Joanne Rock - A Knight Most Wicked

“I will be strong,” she assured her grandmother, spine straight though her eyes burned at the thought of her fate slipping from her hands. “Somehow.”

“Arabella.” Luria rose to keep her daughter from bolting, but Zaharia held her back.

Zaharia’s words of reassurance echoed in Arabella’s ears as her feet flew down the dusty path, each step of this lonely last run reminding her that her moments as a free woman were quickly disappearing.

“We’ll stop here,” Tristan Carlisle called as he reined in his horse and flung himself from the black destrier so his company might rest for the night.

He cursed his trip, even as he savored this last stop before he reached Prague and the squawking women awaiting him—the largest retinue ever to accompany a princess for her nuptials. A bloody dubious honor for a warrior.

“Escort,” he muttered, disgusted by the very sound of the word. Fifteen years in service to kings of England, and this was the mission his hard work had earned?

England’s war with France raged while he was sent on a courtier’s assignment. Did they think his sword arm grew weak? He could fight better than half of Richard’s hasty-witted front line with his dagger alone, since most of the young king’s men were naught but beslubbering babes who’d seen little combat.

Richard had made excuses about the importance of his bride’s protection and a recent threat to the Bohemian court. But the quest—and the king’s concern—sounded a bit hollow to Tristan, despite Richard’s promise of long-overdue lands in exchange for Tristan’s success.

The black horse snorted as it slaked its thirst, echoing Tristan’s opinion.

“I couldn’t agree more, friend. No warrior in his right mind should accept a courtier’s job, and yet here we are. Roaming our tired arses across this fair land with naught but a bastard’s lot in life by way of royal appreciation. If Richard fails to come through with lands this time…” Snort, indeed. Tristan would be looking into a mercenary’s life if the king did not recognize his efforts after this.

“Tris?” His friend Simon Percival called to him from a few feet away. The presence of Simon on the journey—a knight almost as ancient as Tristan at thirty summers—was one of the few circumstances that made the endless journey bearable. “Should we stop here for the night, or do you wish to ride farther? We can arrive in Prague tomorrow if we pick up speed.”

“I am in no hurry. Tell the men to unload and I’ll search the area.” Needing to clear his resentful head so he might fulfill his duty, he vaulted back onto his horse.

Tristan worked with slow caution to secure the encampment as twilight approached. The solitude of the land suited his mood. The dark woods gave way to rolling hills, providing plenty of cover for foreign knights on strange terrain.

As the sounds of his men quieted in the last purple light of day, he heard a distinct cry from deeper in the forest.

He paused, reasonably sure the noise came from an animal but waiting to be certain. Although he seemed to be in the middle of remote country, perhaps a road wound nearby and some hapless traveler had met with thieves. When the cry came again, Tristan still questioned whether it was animal or human, but it sounded too tortured to ignore.

Sliding from his horse, he stalked toward the sound. When it became continuous, he hastened his step until he reached a clearing with a perfect circle of aged oaks in the middle. The noise emanated from within that ring, but in the falling twilight he could not clearly make out a form. He was fairly certain there were no animals fighting here, nor could he see any horses or thieves.

Moving forward, he gained ground until he touched one of the old oaks.

The cries stopped.

A figure stirred within the ring of trees.

Squinting, Tristan recognized the shape of a young woman…or was it?

Half-reclining on the ground, the woman wore garments that belonged to neither a peasant nor a lady. Her long dress had a full skirt—he could see it floating all about her legs on the ground—but it was not long enough to hide her bare feet. She was covered from head to toe with small twigs and pine needles.

And her hair…

It called to mind a fey witch or fairy in a child’s tale. Thick waves cloaked her upper body in the same way her long dress covered the lower half. The dark tresses reached her waist and looked unaccustomed to the rigors of a comb.

Surely he dreamed.

No woman would be in the middle of the wilderness like this. Yet, she appeared to belong in the woods—wild and uncivilized. An unearthly beauty about her made him wonder if he’d been bewitched.

Her strange appearance in the ancient circle of trees where no superstitious mortal would dare tread supported that conclusion. And before her abrupt silence, she had wailed with pagan fury to the unyielding oaks.

Tristan yearned to satisfy himself that she was real. Softly he approached her, spellbound by the strangeness of the vision.

For a moment, the woman did not move. She seemed frozen, peering into Tristan’s eyes and searching his face. Tristan was so close that he caught a vague scent of her, could see the heavy rise and fall of her breasts, discern the damp trail of tears down dirt-smudged cheeks. Still not convinced she could possibly be real, Tristan lifted his hand to touch her. In one swift, soundless movement, the green-eyed wench sprang to her feet and ran.

“Sit still, Arabella.”

By now the gentlewoman’s command sounded like a threat, and Arabella forced herself to cease her restless wriggling on the velvet-covered bench inside the Prague home of the king. She had been sitting still—mostly still—for the last hour while the matron of the royal retinue pinched, pulled and poked in an effort to fit her with an appropriate traveling gown for the journey to England. Five other young women stood or sat quietly for their maids in the upstairs chamber that had served as home to Arabella and several other noblewomen from far-flung parts of Bohemia for the past few nights.

Yet Lady Hilda grumbled as she worked.

“Merciful heaven help us, you look as fit to join a royal entourage as a wildcat.”

“Pay her no heed, Lady Arabella,” a girlish voice whispered at Arabella’s elbow. “You are a wonderful addition to our company.”

Mary Natansia, Arabella’s lone friend since she had arrived in Prague, squeezed her hand as the two of them suffered the none-too-gentle hands of Tryant Hilda, a distant relative of the princess with enough titles to give her freedom to speak her mind.

Arabella’s brief education in the noble world had already taught her that much. Titles made women invincible here. Their power did not come from herbs and knowledge, or even saving lives.

“Thank you.” She smiled back at the delicate blonde with skin so fair Hilda remarked glowingly upon it.

A quiet girl of eighteen summers, Mary was King Wenceslas IV’s ward, a position of great prestige since the Bohemian king also served as the Holy Roman Emperor. Although Arabella gathered the younger woman was wealthy enough to rule the glittering court life of Prague, Mary shied away from it. After arriving in the city three days ago, Arabella had been consumed with preparations for the upcoming journey to England. She had worked on a few of her own surcoats under the careful tutelage of the princess’s maids. She had been advised what was expected of her on the journey. But she had not ventured out of the women’s apartments for long, and tonight would be her first formal supper at Prague Castle.

She was nervous since her old formal surcoat had appeared like peasant’s garb next to the rich attire of the women who greeted her politely, then dismissed her with their gazes. It did not help that she had arrived at the castle’s gate with her grandmother. Zaharia was a wise and gifted woman, but the superstitious called her a sorceress.