me.”

  Chapter Three

  With his booted foot, Cyn pried open the door of the wattle-and-daub home built in the heart of the forest. As Lancelot slipped inside out of the pouring rain, and the stout door eased outward, laughter greeted Cyn: a woman’s giggle blended with a man’s chuckle.

  Inwardly, Cyn cringed, for he recognized Dyane’s sultry laugh. He was in no mood for her bold flirtations today. However, she was a good soul, one he could depend on, and Lady Suffield needed care as quickly as possible.

  “Borden,” he shouted as he maneuvered his way through the doorway, taking care not to bump the lady’s limbs or lolling head against the embrasure. Rainwater squelched inside Cyn’s boots and dripped from his garments onto the planks. Inside at last, he set down his bow and drew a deep breath, inhaling the familiar scents of home: wood smoke, drying herbs, and cooking pottage.

  Lancelot trotted away, while a wiry, gray-haired man hurried from the kitchen. His bright blue eyes widened. “Milord. You left to arrest poachers and returned with a beautiful maiden.”

  “Her name is Lady Suffield,” Cyn said. “William’s men found me in the woods. They were searching for her.”

  “Why?”

  “I do not know.”

  The older man’s gaze slid over the unconscious lady, and his face creased into a worried frown. “I see blood on her garments.”

  “She hurt her leg. She needs stitches.”

  Concern darkened Borden’s gaze. “I will boil water right away and fetch the other necessary supplies, milord.” He spun on his heel, almost rushing headlong into the plump, black-haired woman who’d strolled up behind him. Her dark gray, lawn gown was cut exceedingly low in front and exposed a shocking amount of cleavage. Her garment was also dry, indicating she’d arrived a while ago, mayhap even before the storm broke.

  “Forgive me,” Borden said, brushing past her and disappearing into the kitchen.

  “Good day, Dyane,” Cyn said before striding into the main part of the home where a fire burned in a large stone hearth. His arms were tiring from bearing the lady’s weight, but more importantly, he wanted to tend to her wound.

  Lancelot had lain down by the hearth alongside his fellow wolfhounds, Guinevere and Galahad. The dogs raised their heads to watch Cyn but didn’t move from their warm spot.

  “I brought ye some fresh eggs, bread, butter, cheese, and milk,” Dyane said, following Cyn to the cushioned oak chair where he shooed away a sleeping cat and then gently set the lady down. “I didn’t realize such nasty weather was brewin’ today.”

  Of course she had. Dyane wasn’t witless. Like most farm folk, she knew the signs of an impending storm. Yet, Cyn merely smiled as he straightened, rolling his shoulders to ease the knots gathered there. He took the wet quiver of arrows from his shoulder and set it by the hearth. “’Tis a very bad storm. You must wait here for the worst of it pass.”

  She beamed as if he’d invited her to strip naked. “I will. Thank ye.”

  “Thank you for the food. I trust Borden paid you for it?”

  “Aye, ’e did.”

  With stiff, numb fingers, Cyn began to work the silver pin securing his cloak. “Any news?” he asked, meeting her gaze. Dyane served drinks at her brother’s tavern several days a week and heard all kinds of gossip that might be of interest to a sheriff. Cyn paid her well for the information she shared.

  Dyane wrinkled her nose. “I do not know if ’tis important, but the ta
vern ’as been busier than usual lately.”

  “Busier? How?”

  “More lords visitin.’ I’ve seen the same curly-’aired man several times over the past sennight. Always, ’e is with different men, and ’e sits at the back, where I cannot draw near without them seeing. I’ve tried ta eavesdrop while scrubbin’ tables, changin’ candles in the ’olders, and suchlike—but the men always shut up until I’ve moved on.”

  “Keep watch,” Cyn said, the pin finally coming undone. He set it on a side table and then strode to the carved box on a nearby shelf, from which he withdrew a few coins. She slowly tucked them down between her breasts. Catching him watching, she grinned, revealing the wide gap between her front teeth.

  Saints above. He would have been wise to have resisted ogling her.

  Before he could move away, she closed the distance between them, her greedy hands sliding up the front of his cloak. “Tsk, tsk. Yer garments are soaked through.” A lusty twinkle lit her eyes. “I can ’elp ye get out of those garments. I can work fast when—”

  Borden strode into the room, carrying a large bowl. Several towels were tucked under his arm. “The boiled water, milord.”

  Thank God.

  Cyn caught Dyane’s still-moving hands and eased her away. Meeting Borden halfway, Cyn took the items and set them on a side table. “Help me move the cot from my chamber. I will need clean bedding and blankets, too.”

  “Aye, milord.”

  “What can I do?” Dyane asked, as Cyn started to follow Borden.

  “Thank you for offering, but we have the situation in hand.”

  She pouted and set her hands on her generous hips. “Ye really should get out of those wet clothes. Ye’ll fall ill. ’Ow will ye do yer sheriff duties then?”

  True. Cyn’s gaze slid to the lady, still slumped in the chair. She hadn’t moved since he set her down. Her eyes were still shut, her face was ashen, and her lips were turning blue. She, too, needed to get out of her soaked garments as soon as possible.

  While Cyn considered himself more than skilled at undressing women, ’twould not be proper for him to remove this lady’s clothes, regardless of the circumstances.

  Dyane had raised four healthy children and had cared for her bedridden, elderly mother. Mayhap he should make use of the woman’s many talents.

  He smiled at her, and was rewarded by the excited gleam in her eyes. “There is indeed something you can do for me, Dyane.”

  ***

  Pain forced Magdalen out of the oblivion of sleep. Her eyelids still closed, she moaned. As the discomfort surged again, she gasped, and her eyes flew open.

  “Sorry,” a man said, followed by a sloshing noise: the sound of a cloth dropping into water. “Easy, now.”

  She blinked to clear her blurry vision. As her pain dulled to an awful throbbing, memories of what had happened earlier raced through her mind. She remembered an archer—the local sheriff—silently commanding her to surrender to him, and found him standing down by her calves. He’d shed his green cloak and brown garments, and was now dressed in a gray tunic and hose. Somehow, he looked even more austere than in the storm-ravaged woods.

  Her heart lurched, and she fought an overwhelming sense of panic as he turned to a side table and put down a large earthenware bowl. Had William caught her? How had she come to be in this place? What had happened since she’d fainted?

  The sheriff’s piercing gaze locked with hers, causing a shudder to crawl through her. As he dried his hands on a cloth, he said, “I did not mean to hurt you, milady.” His was the voice she’d heard moments ago. How strange that he spoke gently, as though he didn’t want to frighten her. “Are you still in pain?”

  “N-not as much as a moment ago.”

  “All right. I will wait then.” He set the cloth on the table and began sorting what looked like lengths of linen bandage.

  He was going to wait? Wait for what? A clinking noise, the sound of metal striking earthenware, came from another part of the building. Someone else was close by: William, or his men?

  Her pulse became a fierce hammering in her breast, for so many elements of her surroundings were unfamiliar: the strong herbal scent that seemed to be coming from the bowl on the table; the texture of the cloth against her skin; and the pattering noise of rain hitting a roof not far above her head. She was lying on her back on a bed and propped up by pillows, although the last thing she remembered was standing by the log in the forest…

  The feather pillow under her head rustled as she glanced about. This wasn’t a chamber at Glemstow Keep. This building was made of wattle-and-daub, not mortared stone, and was filled with shadows, furnishings, and animals she didn’t recognize.

  Had the sheriff brought her here on William’s orders? While the fire-lit shadows offered comfort, she might be in grave peril, especially when her injured leg would hinder any attempts at fleeing.

  “W-where am I?” she asked, drawing a sidelong glance from the sheriff.

  “You are in my home.”

  His home? “Did you bring me here f-from the forest? Or did you—?”

  “We are still in the forest. And aye, I brought you here, after you fainted.”

  Heat burned her face. How stupid of her to have swooned. She should have been stronger than that, but she’d been frightened, and then she’d seen the blood—

  “Do not worry. You are quite safe.”

  His words offered reassurance, but how could she be sure she was out of danger? “I do not recall your name,” she said, hating that she sounded anxious.

  “I am Cynric Woodrow, sheriff of these lands. You may have seen me at Glemstow, on the occasions I have visited there.”

  She swallowed, her throat painfully tight. As an officer of the crown, he’d sworn to uphold the laws of England. Would he honor them if he knew the contents of the missive, especially when that letter implicated William in a plot to commit murder?

  “You are Magdalen Suffield,” the sheriff confirmed, as though determined to have a proper introduction.

  She nodded.

  The faintest smile touched his mouth. “I should have said Lady Magdalen Suffield.”

  There was no point in denying her noble status. It might earn her more respect in the circumstances. Yet, if he knew this much about her, what else did he know?

  Panic welled, but then he returned to the bedside, moving with such elegant grace for a trained warrior. He looked down at her legs and pressed his fingers to her right calf. With the light touch of his skin upon hers, she realized the blanket draped over the rest of her body was pushed back to bare her lower legs. Embarrassment whipped through her that her legs should be revealed to his—a man and a stranger’s—view, but then, she saw the raw, red gash that was still oozing blood onto a towel he’d placed under her limb.

  Her stomach churned at the sight of the crimson stain, some of it thinned to a pinkish color on the damp towel. Memories of her mother’s difficult childbirth surfaced, but Magdalen forced them back down. She didn’t dare be distracted. Not now.

  “Is the wound…deep?”

  “Deep enough, I am afraid,” Cynric said, his straight, dark brown hair shifting back from his face as he met her stare. “I will do my best to ensure that when ’tis healed, you will have no more than a faint scar.”

  “Thank you,” she said, even as a warning buzzed at the back of her mind. Why would Cynric care about her injury? Why had he bothered to bring her here? William’s men had been in the forest; the sheriff could have easily handed her over to them and be done with her, but he’d chosen to take responsibility for her.

  There was more he wasn’t telling her. There had to be.

  “Please,” she said, keeping her voice low; William might be in the other room. “Did William order you to—?”

  “William had no say in my actions,” the sheriff said.

  “He is not here, then? Nor his men?”

  “Nay.”

  “There is someone else here, though. I heard—”


  “My steward, Borden.”

  If Cynric had a steward, he was not just a sheriff, but a lord, although most noblemen she knew lived in castles, not wattle-and-daub forest homes.

  Cynric’s fingers moved again, touching upon tender flesh. She winced, even as his hand immediately lifted away from her leg. He seemed genuinely concerned about her pain, and yet, he had to have a reason for helping her, beyond a chivalric desire to help a wounded lady.

  Mayhap he’d found the missive.

  Oh, God, nay.

  She’d been so careful. Before fleeing the keep, she’d cut open the hem of her left sleeve, wrapped the missive in extra cloth to protect it, then tucked it inside for safekeeping, and quickly sewn the opening in the hem shut—a simple task as she’d been doing needlework since she was eight years old. She’d quickly done a matching line of stitches on the right sleeve, so the stitches would appear to be part of the garment’s design.

  However, Cynric might have found the letter once she’d fainted. He could be protecting her now, because he knew what she’d discovered. Or, his help might be a deception. He might be keeping her here, winning her trust as he cared for her, so he could find out exactly what she knew about the missive and what she intended to do with it before handing her over to William.

  Frowning, Cynric glanced at her again, as if he sensed her dangerous musings. She wanted to ask about the missive, but if he didn’t know about it, she’d be making him aware of it.

  She could start by inquiring about her clothes, for the garment she was wearing now—what little she could see of it—certainly didn’t belong to her; that would help her determine whether he’d discovered the letter. Her fingers curled against the bedding, for she must be very careful, until she knew whether or not she could trust this man.

  Sighing, he glanced over his shoulder. “Borden,” he called, “what is keeping you?”