Knights of de Ware 01 - My Champion by Glynnis Campbell

fool wench wants to be rid of me,” he muttered. “By all rights, I should oblige her. She’s laid out her own damned pallet, so let her sleep in it. If she wants to risk life and limb for a pile of wool, what concern is it of mine? If she wishes to tempt fate by…by flaunting her power in front of the most notorious sea reiver in all of Spain…” He stopped in his tracks. God’s wounds—what was he saying?
    He couldn’t let her go back to the fair alone. It was a de Ware’s duty to protect ladies. He’d never turned his back on a woman in need. And she was in need. Even if she didn’t know it.
    He swept Robert’s cloak from the floor and whirled it across his back. “Your sword, Robert!” he demanded.
    Robert looked crestfallen. “My new…but…”
    Unwilling to waste time, Duncan unbuckled Robert’s sword belt himself and fastened it about his own hips. Shouldering his way past Garth, he bolted for the door. “Don’t wait supper for me!”
    Linet couldn’t have been more pleased with herself as she made her victorious way across the de Ware courtyard. She’d bested that meddling beggar again. Her first year as a femme sole , and already she was proving the de Montfort cleverness her father had always praised.
    The castle yard was nearly deserted. She supposed most of the craftsmen had gone to the fair. There were only a few armorers hammering hot steel over a forge and a thatcher repairing a rotted roof. In the midst of the courtyard, draped across three trestle tables, an enormous pennant was being stitched by four young ladies. Drawing near, she could see the figure of a great black wolf depicted on the green serge, the Wolf de Ware. The eyes were fierce and chilling, the mane bristling. Suddenly she was very glad she’d be done with her business here in a fortnight.
    She’d heard the stories. Everyone had. The three de Ware sons were warriors not to be trifled with—powerful, cunning, ferocious. In fact, the eldest was considered by many to be the most dangerous swordsman in all of England. All three had earned their spurs at an early age, and it was said they indeed possessed the hunting instincts of the wolf so boldly emblazoned on their crest.
    She shivered involuntarily. She hoped Lady Alyce would be content with the cloth she’d purchased. Spanish captains and an overzealous beggar Linet could handle. But she wasn’t sure she could face a trio of disgruntled, sword-wielding wolves. She wondered how sweet Lady Alyce managed to keep her pups on their leashes.
    She cleared the portcullis and nodded to the guard for her cart. Beyond the wall, the balmy spring breeze soughed through the elms and maples and wafted the fragrance of bay up the hill. It was the best time of year, with the grass new and sweet, sprinkled with periwinkles and daisies, and the willows tipped with vivid green. The sky was riddled with tufts of clouds, reminding her of shearing time and the wool harvest, which reminded her in turn that she had little time to waste on savoring the spring day. There was business to attend to before night dropped its dark cloak over the land.
    As she slipped her basket into the cart’s bed, she couldn’t help but think about the beggar with the azure eyes. Who was the cocksure knave, she wondered, and what did he want? Of course, his story about protecting her was nonsense. After all, he was only a commoner. He was probably just eager to get his hands on her cloth or her coin. He wouldn’t be the first to entertain such a notion. Like the others, however, he’d find himself in peril of his good health should he attempt to cheat Linet de Montfort out of her hard-earned living.
    She shook her head as the breeze tugged at the edges of her cloak. She should’ve slapped the cur for his insolence. Her father had warned her about dealing with peasants, how they were not to be trusted, how they possessed few manners and fewer morals. The de Montfort family was not to stoop to their level—so