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

  Tears glistened in Cyn’s eyes as he pushed up to sitting. “Magdalen, what are you—?”

  She offered him the ruby. “You were having another nightmare.”

  The stone gleamed: blood red and bone white in the fire’s glow. He didn’t reach for it. Instead, his mouth flattened, and, unyielding, he turned his head and stared at the fire.

  “Cyn,” she whispered. “Please. I want to help you.”

  His damp gaze, stark with misery, met hers. “I know you do, but—”

  “The ruby eased your torment before,” she said. “It can help heal you.”

  “Nay, Magdalen. I do not believe it can. Not when…” His throat moved with a hard swallow, and he stared down at the hearth tiles. “Not after what I did.”

  A shiver of fear ran through her, heightened by an awful sense that she was losing him. She couldn’t. Not when they’d kissed. Not when she cared this much about him. Not when she knew, without doubt, that she…loved him.

  “Whatever did you do that haunts you so?” she asked, curling her hand around his, clenched into a white-knuckled fist on his thigh. “What could possibly be so awful that it plagues you in your dreams?”

  He shuddered. A dull pain gripped her innards, for she knew he was retreating emotionally from her, barricading himself behind an invisible wall.

  She couldn’t let him fight this battle on his own; not when this secret was destroying him. “You must tell me, Cyn.”

  “Must I?” he growled, his eyes flashing. “If I do, you will hate me.”

  The despair in his voice made her want to weep. Forcing a brave smile, she said, “I could never hate you.”

  “You will.”

  “Surely I should have the chance to decide that for myself?” Leaning in, she pressed a kiss to his cheek. He shut his eyes on a ragged moan, and she kissed his clenched jaw. A muscle in his face jumped beneath her lips.

  Tears slid from beneath his lashes. “I…care about you, Magdalen,” he whispered, pulling his hand free from hers. “I could not bear…”

  “Please tell me. I beg you.”

  He sighed, a desolate sound. His eyes opened, and he stared at her as though he’d drown in his next words. “In the East…I killed a fellow Crusader.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Cyn’s chest burned. ’Twas hard to breathe past the punishing pressure. Each passing moment an agony of waiting, he watched Magdalen’s expression shift from tender encouragement to a gut-wrenching blend of shock and horror.

  Ah, God, he’d lost her. He’d lost her.

  As he’d known he would.

  She sat very still, as though turned to stone. Then, folding her hands together in her lap, she asked quietly, “How did it happen?”

  He should spare her the details; they weren’t fit for a gently-raised maiden’s ears. Yet, even as he acknowledged his own gallantry, he realized he had naught to lose by telling her all. The damning words refused to stop flowing anyway.

  “We were in the midst of a battle.” How clearly Cyn remembered the scalding heat of Eastern lands, the endless sweat streaming down beneath his helm and into his eyes, and the metallic taint of blood. “William, Andrew—a lord from London who had joined the Crusade—and I pursued two Saracens who had become separated from the enemy ranks—”

  “William knows what happened, then?”

  “Aye. He and I chased one of the Saracens, Andrew the other. The man William and I fought was a deft fighter. He’d slain many Crusaders and was determined to kill us. William clashed swords with him while I primed my crossbow. I aimed, fired, and…and…” His hands were shaking. His whole body trembled, as if the effort of recounting his sin was sapping his last reserves of strength.

  “Go on,” Magdalen said softly.

  “Suddenly, Andrew was in my line of fire. I saw him, shouted a warning, but ’twas too late. The bolt…pierced his left eye and…came out the back of his skull.”

  “Oh Cyn—”

  “He was dead before he hit the ground. Horrified by what I’d done, I ran to Andrew’s side, but at that moment the Saracen launched a relentless attack upon William, almost knocking him to the ground. I had no choice but to reload my crossbow. I fired, and my bolt pierced the Saracen’s neck. Together, William and I killed him. When I showed William what I had done to Andrew…he told me ’twas an accident.”

  “It does indeed sound that way.” The faintest hope softened Magdalen’s features.

  “Nay, Magdalen. I should have been more careful. I should have made certain—”

  “You were in the midst of a battle!”

  “Andrew did not deserve to die. He was a good friend, with a wry sense of humor and great skill with a lute, who had bolstered our spirits on nights when we longed for home.” Cyn jammed his hand into his hair, pulling the strands tight. “William told me not to speak of what had happened. He said that as my best friend, he would keep my secret. If our fellow warriors figured out that Andrew had been slain by one of our own bolts, we would say that a Saracen had taken a crossbow from a dead Crusader and used it. I…I did not want to lie, but I was terrified.” Cyn heaved a breath. “I feared I would be imprisoned and left behind in the East. Francine was waiting here in England for me…”

  “Francine?” Magdalen asked.

  “The lady I was going to wed when I returned home.”

  Magdalen bit down on her lip and drew the blanket tighter about her. “I did not realize you had been married before.”

  “I have not. When I returned home, I discovered she was already wed: to my brother.”

  “Mercy!”

  “I also learned that my brother had thrown Borden out of the castle, claiming he was too old and useless to continue as steward. My brother had never liked Borden, and with my parents dead, my brother saw an opportunity to appoint his own man to the position. I searched for Borden for more than a sennight, and when I finally found him working for a healer, despondent and barely earning enough to feed himself, I asked if he would move to London with me and manage my residence there, while William and I worked for the King’s men. He agreed.”

  “’Twas kind of you,” Magdalen murmured.

  “Borden had served my father well, and my sire would never have treated him in such a loathsome manner.” Cyn looked back at the fire. He was shaking less intensely now, but felt drained right down to his soul. “Every day since killing Andrew, I have suffered guilt. Whether killing him was an accident or not, I should have told my superiors right away what I had done. I did not; I chose to keep my silence, and have kept it for more than nine years. For such a grave dishonor, I deserve my nightmares.”

  Silence stretched. He didn’t glance at Magdalen, couldn’t bear to see the revulsion on her face. He wouldn’t blame her if she never wished to see him again.

  “William, too, honored his promise not to speak of what happened,” Magdalen finally said.

  “He did. He has been the most loyal of friends through the years. ’Tis why these circumstances concerning the missive are so…unsettling.”

  He dragged his hand over his face. A curious sense of peace settled within him. A fleeting contentment, for any moment now, Magdalen would reject him.

  Cloth whispered. He tensed, waiting for her to rise, waiting to hear her hobble away. I am sorry, Magdalen. I wanted so much to love you, to make you mine.

  The softest touch swept his cheek.

  Flinching, he turned his head to find her barely a hand’s span away. Gently, so very gently, she brushed her thumb over his cheek again. “You did not get all of your tears.”

  He yearned to hold her, but after what he’d divulged, he no longer had any right. “Magdalen,” he said hoarsely, but before her name had left his lips, she eased forward and kissed him. Her mouth molded to his, offering comfort and forgiveness.

  He didn’t deserve either. He mustn’t kiss her back.

  Ah, God, he should push her away, never touch her again—

  She was trembling, and just as he m
eant to break the kiss, to draw away, he tasted the hot saltiness of her tears.

  “Kiss me,” she pleaded against his mouth.

  “I should not—”

  “You honored me by telling me your secret,” she said softly. “Now, trust that I will not abandon you.”

  He stilled, for he couldn’t have heard her correctly. His pulse lurching, he gazed into her tear-filled eyes, searching for the hatred he knew must be there…but wasn’t.

  Her fingers swept his face again, and a shiver raked through him. How fiercely he craved her touch, longed for the sweetness of her lips, and with a ragged groan, he reached up to bury his fingers into her hair and draw her in for a kiss. A little cry broke from her, and then her mouth was moving on his, suckling, seeking, an urgency to her kisses that hadn’t been there before.

  He kissed her again and again, sliding his tongue into her mouth, cherishing her passionate responses and her awed sighs. With each kiss, he told her he loved her, that he was so very grateful that she was still willing to accept him, despite what she now knew. As his anguish dimmed, a gnawing heat grew, pooling in his groin and making him tremble anew, this time with desire.

  Breathing hard, he drew back. In the golden fire glow, her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkling and bright. Tonight, though, was not the time to pursue their passions further.

  He pushed wayward hair away from her face. “Mayhap you should return to your cot. In the morning—”

  Smiling, she kissed him again, thoroughly enough to make him groan, before she shrugged off her blanket. “Tonight, I want to stay with you.”

  He forced his hungry gaze from her gaping shirt. “Magdalen, you are a lady. ’Tis not proper—”

  “No one will know. Even if Borden saw us, he would not tell anyone.”

  She had already shifted so that her back faced him. Drawing his right arm over her waist, she coaxed him to lie down behind her, so she could use his left arm as a pillow. For the briefest moment he resisted, but God above, lying close to her was what he wanted, too.

  Magdalen reached back to spread her blanket over their legs. After settling with a sigh, she found his right hand under the blanket, slipped the ruby into it, and then closed her fingers around his, trapping the stone between them both.

  Savoring the silk of her hair beneath his cheek, Cyn shut his eyes. He might only be able to lie beside her for this one night, but he’d cherish it forever.

  Chapter Twelve

  “You are not coming with me.”

  Wrapped in her blanket, Magdalen matched Cyn’s glower. God’s bones, but he was the most stubborn, infuriating man she had ever met.

  ’Twas the morning of the twenty-first, and if she hadn’t woken to find him gathering his weapons, preparing to leave, he would have ridden off to The Merry Hen without her.

  “You are not leaving me behind, Cyn.”

  Shaking his head, he secured a knife to his leather belt. “’Tis too dangerous. I have arranged for some men that I can call upon as sheriff to be there, but I cannot protect you every moment—”

  “I can protect myself.”

  His narrowed gaze skimmed over her. Beneath the blanket, she was still wearing one of his shirts, because despite Borden’s best efforts to clean her chemise and gown, she’d finally had to admit that the bloodstains and dirt were not going to wash out. There was no point trying to repair the tears in such badly damaged garments; she’d have to buy new ones.

  Gesturing to her bandaged leg, which had greatly improved but still hurt now and again, Cyn said, “Your wound puts you at a disadvantage. I would never forgive myself if you were hurt again.”

  “Why not give me one of your knives?”

  His dark brows rose. “Do you know how to use one?”

  Oh, the nerve! She tapped her foot, barely holding at bay her rising temper. “It cannot be that difficult.”

  He sighed. “Regardless of your skill with a knife, there are more obvious concerns—”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as,” he said firmly, “the fact that you do not look like a woman who belongs in a tavern.” His mouth eased into a lazy, lop-sided grin as he glanced down at her bare legs. “You certainly cannot go dressed like that.”

  She raised her chin. “How should I be dressed, then? I would love to know, since you seem to be an authority on what women wear while frequenting taverns.”

  Borden, kneeling by the hearth with Perceval at his side, chuckled and grinned at Magdalen before continuing to load fresh logs onto the fire.

  A flush colored Cyn’s cheekbones. “’Tis not…what I meant.”

  “Whether I am wearing the right garments or not, whether you grant me permission or not, I am going to The Merry Hen. You cannot stop me.”

  “Magdalen.” Now he spoke as if she were a silly little girl who was tugging on the very last thread of his patience.

  “I am not being foolish. If the black-haired man I witnessed in the town with William is at the tavern, I will recognize him. I may recognize others, too. That, surely, would be useful to you and your men?”

  “The lords might recognize you, jeopardizing all.”

  Regrettably, ’twas true. Edwina and William had entertained many local noblemen at feasts held at Glemstow. “I will wear a disguise. No one will recognize me if I am in peasant clothes, and if I wear a hooded cloak that hides my face.”

  Cyn scowled and cursed under his breath.

  He could fume all he wanted; she was not going to yield, not in this instance. “Do you not want to capture the men involved in the arranged murder, to find out what other treachery they are plotting? Are you willing to risk them escaping tonight?”

  Cyn’s hand tightened on the hilt on his dagger. “You know damned well I want to capture them.”

  “Then take me along.”

  “Very well.” His attention shifted to Borden, brushing bits of bark off his hands as he stood. “Go to the town. Fetch Dyane. I want her here as swiftly as possible.”

  ***

  With brisk tugs, Dyane straightened the moss-green linen gown she’d pulled over Magdalen’s head. Earlier, the woman—who had brazenly flirted with Cyn from the moment she’d arrived—had shooed Cyn and Borden out of the room, stripped off Magdalen’s shirt, and then had tightly bound strips of linen around her breasts, to push them up and create more cleavage.

  Magdalen dared to glance down at the gown’s low-cut bodice. Holy Mother of God. She’d never imagined that her bosom could be made to look so…provocative.

  “What’s wrong?” Dyane asked with a frown. “Are the bindings too tight, milady?”

  Magdalen shook her head, all too aware that Cyn was likely listening to the conversation. She wasn’t going to give him one reason to leave her behind. “They are fine.”

  Dyane wrinkled her nose, muttered to herself, and then ordered Magdalen to sit and have her hair braided. Then Dyane picked up a cloak from the side table. She draped the garment over Magdalen’s shoulders, stepped back, and looked her over from head to toe. Nodding, she shouted, “Milord!”

  He strode through the doorway. Magdalen caught her breath as his gaze fell upon her. His eyes widened, his strides slowed, and he whistled softly.

  “What?” A heady thrill, chased by mortification, wove through her. How she longed to snatch at the cloak and hide her bosom, but if she showed any aversion to her disguise, he might refuse to take her with him.

  His gaze shifted to Dyane and then back to her. “You look…perfect, Magdalen.”

  “Of course she does.” Grinning, Dyane winked at him. Her ample hips swaying in invitation, she crossed to his side. “I borrowed the gown and cloak from a maid who works in me brother’s tavern. I do know what I’m about.”

  Cyn smiled back. “Of course you do.”

  She laughed, the sound deep and throaty, as she brushed against him, practically thrusting her bosom in his face. “Ye did say ye’d reward me well fer me services, milord.”

  Magdalen quickly g
lanced away. Jealousy crackled in her veins, but she vowed to ignore the foolish emotion. While Cyn had confided his dark secret to her, kissed her, and slept beside her, he hadn’t made her any promises for the coming days. He was free to accept Dyane’s seduction if he chose.

  Magdalen retrieved her leather bag and checked through it to ensure she had all that she needed for the journey ahead.

  Footfalls warned her that Cyn approached. Dyane, still in the room but looking disgruntled, was now with Borden, who handed her a tied leather bag that clinked as it settled in her palm.

  Magdalen met Cyn’s gaze.

  He handed her a small, sheathed knife. “Tuck this into your gown.”

  “Are you sure I will know how to use it?” she asked, more tartly than she’d have liked.

  “I am sure.” The corner of his mouth ticked up. “I trust that is not jealousy I hear in your voice?”

  Magdalen scowled. She thought of lying, but she and Cyn had developed a special trust, and she’d rather not ruin that confidence. “Dyane was speaking very coyly with you—”

  “—as she always does. However, she well knows that she and I will never be lovers.”

  “Does she?”

  Chuckling, Cyn shook his head. “Later, Fair Maiden, we will discuss this matter at greater length. Right now, you are to hide this knife within easy reach. We must be on our way as soon as possible.”

  ***

  A lively melody of lute and pipes drifted on the breeze wafting down the narrow dirt street of two-story buildings, leading Cyn and Magdalen to The Merry Hen situated on the outskirts of the town.

  Magdalen tightened her hands on the reins of the dappled gray Borden had loaned her. Her belly fluttered with disquiet, for she had an awful feeling the evening wouldn’t unfold as expected; yet, she wasn’t going to turn back now. As she’d promised Cyn, she’d do all she could to stop the attempted murder and ensure the traitors were captured.