Read Online A Knight for Love by A.M. Westerling - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: A.M. Westerling
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protested, dismayed and knowing she would be further beholden to him.
“ Not right? I think it’s past time to worry about what’s right or not right.” Laughter tinged his voice.
“Maybe it’s the thought of being in the company of gentle people that has reminded me of where and who I am.” She crossed her arms.
“ Don’t worry. No one knows us. I’ll introduce you as my sister.”
S atisfied with his solution, he went back to the stew, spearing a wing from the cooking pot. He offered it to her and, when she declined, attacked it with relish.
She watched him eat, marveled at the change in him. The callous face of the past several days had come to life, anticipation light ening his eyes and softening the stern mouth. Evidently the prospect of tomorrow’s joust had lifted his spirits, lifted the pensiveness that appeared to be his constant companion, lifted, even, the mantle of responsibility he carried for her.
Another thought struck her. “Warin?”
“Aye?” He regarded her through eyes half closed.
“How can you joust with no saddle and lance?”
He wiped his mouth on his sleeve before replying. “I intend to borrow them.”
“Borrow them?” she asked dubiously. A precarious solution at best.
As if he could read her thoughts, he held up his hand to silence her. “Alyna,” he responded, “don’t worry. I’ll share a portion of my winnings with the man who lends them to me.”
Questions churned through Alyna’s mind, st arting with “How do you know you will win?” but she kept her doubts to herself. Who was she to examine Warin’s abilities on the jousting field?
Instead, she busied herself with setting to rights their little campsite , trying to ignore the small bubble of excitement at the thought of watching Warin joust.
Trying too, to ignore the matching bubble of fear at the thought of Warin being injured.
O r worse, killed.
*****
Long after Alyna slept, Warin studied the stars piercing the blackness above him. The moon had not yet risen and campfires flickered in the dark forest, doubtless more participants in tomorrow’s festivities.
The idea of jousting tomorrow thrilled him . The tournament would be the perfect antidote to the melancholy that had beset him since leaving Ada’s hut.
In truth, it had beset him since leaving the Holy Land.
Nay, it had been much longer than that.
Melancholy had beset him the day of the death of his parents and brother seven years previous, when he had been a young man of eighteen years. Their small holding had been the target of attack and he had not been there when it happened.
The guilt consumed him yet. If only he had been home that day instead of going to the smithy to fetch his sword and shield. If only his family had come with him. If only he had come home sooner to lend aid in battle.
Instead, when he returned, he found a charred, smoldering pile of rubble and bloodied bodies strewn about. To this day, he remembered the acrid stench of desolation and discarded dreams which never failed to bring forth a surge of nausea if he dwelled too long on it.
He’d left England and never looked back. He didn’t know who lived there now, and didn’t care. That part of his life was over.
But not the guilt for failing his family when they needed him most.
His participation in the seventh Crusade was meant to be an absolution for him. Instead, he had come back with an even greater burden and the decision to change his life.
An owl hooted nearby, raising the hairs on his arms. A shiver ran down his back for it seemed as if the bird of prey shared Warin’s mood. He shook his head at the fanciful notion and funneled his thoughts t o tomorrow and the impending joust. Anything not to brood on the past.
For a few brief hours, he could concentrate on something else. It had been too long since he had felt Citadel thundering beneath him as he raced to face an opponent head on, too long since he had felt the satisfying crack of lance to
“ Not right? I think it’s past time to worry about what’s right or not right.” Laughter tinged his voice.
“Maybe it’s the thought of being in the company of gentle people that has reminded me of where and who I am.” She crossed her arms.
“ Don’t worry. No one knows us. I’ll introduce you as my sister.”
S atisfied with his solution, he went back to the stew, spearing a wing from the cooking pot. He offered it to her and, when she declined, attacked it with relish.
She watched him eat, marveled at the change in him. The callous face of the past several days had come to life, anticipation light ening his eyes and softening the stern mouth. Evidently the prospect of tomorrow’s joust had lifted his spirits, lifted the pensiveness that appeared to be his constant companion, lifted, even, the mantle of responsibility he carried for her.
Another thought struck her. “Warin?”
“Aye?” He regarded her through eyes half closed.
“How can you joust with no saddle and lance?”
He wiped his mouth on his sleeve before replying. “I intend to borrow them.”
“Borrow them?” she asked dubiously. A precarious solution at best.
As if he could read her thoughts, he held up his hand to silence her. “Alyna,” he responded, “don’t worry. I’ll share a portion of my winnings with the man who lends them to me.”
Questions churned through Alyna’s mind, st arting with “How do you know you will win?” but she kept her doubts to herself. Who was she to examine Warin’s abilities on the jousting field?
Instead, she busied herself with setting to rights their little campsite , trying to ignore the small bubble of excitement at the thought of watching Warin joust.
Trying too, to ignore the matching bubble of fear at the thought of Warin being injured.
O r worse, killed.
*****
Long after Alyna slept, Warin studied the stars piercing the blackness above him. The moon had not yet risen and campfires flickered in the dark forest, doubtless more participants in tomorrow’s festivities.
The idea of jousting tomorrow thrilled him . The tournament would be the perfect antidote to the melancholy that had beset him since leaving Ada’s hut.
In truth, it had beset him since leaving the Holy Land.
Nay, it had been much longer than that.
Melancholy had beset him the day of the death of his parents and brother seven years previous, when he had been a young man of eighteen years. Their small holding had been the target of attack and he had not been there when it happened.
The guilt consumed him yet. If only he had been home that day instead of going to the smithy to fetch his sword and shield. If only his family had come with him. If only he had come home sooner to lend aid in battle.
Instead, when he returned, he found a charred, smoldering pile of rubble and bloodied bodies strewn about. To this day, he remembered the acrid stench of desolation and discarded dreams which never failed to bring forth a surge of nausea if he dwelled too long on it.
He’d left England and never looked back. He didn’t know who lived there now, and didn’t care. That part of his life was over.
But not the guilt for failing his family when they needed him most.
His participation in the seventh Crusade was meant to be an absolution for him. Instead, he had come back with an even greater burden and the decision to change his life.
An owl hooted nearby, raising the hairs on his arms. A shiver ran down his back for it seemed as if the bird of prey shared Warin’s mood. He shook his head at the fanciful notion and funneled his thoughts t o tomorrow and the impending joust. Anything not to brood on the past.
For a few brief hours, he could concentrate on something else. It had been too long since he had felt Citadel thundering beneath him as he raced to face an opponent head on, too long since he had felt the satisfying crack of lance to
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