The Knight's Return

“I seek the lord of these lands, lady, and I mean you no harm.” A masculine voice preceded the trespasser from the other side of a small clearing at the base of the mountains that protected the headlands of Connacht.

Sorcha roamed the mountainside daily since she’d been confined to an outpost at the edge of her father’s lands, the hills and valleys her refuge from the world’s disdain.

She’d always felt safe here, even if she was scorned. Now she couldn’t help but recall the warnings she’d received from her father’s keep that war might come to Connacht at any time. She walked steadily backward as she watched the man emerge from the trees.

And if the resonant thrum of masculine tones had been impressive, his size was twice as daunting.

The stranger was easily the largest man she’d ever seen. Thick-chested and girded by muscles that could only be honed for sword fighting, the traveler had to be a warrior even if he rode no horse and brandished no sword. Squinting through the late-afternoon sunlight, Sorcha struggled for a better look, only to feel faint as his features came into clearer view.

“For the love of Our Blessed Lady.” Her grip on her child slipped, the boy’s chubby fists shoving her mercilessly in an effort to walk on his own. She had no choice but to put him down if she wanted to maintain her grip on her weapon, so she tucked him behind her skirts.

She straightened, not believing her eyes. Did the dead return to walk among the living? She tucked the knife closer to her body, wishing the point did not scrape open her finger as she held it in place. Still, if the stranger stalked any closer, she would be glad to have the blade within easy reach.

“My lady?” The man paused, as if attempting to prove his claim he meant no harm.

Did he realize how much harm he caused with no more than his starkly featured countenance?

Dark hair streamed down his back, glistening in the sunlight as if he had just rinsed it clean in some fast-running spring brook. His gaze took on a curious gleam, although she could envision those dark, gold-flecked eyes turned to her in anger.

Or in passion…

Heaven help her, but did she have to be reminded of her sins at every turn?

“What business do you have with the lord of this place, sir?” Her words were raw in her throat, stripped of any soft courtesy.

A tremble tripped through her skin, followed by a tangle of emotions in her belly that seemed too convoluted to sort through now.

“Your expression makes me wonder if we have met, my lady.” The stranger did not incline his head like a courtier. He only continued to stare at her with an attention all the more rapt since she began her careful perusal.

And yet, this was not her former lover. She could see the differences in this man’s face now that he’d moved closer and the sunlight no longer played tricks with her vision.

Still…the trespasser’s resemblance to the father of her son was remarkable. Suspect.

“We are unknown to each other, sir. Pray excuse my surprise at seeing you here when I am accustomed to privacy upon this side of the mountain.” Wanting to escape him and flee the quiet glade where no one would hear her if she cried out, Sorcha bent to retrieve the blanket she’d brought along with the basket she’d used to gather flowers. “Conn, we must go, my love.”

While smiling reassuringly at her son, she never took her eyes off the man, watching his hands for any sign of movement toward his weapon. Cursing her father for consigning her to this godforsaken borderland, Sorcha would never feel safe in these woods again—not when Conn’s life depended on her. Keeping her boy secure was the only benefit of allowing her father to dispatch her to the convent. The king would protect his grandson. She would merely have to relinquish all contact with her child and trade the rest of her days to give Conn a future.

For now, she tried to keep her movements unhurried despite the maelstrom of memories, emotions and questions that attacked her from all sides. Not even the scent of spring flowers all around her could cover up the stench of her fear.

“Pray do not let me disturb you.” The man held up a hand in a show of surrender, keeping his distance from her and Conn. “I have journeyed far to see your sire and I would not let anything delay me from the task.”

“You would make better time on a horse, warrior.” Could he be a spy for the invading armies, surveying the lands before others arrived? She could not understand his alliance or his possible purpose here.

The man lacked the accoutrements she associated with a knight. He wore no sword, although a dagger gleamed from its sheathe at his waist. His garb bore no hint of family or heraldry, which she supposed was not strange for a mercenary, and yet his clothes had almost too humble an air for a man of such imposing stature and breadth. Still, given his resemblance to her onetime lover, she half expected to see the du Bois crest upon his person—the white stag rampant upon a blue field.

“I was set upon by thieves some leagues hence,” he explained, locking his hands behind his back as if to reinforce his message that he meant no harm. Unfortunately, Sorcha was well acquainted with men who were not at all what they seemed. “Their numbers were too many to defeat for a lone knight.”

“Thieves?”

He shrugged as if the loss of his horse and weaponry were no great offense, when she knew some knights owned nothing in the world save their armor and their mount. Had he made up the story about the thieves to explain away his presence here? Had his family sent him to find her? Curiosity grew, but she tempered it with wariness.

“I thought to offer your father my services in cleaning out the lot of them if he can provide me with a horse. Nothing would please me more than to rescue my own mount with the blood of his captors.” He inclined his head again, strangely polite for a mercenary, especially one with Norman forebears. “Begging your pardon for the threat, my lady.”

Something tugged at her hand and she nearly lost her grip on the knife up her sleeve as Conn tried to get her attention. Heart squeezing with a trickle of fear that the stranger might perceive the flash of a blade as a threat, Sorcha gave herself another cut as she shoved the blade back in place.

“My father is wily with horseflesh, sir.” She spoke quickly to deflect the man’s attention from the way she hitched at her sleeve. “So be careful to look upon the mount he provides. But I have no doubt he will gladly make such an exchange.” The lord of Tir’a Brahui had ascended to the throne with as much cunning as might, and while Sorcha did not appreciate his treatment of her, she could not deny her father the respect that was his due.

She could, however, torment him gently through this unseated warrior by encouraging the man to barter. The thought made her smile right through the strain of this odd conversation with a total stranger.

The sun slipped lower on the horizon, causing the man to shield his eyes.

“Might I know your name so that when I speak to your father I may tell him we have met?” He stood bathed in sunlight, his rough-hewn garments taking on a golden sheen as he studied her.

And once again there loomed a flash of recognition, a sense that she had once known him…Perhaps it was a good thing her knife was not more accessible.

“I am Sorcha.” She owned her identity with pride despite her father’s desire to make her regret all that she was. “And I assure you that your bargaining will prove more favorable if you do not mention my name to my sire. Fare thee well, sir.”

Turning, she kept the knife tucked up her sleeve. She wanted to put distance between her and the source of her muddled feelings—fear and resentment at his intrusion on her privacy, worry that he was some relative of her former lover. She recoiled at the thought. Her exile gave her far too much time to mull over past mistakes and fret for her son’s future. She didn’t need any more worries. There was no choice but to forget she’d ever met this dark-eyed stranger.

“You do not wish to know my name in return?” the stranger called to her.

“We will not meet again,” she returned without looking back, holding Conn’s hand with her free palm.

“Sorcha?”

Sighing, she paused. Turned.

“Aye?”

“You must hold the blade at your side. Within the folds of your skirts.”

“I beg your—”

She stopped when his gaze slid unerringly down her body toward the hand concealing her weapon.

“Your hold is too awkward to be unnoticeable. Whereas if you grip the handle in your palm, you are more comfortable and in more of a position to use it quickly. For instance, if I came at you now—”

He stepped forward.

“Do not.” She pulled Conn behind her again. Shaking her arm, she slid the blade free of her sleeve so she could use it if necessary.

By God, she would let no man touch her son. Not even one who looked strangely like the boy’s father.

“I only meant to suggest you could not react quickly enough with a dagger inside your sleeve.” He halted his progress, although she guessed he felt little threat from her blade. “I will pray you never have need of your weapon, but if you are inclined to use it, you would do well to draw blood from the enemy and not from your forearm. Godspeed, Sorcha.”

The mercenary spun on his heel, a crude excuse for a shoe covering his foot in straw and linen as he walked away. Was he a desperately poor knight? A common thief playing games with her? She could not imagine how a commoner could have taught himself such a pretty accent, but perhaps that was no more strange than a horseless English knight strolling through her father’s kingdom on shoes of straw.

Either way, she was well rid of his company and she would be more careful in the future. Hadn’t she heard the foreign wars would find their way to Connacht before long? And how sad that she feared the idea of foreign invaders less than another, more personal threat against her.