Knight Errant (War of the Roses)

Robyn
 
 
She saw the knight come riding up as she stopped to rest. Setting down her Nike squirt bottle, Robyn retied her hiking boots and then stood up to stare. She had not seen a soul since crossing the BritRail tracks near Pandy. By now A465 out of Abergavenny was far behind her. She had been hiking alone along the Welsh border, a rolling green-gold landscape of heather-covered tops furrowed by ancient earthworks--a place impossibly old and unrelentingly pretty--dotted with standing stones, burial tumps, wildflowers and faerie rings, which made this knight on horseback's sudden appearance all the more startling. He had no lance or helmet, but mail-clad sleeves and plate armor showed beneath a mud-spattered surcoat decorated with blue-gold bars. His long, heavy sword hung from the steel hip nearest her. Passing strange, as the locals would say; weird and a half, to be precise. Something sure to go in her journal.
Where is he headed? she wondered. Halloween's weeks away.…Maybe Brits celebrate it early.
Even at first sight, and from distance, he looked engaging. His outfit alone would make anyone take notice. Long tawny hair fell onto steel-clad shoulders, framing brash, boyish good looks, a face alert and friendly, with a likeable smile. To top it off, he rode well, as if he and his big, black warhorse were old friends out for a morning jaunt--that landed them in the wrong millennium. Not your normal random guy.
From a clump of hawthorn came the long breathless trill of a wren, ending in a strident tit-tit-tit of alarm. Then silence.
Good advice. Go easy, girl; don't forget you're in a foreign country. Her short stay in Britain had been a full-blown disaster, which did not need to be topped off by running afoul of some escapee from a Renaissance fair. Not that she had much choice. Robyn already guessed this young horseman would not easily be turned aside.
All morning she had hiked blissfully alone under leaden skies, happily sharing the trail with grass voles and fellow robins. Luxuriating in solitude, she did not stop until she reached the undulating ridgeline along the Anglo-Welsh border. Here she saw both halves of Britain, lowlands and highlands, tidy green farmsteads running right up against wild hill country. Eastward, neatly hedged Herefordshire cropland looked like the Jolly Green Giant's garden; westward, the dark, untamed mass of Wales rose to touch the sky, lonely, exhilarating, and beautiful beyond belief. In a wet October, well past the tourist season, she had the footpath to herself--until this knight appeared atop his great black warhorse, wandering nonchalantly out of the Welsh hills.
By now she could use some company, even a touch of adventure. Splendid isolation became boring. But this broad-shouldered young horseman looked like more adventure than she needed. Deciding not to give a greeting, Robyn stood watching him ride up, looking very fresh and innocent to her, full of noble purpose. Good for him. She was mortally tired of men who had seen everything and knew it all. In place of a helmet, he wore a black velvet cap pinned with a white October rose. His warm, open smile said he was happy to see her.
Too bad she had already had her fill of handsome, self-assured Englishmen. She had flown out from California to see one. Collin Grey, of the Dorset Greys, had swept her off her feet and into bed during an extended stay in L.A. Collin worked for Sotheby's in London, but his main business in America seemed to be showing her an amazing time. Cheerful, caring, and darkly handsome, Collin had a flair for adventure, a welcome willingness to take risks, even in love. He came from an old English family, complete with an old English manor in the Cotswolds. Back in the sixteenth century, a Grey had even been queen for a day--or more like a week. The Tudors were not amused. She ended up mounting the scaffold for an Elizabethan buzz-cut. "I pray you despatch me quickly," she told the headsman. Pert, learned, and polite--giving orders even at the block. Collin had inherited Queen Jane's sense of style and knack for pushing life to the edge.
When Sotheby's called Collin home, the affair continued via fax and Internet. Collin could be as sexy and imaginative on-line as he was in a hot tub--always beware when a man can be reached only by e-mail and cell phone. He mentioned his upcoming birthday party at his country home, "What a shame you can't be there." Robyn took time off from the studio, flying the Atlantic to surprise him, the sort of impulsive gesture that makes or breaks a relationship. When she got to the Cotswolds she was as surprised as Collin, finding he had more than an estate, stables, and a hound pack. He also had a wife and three young sons. Leaving little room for her.
Putting aside appalling thoughts of revenge, Robyn tried to make the best of the trip, visiting well-kept castles and hiking in the Welsh hills, aiming to walk out her anger and humiliation. And Just to be by herself. Now that, too, was denied her.
As the knight topped the grassy ridge, sunlight parted the clouds for the first time that morning, shining splendidly on his steel hips and mail sleeves. Close up, she sensed an easy confidence, coupled with the alert eagerness of youth--a fetching combination. She guessed this particular youth had already seen a lot of adult life, and it did not daunt him
He rattled up and reined in. Built like a college quarterback, the boy was a way better dresser. Fair hair, brown eyes, steel armor, blue-gold surcoat, black cap, white rose, knee-length riding boots, and tooled leather gloves all came together to breathtaking effect. She stared in absolute amazement. Here was the real thing--what football uniforms merely mimic. Swathed in personal colors and seated atop his warhorse, this young fellow required stable boys, seamstresses, saddlers, glove makers, armorers, bootblacks, a haberdasher, and a florist just to dress to go out. His horse fit the outfit, a big, black Friesian stallion with long silky fetlocks. From an ancient breed of cold bloods--ancestors to the English Shire horses--Friesians were strong, enduring, and loyal, the very mount Robyn would pick if she had something that heavy to carry. Whatever his fantasy, he took pains to do it right Grinning, he called down to her, "Ho, lad. Tell us the way to Llanthony priory."
Ho, lad, yourself. Robyn wore a borrowed man's jacket over bulky sweats, and she'd had her hair cut short the day before at a Bristol body boutique, exorcising demons by doing something for herself. But that was no excuse. First Collin took her for a ride. Now this grinning idiot took her for a boy. Where did Englishmen get their arrogance?
She started to set him straight. Then stopped. Sunlight glistened on the boy's honey-brown hair and broad armored shoulders. They were alone on the windswept ridge. Young Sir Handsome was not only weirdly dressed, but heavily armed. Besides his wicked long sword, he had an oversize dagger and a heavy flanged mace hanging from his saddle. Whoever forged his costume had worked overtime to make it real--and lethal. Maybe she should humor him. At least until they got closer to the motor road.
"What's the matter?" he asked, pushing back his velvet cap with a gloved hand. "Are you Welsh? Or just deaf?"
"I'm from Montana," she replied evenly, keeping her voice low, letting him jump to his own conclusions. "But I live in West Hollywood."
He arched an eyebrow. "Which Holy Wood?"
"In L.A. Next to Beverly Hills. Boys Town"
His smile turned quizzical.
"California, USA?"
Young Don Quixote laughed, like he never heard of L.A., or California, but decided it hardly mattered. Was he putting her on? Buoyant good humor lurked behind lively brown eyes with long soft lashes. "Sounds like neither of us knows the way to Llanthony. Well met, anyway. You have a voice as sweet as a songbird's,...