The Rogue

Nicholas shook his head and tried to keep from wincing. “Nay, ’tis nothing. They whittled at me a bit,” he added, rubbing his thigh.

Harold frowned. “Arrow?”

Nicholas shook his head. “Lance.”

Harold gave a low whistle. “Then ’tis somewhat of a miracle after all that ye came back to us. Mayhap me mum was right to say prayers for ye.”

“Enid? How is she?”

“Salty and ornery and fit as a woman half her age.”

Nicholas laughed. “I’m glad to hear it. And what’s this about a new young fletcher in the village? Taking your trade yet, is he?”

To Nicholas’s amazement, his friend’s face flushed with pride. “My boy, Nick. Ah, he’s a scrappy youngster, he is. Who’d have thought ’twould be such a marvelous thing to have a son?”

“What do you call him?”

Harold hesitated a moment, then answered, “He’s named after my best friend, who I thought never to see again this side of heaven or hell.”

Nicholas swallowed and, for the second time in a week, felt tears sting the back of his eyes. For a long moment, he made no reply, then he clapped Harold on the back and said, “Well, then, take me to see the boy. He must be a scrappy lad indeed with such a name.”

“Mayhap they’ll not come into the cottage,” Jannet Fletcher said, giving Beatrice a little pat of reassurance.

The two women had heard a rider approaching and, spying through the cracks in the shutters, had seen the greeting between the two men. “I warrant they will,” Beatrice argued. “Harold will want to show off his household.”

Jannet stepped back from the window and took a quick look around the simple cottage, suddenly aware that her housekeeping was about to be under examination. She retrieved a pair of leggings that had been left by the fireplace to dry. “Well, the boys are off with Enid, so you don’t have to worry about him seeing Owen.”

Beatrice turned away from the window as well, her arms folded and her forehead creased with worry. “Your mother-in-law could come back at any moment with both boys in tow.”

Jannet straightened up from her cleaning and looked directly at her friend. “Beatrice, you can’t expect to keep Owen hidden from him forever. He’s a bright active boy and soon he’ll want to have the run of the village just like all the other children.”

Beatrice grabbed her arms, trying to keep from shaking. What incredibly bad luck that she should be visiting the Fletchers just at the moment that Nicholas Hendry chose to make an appearance. “He can’t see him, Jannet. Not yet. He’s just learned about Flora’s death, and if he sees the child, it might set him thinking.”

Jannet picked up a broom from the side of the fireplace and swept some cinders back on to the hearth. “No one knows that Owen is Nicholas Hendry’s son, am I right?”

“My father knows. But you’re the only other person we’ve told.”

“And you made me swear not to tell a living soul. I’ve kept my vow. I’ve not even told Harold.”

Beatrice crossed the room and grabbed her friend’s hands as they clung to the broom. “You must especially not tell Harold, Jannet. He’s Nicholas’s friend. You promise me?”

“I’ve promised, Beatrice. I’ll not betray your trust. But I think you might want to reconsider your decision to keep this a secret. Nicholas could do good things for Owen. Even baseborn, he could still become a squire and then a knight—”

“A knight? So he could go off to fight in faraway lands and return to us maimed or not at all? ’Tis not a life I would choose for him.”

Jannet shook her head, but her answer was interrupted by the creak of the door. Sunlight filled the room, then was blotted out as the doorframe was filled by the tall figure of Nicholas Hendry.

Harold stood just behind him, his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Jannet, ’tis Nicholas, home from the wars.” He peered over Nicholas’s shoulder, squinted into the darkness and added, “Ah, Beatrice, I’d forgotten you came to visit with—”

Beatrice stepped forward and grabbed her shawl from the table. “I was just leaving, Harold,” she said, interrupting him.

The two men moved into the room and Harold looked around, puzzled. “Where are the boys?”

“With Enid out in the meadow,” Jannet said quickly. She walked around Beatrice and gave a little curtsy in front of Nicholas, whose eyes were on Beatrice. “How d’ye do, Sir Nicholas? I’ve heard much of you from my good husband.”

Nicholas turned his head toward her and made a little bow in reply. “I’ve not yet had the opportunity to hear the same about you, mistress, but I already know you to be a canny young woman for choosing a husband like Harold.”

“For shame, Nick,” Harold protested. “’Twas I who chose her, not the other way round.”

Nicholas grinned. “’Tis always the woman does the choosing, Harold. Did you not learn any of the lessons I taught you?”

Beatrice paid little attention to the banter. She was determined to escape from the cottage and out toward the meadow to intercept Enid before the old woman could return with the two boys. “Good day to you Harold, Master Hendry,” she said, nodding to each man in turn. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll take my leave.”

It was his fourth encounter with Beatrice Thibault, Nicholas mused, as he stepped to one side to allow her to pass, and the ice in her voice had not thawed a bit. He supposed he should be grateful that at least she had not spat at him in front of his friend.

She brushed against him and went quickly out the door. On impulse, he said to Harold, “I’ll be back directly,” and followed her outside. “Hold a moment, Mistress Thibault,” he called to her as she walked quickly toward the road.

She turned back to him, her face set with annoyance. He took a few loping steps to catch up to her. “What is it?” she snapped.

He took a deep breath. “Is there nothing I can say to make you stop hating me?” he asked.

She blinked, obviously taken aback by the question. “I…I don’t know.”

Nicholas took her confusion as encouragement. “We may meet again, you know, here in the village or at church or at your sister’s grave. By my reckoning, ’tis pointless to carry on as if there were some kind of feud between us. Flora would be the last person to want that, you know. She was too sweet a soul to tolerate enmity of any kind.”

Beatrice stiffened. “I don’t need you to tell me what kind of person my sister was, Master Hendry,” she said. But her voice was less harsh than it had been moments ago.

“I’d never presume to do so,” he said softly. “They say the bond between sisters is a very special one.”

His gentleness seemed to have some effect. Her eyes misted as she answered, “Aye. Though raised apart we were no less close.”

For the first time her expression held more sadness than anger. It made her look softer. Nicholas felt a sudden urge to put his arms around her in comfort. Instead he said, “She often spoke of you, mistress, in the short time we had together.”

Beatrice blinked back the threatening tears and looked as if she was about to make some reply when suddenly there were childish shouts in the distance. Her face blanched. “I must leave,” she said. Before Nicholas could protest, she’d whirled around and began running down the road.

He watched her for a few moments, sorry that the sudden swell of emotion had made her flee just when it looked as if they might be able to heal some of the hard feeling between them. He’d made a start, he thought, uncertain as to why the idea gave him such satisfaction.

Belatedly remembering his manners and the purpose of his visit, he turned back to the Fletchers’ cottage. Harold and Jannet were waiting for him, looking concerned.

“It appears that ye’ve already made the acquaintance of Beatrice,” Harold said when Nicholas ducked his head under the lintel.

“She’s less than fond of me, I fear. If you remember, Harold, I kept company with her sister, Flora, yjust before I left for the Crusades,” he explained. “I could scarce believe it when they told me of her death.”

“It hit Beatrice hard,” Jannet said. Then her voice lightened as she added, “Well, now, here comes my baby boy.”

She moved past Nicholas and held out her arms as a little bundle of arms and legs burst through the door and jumped into them.

Harold laughed and said to Nicholas, “There he is, the little hedgehog.”