Chapter 6
Humming a bright tune, Linnet wormed her way through some bushes, Quintus, Neot, and Vitus following behind while Swithun tugged on her hem.
There was a small copse of gooseberry bushes here somewhere, she thought.
She had spotted the bushes while trying to walk out the stiffness from being too long atop a horse.
They had traveled for most of the next day, until William had finally stopped to rest at a river bend where marsh marigolds bloomed brightly, and the trees and bushes were thick, lush, and flanked by a meadow filled with buttercups.
A little distance away she found the gooseberries, then held out her tunic and began to pick them.
Within a few minutes, she had several handfuls of plump berries cupped in her skirt.
She stopped humming and glanced down at her cats.
"Shall we taste them, sweetings?" They looked up at her and she grinned.
"Yes, I think we should too." She popped one into her mouth, and shuddered. They were as sour as old wine.
"Now what would you do with sour gooseberries?"
They meowed.
"Me too," she said, then she began to sing a silly little song she made up as she danced to the tune.
Hey fiddle diddle dee!
Hey fiddle fee.
I'd rather be a fairy,
than a gooseber-ry . . .
A handful at a time, she tossed the berries over her shoulder, and the cats scampered after them, batting them with their fluffy paws.
She made a game of flinging the berries skyward and listening to them patter onto the ground and bushes behind her, humming and skipping to the merry tune of the falling berries.
She looked at the cats and laughed. "Those berries ought to be good for something since they surely are not good for eating. "
After a few more minutes she glanced down, just as a flash of gray fur trotted off toward the trees edging the river where a meadowlark had perched on low elm branch.
"Swithun!" she called. "Come back here!" As usual, he ignored her. She tossed away the last handful of berries and dusted off her tunic, then spun around.
William de Ros stood there, looking as tall as an ancient elm. And just as rigid.
She stared at him for a second. He had gooseberries in his hair.
She grinned.
He didn't.
Laughter just bubbled up and she tried to stop, but couldn't. He had a plump gooseberry wedged in his earring. She covered her mouth with a hand.
He shook his head and berries flew everywhere. The cats raced anxiously around his boots, thinking he was another something for them to play with.
Now she was giggling aloud. He glared at her, but it did no good. The gooseberry was still stuck in his earring, which didn't look barbaric now. It looked rather silly.
She dropped her hand and took a breath, smiling.
"Your face is as sour as those berries." She gave him her sincerest look.
"I'm sorry. Truly. I did not know you were there.
" She walked toward him and stopped. He stared at her for a long moment.
She reached up and plucked the berry from his earring and held it up. "You missed one."
He was silent and she cocked her head and watched him, trying to read his thoughts." ‘Twas then that she saw the flowers. Clutched in his battle scarred hand was a small posy of marigolds, maidenhair fern, and bright buttercups. He stiffened and looked at the bouquet.
She wondered what he was thinking. He looked so strange—a warrior standing before her, tall and fierce, until one noticed the flowers. ‘Twas rather like watching the devil pet a kitten. Certainly not a scene one would imagine for a mercenary like William de Ros.
Very softly, she asked, "Are they for me?"
He looked as if he wanted to say something but couldn't speak. He seemed to be waging some kind of mental battle. He glanced up at the late sun and muttered, "There is no time for this foolishness."
Her heart fell a little. That he had picked flowers for her was not foolish at all; she thought it was touching. Part of her wished to put him at ease, yet she wasn't certain what she could say so she said nothing. She only gave the flowers a wistful look.
He seemed to make a decision and he turned around, then stopped and turned back. "Here," he barked and held out the flowers just a few inches from her nose.
She took the posy and in a moment of sheer whimsy she held her hand out to him. He stared at it for the longest time before he played the courtier and with a very intense look he raised her hand slowly to his lips, turned it over, and lightly and reverently kissed her palm.
To hide her smile, she brought the bouquet to her nose. The buttercups smelled fresh and clean— sweet as the midsummer air, which suddenly crackled with a vicious curse.
Stunned, she snapped her head up, then followed his angry stare.
At the edge of the meadow was another armored knight. From his helm, a blue plume nodded in the breeze and his shield was a plain field of the same color. He anchored his shield, raised his free hand. With accomplished precision, he began to swing a mace.
William slowly moved toward his sword, lying forgotten in the marsh marigolds where his horse was drinking from the river's edge. The knight charged, his mace arcing around and around, his horse eating up the distance and sending tufts of grass flying under the power of his wide hooves.
Linnet watched, horrified as William raced like the wind toward his sword. She could see that the knight was closer and faster, his horse pounding furiously toward William, past the stream, past the bushes, under the wide branches of the river elms.
A sudden flash of gray dropped from a tree and landed on the mighty warhorse.
"Swithun!" Linnet called out, horrified.
The warhorse reared suddenly and shrieked, its hooves pawing the air.
Swithun screeched and clawed the horse's hindquarters.
The mace flung around and snagged on a tree limb, jerking the mace hilt from the knight's hand.
Momentum wrapped the mace around the tree limb with a snap, the spiked mace ball now hopelessly tangled in its own chain.
The knight struggled to control his horse, the mace hilt forgotten and hanging uselessly from the low branches of the tree, her cat clinging to the horse’s hind end.
William grabbed his sword and leapt onto his mount.
The knight hauled on the reins and spun the warhorse around so swiftly that Swithun flew off. Linnet screamed and ran. But the cat hit the water with a loud shriek.
The knight rode off and William turned to ride after him.
Linnet ran straight into the river. "Swithun! Swithun!" She struggled through the current to the spot where he'd hit the water. She slipped and grabbed at a rock. "Swithun!"
Clinging to the rock she straightened and spotted his tiny head bobbing away from her. She screamed, "Swithun!" and splashed toward him, her tunic catching on some river rocks.
William's horse thundered past her, splashing water in all directions. He bent down and grabbed the half-drowned cat. A second later he was in front of her, his horse blocking her from drifting downriver.
His hand shot out and gripped her arm. With a snap he hauled her up and plopped her down between his legs. He was cursing the air blue. Linnet made the mistake of looking over her shoulder at him.
He was furious.