My Champion by Glynnis Campbell

Author:Glynnis Campbell
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Glynnis Campbell
Published: 2012-02-01T08:00:00+00:00

The sun had begun to slide toward the afternoon. Linet could remain silent no longer. They’d walked for hours. For hours she’d listened to the creak of the beggar’s leather belt and the soft slap of his sheathed dagger against his thigh, endured the occasional brush of his cloak against her leg, caught the manly scent of him as a breeze wafted past. And each moment spent near him made it more difficult to imagine life without him.

It wasn’t his fault. She knew that. But the torment inside her made her peevish. “Do you have any idea where we’re going?” she asked breathlessly, slowing as the stitch in her side begged for relief. “I would swear we’d marched to Jerusalem by now.”

The beggar looked at her apologetically and called a halt to their breakneck progress. He stopped at a place where the stream they’d been following widened into a deep pool. She supposed it was a beautiful place—green and shady, overhung with lush elms—but she was too exhausted and irritable to notice. She flopped down onto the mossy bank against an old tree overhanging the water. Then she removed her boots, wiggling her toes, half in pain, half in relief, as they tugged free of their leather prison.

The beggar rummaged through the provisions Mathilde had packed for them, offering her a hunk of bread and cheese. So hungry was she, she fell upon the fare with haste and a lack of manners that would have shamed her father.

“You’re hungry. Why didn’t tell me sooner?” the beggar asked as she choked on a bite of bread.

Weak and humiliated, she fought the sob that longed to burst forth from her throat. “I shouldn’t have to be hungry,” she muttered, pathetically sorry for herself. “I shouldn’t be traipsing about in rags, miles from civilization, blistering my feet on this cursed rocky Flemish ground.” She knew she should keep her feelings to herself. A lady didn’t complain about such things. But once begun, she could no more stop the words than one could cease the flow of ale from a cracked keg. “I should be working peacefully at the spring fair right now, selling my wool, raking in a tidy profit.” To her dismay, the sob escaped her. “I want to go home, back to my life.”

The beggar was silent for once, leaving her childish, selfish sniffles to echo foolishly, endlessly, across the water. He didn’t speak to her until the well of her tears ran dry. Then he took a long pull at the jug of wine and spoke in a taut voice. “We’ll be safe in a day or two. I’m sorry you’ve endured such…hardship.”

She could tell by his tone that he’d seen far worse in his lifetime, and suddenly she felt quite ignoble.

He lifted the jug toward her. She compressed her lips, stifling a new bout of self-indulgent weeping. Even now, the beggar refused to show her the slightest favor. He should have let her drink first. Damn him—everything he did was against convention, against nature.

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