Redeeming The Rogue Knight

Robbie’s cradle was pushed into the far corner and he slept silently, mercifully not stirring as they entered. Lucy did not dare look directly at him, fearing she would alert the men to his existence, but they were more intent on reaching Lucy’s bed beneath the small window.

‘Lay me down and give me a drink,’ the injured man mumbled. He appeared to be drifting in and out of consciousness. Lucy wondered how much blood he had lost.

They lowered him on to the bed, pushing the blankets to one side and edging him over so that his shoulder was hanging over the furthest edge of the frame with the fletch of the arrow free from the mattress. Thomas pulled the injured man’s boots off and placed them at the side of the bed. Lucy held out the bottle of wine and he tipped it back, drinking deeply until it was half-empty. He put it on the floor and fumbled with his left hand to unclasp the buckle of his cloak. His fingers were clumsy and he let loose a string of expletives.

‘Help me get this off,’ he commanded.

Thomas began to fumble at his neck, but the man pushed his hand aside.

‘Not you, Thomas. You go tend to the horses. Dove, you can do it.’

Lucy knelt by the bed and tried to do as he asked, but when she attempted to ease the cloak from his back, it stuck fast around the shaft of the arrow. The man gave a gasp of pain as she tugged. Lucy let go, realising the arrow had gone through all the layers of clothing. Something moved in the corner of her eye. Thomas was pointing a dagger at her face. His hand shook and the expression of fear in his eyes made him almost unrecognisable.

‘Cut it free,’ Thomas said, pushing the dagger into her hand. ‘Remove all the clothing you can. When I return, we remove the arrow.’

‘Where are you going?’ she asked, alarmed at the prospect of being left alone with the man who had earlier appeared intent on violating her. The word we did not give her any comfort, either.

‘You heard what he said. I must hide our horses. We are being hunted. I’ll explain properly later.’ Thomas gazed around frantically as if expecting assailants to appear from the wooden chest at the foot of the bed or behind the open door. He lumbered out, pulling the door shut.

‘What is this place called?’

The man on the bed had spoken, his voice rough and rasping. Lucy jumped in surprise. She looked at him more closely. His cheeks had a touch of colour beneath the mass of beard and his eyes were brighter. Lying down and filling himself with wine seemed to have rallied his spirits and returned some of his vitality.

‘It has no name,’ Lucy answered.

The man gave a wheezing laugh. ‘A nameless inn. Perfect for a nameless man such as me. Does its mistress have one or are you equally anonymous, dove?’

‘Lucy Carew is my name,’ she answered reluctantly.

‘Carew! Sister of Thomas, or wife?’

‘Sister,’ Lucy answered, wondering what sort of man would kiss a woman who might be his friend’s wife.

‘Give me more wine, Lucy Carew,’ the injured man demanded, reaching for the bottle. Lucy picked it up, then paused before handing it over and took a sip herself. It did little to calm her nerves. The man drained the bottle, spilling a good measure down his face and neck. Lucy wrinkled her nose in disgust. Her mattress would reek of wine—though if it survived without blood being spilled on it that would be a wonder in itself. Gripping the dagger, she bent over the bed to do as she had been bidden. Her hands trembled and she hesitated, drawing her hand back from the cloth.

‘Have you never undressed a man before?’ the man asked with a leer.

‘Never with a knife,’ Lucy answered curtly.

He laughed.

‘I thought a pretty dove who can kiss like you did must know her way around a bed.’

His voice was mocking and Lucy flushed with anger. Voices of condemnation pressed down on her, whispering names that set her cheeks aflame with shame. The voices were right though, weren’t they? Otherwise why would her body have responded in the basest way possible to the uninvited touch of his lips?

She held his gaze, noticing his eyes were increasingly unfocused and the colour was leaving his cheeks once more. He would most likely pass out again, if not from his injury then from the wine he had drunk. She bent over to widen the hole around the arrow at the front and back. The evil-looking tip was crusted with blood, as was his clothing, and her stomach heaved.

The cloak was thick, but the dagger blade was sharp and it came away without too much work. She dropped it down between the bed and wall. Beneath the cloak the man wore a sleeveless padded jerkin, laced at the front. By some fortune the arrow had missed this, piercing his flesh where arm joined body, and the garment was intact. The jerkin was the colour of oak and the cloak was of good quality. Lucy wondered for the first time who he was. She unlaced the jerkin, aware all the time of the man’s eyes upon her.

‘You’ll have to sit up to take this off.’

‘You’ll have to help me, Lucy Carew,’ he slurred, raising an eyebrow.

He gave her the same grin that had made her stomach curl. Now alone on her bed with him she felt a stirring of anxiety. It had been a long time since a man had shared her bed and, even though he was not there for that purpose, the sight of him made her stomach twist. She weighed up the likelihood of him repeating what he had done downstairs and decided he looked incapable of much harm.

She sat on the edge of the bed and eased her hands beneath his armpits, pulling him forward until he sat upright with his face close to hers. He eased his left arm about her waist, holding tightly to support himself and tried to do the same with his right arm, but there was no strength in it. Lucy slipped her hands inside the front of the jerkin, acutely aware that her hands were running across the contours of his chest. He drew a breath as her fingers slipped across the bare flesh at his neck. He looked at her with an expression of hunger, tilting his head to one side and parting his lips as if he was preparing to kiss her once more. She hastily bent her head to better look at what she was doing, conscious of the heat rising to her face.

‘You haven’t asked my name, Lucy Carew,’ he breathed as she pushed the jerkin over his shoulder.

‘I don’t care to know it,’ she answered.

Together they contrived to remove the jerkin, easing one arm out, then twisting the fabric until it slid over the arrow. Once or twice it caught, jerking the shaft slightly. Each time it happened the man gave a guttural growl deep in his throat, the fingers of his left hand tightening on Lucy’s waist. Now he was left with only a wool tunic.

‘Cut it off,’ he whispered, closing his eyes. ‘I have others and I fear I cannot sit any longer.’

His grip on Lucy’s waist slackened and she eased him back on the bed. Lucy made a long cut from the neck past the arrow and down to the hem of the tunic. She did the same along both sleeves and hacked away at the fabric until he lay naked to the waist. Lucy concentrated her gaze on his blood-encrusted wound. She didn’t want to think what would happen when Thomas tried to remove the arrow. The idea of her own involvement made her stomach heave.

The man was sweating yet shivering violently, his chest rising with each uneven breath he drew. Removing the jerkin must have caused him agony, but beyond the growling he had made no complaint throughout. Gently Lucy pulled the blanket up to his neck, easing it over the arrow. His eyelids flickered, but did not open. He smiled and for the first time it was neither leering nor mocking and Lucy’s lips curved in response. She reached for the second bottle—the one containing the spirits he had demanded—and lifted it to his lips.

His eyes opened and he frowned, blinking to focus on her.

‘When Thomas returns...’ He sighed and fell silent. He appeared to have lapsed once more into unconsciousness, or perhaps the amount of wine he had consumed had sent him into a stupor.

Lucy stood anxiously by the bed, waiting for the footfall on the stairs. Where would Thomas have concealed two horses? The barn where she brewed her ale would be too small, but she hoped he had not tried to force the door.

The room was silent so when Robbie stirred in his cot and gave a whimper it sounded as loud as a cockcrow at dawn. She glanced at the man in the bed to see if he had heard, but he showed no signs that he was aware of anything.

She crept to the cradle and patted her son’s head, smoothing down the dark curls and pressing a cool finger against the red spot on his cheek where his latest tooth was growing through. He opened one eye, yawned and closed it again, rolling on to his front with his mouth drooping open. Lucy knelt by his side and watched as he settled back into sleep, overwhelmed by the love that consumed her. Robbie would never know the crisis that had played out while he slept.

An intense annoyance at Thomas filled Lucy’s entire being. He had left four years before with no plans beyond intending to seek his fortune as a soldier. There had been no word and no way of contacting him. Now he had returned with no explanation, bringing chaos with him. With luck he would leave again as soon as possible.

Thomas burst into the room, slamming the door back against the wall.

‘Sir Roger, I am back.’

Slowly Lucy turned and stared at the man on the bed, recalling the fine clothing she had cut from him and the imperious manner in which he had commanded her, as if he was used to giving orders. Her stomach tightened with dread as she remembered the assault she had made on him. Cold sweat crept down her spine at the thought of what his retribution might be against the commoner who had dared oppose his attentions.

She had no time to dwell further on the revelation because the door slamming and Thomas’s voice had woken Robbie, who gave a high-pitched, wordless wail. He pushed himself up, his tiny hands gripping the edge of the cradle as he attempted his recently discovered trick of climbing out and making his way to Lucy’s bed half-asleep.

‘A child?’ Sir Roger roused himself, craning his head to follow the sound.

‘My son.’

‘You have a son? Where is his father?’ Thomas looked at Lucy, his eyes wide with astonishment and outrage. ‘You said you were alone here.’

Lucy lifted her chin and glared at the men. She had done enough explaining and apologising since Robbie’s birth almost two years previously and the shame that had once weighed heavy on her shoulders had dulled into a low throb in her belly. Nobleman or not, she had no intention of justifying her son’s existence to a stranger. Come to that, Thomas could wait for his explanation, too.

‘He doesn’t have a father,’ she replied curtly. ‘I am alone.’