She smacked some linen against a rock with more force than necessary. She did not think her father would defeat Zander, so the entire journey would prove a waste of time and coin.
Quiet laughter behind her. Men talking. The reeds parted, and two men barged onto the river bank.
They did not appear surprised to see her. They did not look to be knights, but it was hard to know. After all, she did not look like a knight’s daughter these days.
“We will stay out of your way,” one said. His swarthy face glistened with sweat, and his dark hair hung in dirty strands. “We were told this is a good place to bathe.”
His companion, a fair-haired young man, nodded, trying not to grin.
She shrugged and returned to her labor.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw them discard their garments fifteen feet away. Pale asses agleam in the sunlight, they waded into the river. They splashed and laughed like boys, but whispering also reached her ears.
She turned and laid out some of her washed garments. When she turned back both of them had moved closer to her spot. Only their heads rose above the water, but they both watched her with predatory eyes.
She ignored them, and knelt to wash one of the last linens.
“Are you angry at that shirt? You are giving it quite a beating,” the older one said.
She refused to answer. She calculated how long it would take to gather her wet garments and leave.
“I spoke to you, woman. You should not insult me with silence in return.”
Alarm prickled her blood. Her isolation, and vulnerability, pressed on her.
“Methinks this servant needs to learn courtesy,” the younger one said.
“I am not a servant. I am the daughter of a knight.” She cursed inwardly that fear sounded in her voice, but peril now shrieked its warnings through her body.
The older knight stood suddenly, his naked body white where his garments had covered it, but his neck as dark as his face. His cock was engorged, and his eyes dangerous.
She stood too and turned on her heel to run. Splashes behind her said he was after her. She tried to grab a few garments to save them as she aimed for the reeds.
“Walter!” the younger one’s voice shouted, but not in condemnation. In warning.
The splashing stopped. She ventured a look back.
Both men were in the water again. The blond one was pointing up-river. Elinor’s gaze followed that gesture. There, in the shallows of the river’s edge, sat a knight on horseback, watching. Zander.
“The Devil’s Blade,” the young man murmured.
Zander’s horse paced forward a bit, then stopped. He gazed down at the two men. Elinor’s breath caught. The fires of hell burned in those eyes.
“Have either of you been to the Holy Land?” His voice carried despite being unnervingly calm.
They looked at each other, astonished, then shook their heads.
“The Saracens have this way of using their swords that is interesting.” He withdrew his sword. “They charge, with the sword held out straight from their sides, like this.” He extended his arm out straight, with his sword continuing the line into space. “It works like a scythe in removing heads from bodies.” He held up his sword and looked at it. “Of course, they have those special swords that are curved and amazingly sharp, and that might make it more merciful. Still, I have always wondered. . .” He looked right at them. “Don’t move, and we will see whether I can manage so clean a death for you.”
Shock masked their faces. “You’ve no cause!” the younger one cried.
“There was no denying your intentions with this woman. I not only have cause—I have a duty. I’ll be sure there is enough space to get my horse to a gallop. Without enough speed I will make a mess of it, and finishing will be disgusting for all of us.” He began backing up his palfrey.
Curses. Splashes. Two white naked bodies, now with very flaccid cocks, scrambled toward the river bank. Not bothering with the garments they had discarded they ran through the mud up the bank, past the drying laundry, and plunged into the reeds.
As she bent to lift one of her linens that their muddy feet had soiled, Zander’s horse blurred past her, chasing them.
She knelt and threw the soiled linen back into the water.
“You should not have come here alone.”
She turned as the familiar voice sounded right behind her. Zander stood watching her labor, his horse’s mane visible on the other side of the reeds.
“It seems not. I thank you for your protection. I am sincerely grateful. However, you should go away. I said we would not talk again.” She returned to the linen, handling it more gently.
He came to her and sat in the grass. “We don’t have to talk. I’ll just watch and make sure no other men decide to save the cost of the whores.”
“As you wish.” She made a display of wringing out the linen, then smoothing it on the grass to dry. She plucked the last item from the basket.
Time slowed while she washed it. She could not ignore his presence four feet away. It grew awkward having him just sit there and watch her doing this humble chore. A power he possessed made the air between them tremble.
“Shouldn’t you be doing something knightly?” she asked. “Winning combats? Practicing for the next one? Inspecting your arms?”
“I have jousted this morning. I am ready for whatever comes next. When it comes.”
“Does no one want to fight Sir Alexander de Mandeville in a personal challenge?”
“Several do. Two today. More tomorrow. And of course Sir Hugo, eventually. Everyone is waiting for that one.”
“When a man with a cause fights, I expect it is more interesting.”
“It isn’t that. There is a rumor that someone will die.”
His words caught her as she was wringing out the new piece of wash.
