Page 18 of One Knight in the Forest

Chapter Seven

The tall, slender lady in a flowing gown stood before Cyn. The surface of the pond behind her was washed in sunlight so intense, she seemed to be surrounded by light.

He squinted against the brightness, as awe raced through him. He hadn’t heard her approach, but likely because he’d been sobbing. Self-reproach gnawed at him as he rubbed his stinging eyes with his grubby hands. What would the other pages say when they learned he’d run away to cry like a little boy? They’d only tease him all the more.

Who was this lady? He didn’t recognize her. Was she a visitor to the keep? Had she emerged from the water, as told in one of the tales his father had read to him, about a long-ago King named Arthur?

In a lady’s presence, Cyn should stand and bow. He didn’t want to offend her by not doing what was expected. He started to scramble to his feet, but she lifted her hand, halting him, and he sat back down on the dirt.

“Milady—”

“Cry no more. ’Twill be all right,” she murmured. “You will see.”

“H-how can you be certain?” He hated the way his voice broke, but he was only eight years old and he missed his home and his parents, especially his sire. How he wished to sit once again on his father’s lap, in the big, carved chair by the hearth, and listen to him read from the special book bound in embossed leather. His father made each story come alive, made each knight’s tale an enthralling adventure Cyn would never forget.

Fresh tears filled his eyes. He didn’t have enough courage to become a knight.

He wanted to go home.

“There, now,” the lady soothed. Leaning down, she offered him a gleaming object: a stag made from silver, its head, crowned with antlers, partly lowered, as if the stag meant to nibble leaves from a branch. The deer was as large as a man’s palm and was beautifully made.

He shook his head. “I cannot take this, milady.”

“Of course you can. ’Tis a gift. Whenever you feel sad, look upon this stag and know that one day, you will be as strong, fast, and as wise as this magnificent animal that rules the forest.”

“But, milady—”

She smiled. “I promise, ’twill be all right.” With the rustle of silk, she walked away, leaving him staring in wonder at the stag…

Cyn opened his eyes to sunlight. It streamed in through cracks in the wall and washed the room in slants of gold; the brilliant light reminded him of the sunshine that had shimmered behind the lady.

He hadn’t dreamed of her in years. Even more curious, his dream had been more like a memory of that day by the pond.

As he rubbed the back of his neck, cramped from him sleeping upright in the chair, Tristan and Isolde, curled in his lap, opened their eyes, purred, and stretched.

He ran his right hand down the felines’ backs, while a sense of incredulity wove through him. He’d dreamed, not endured another nightmare. He’d woken to sunlight, not darkness.

A miracle.

Opening his left hand, he tilted the ruby in his palm, the white streaks inside more distinct in the sunlight. If he were a far less cynical man, he might be inclined to believe Magdalen’s ruby had quelled his night terrors. Such fanciful notions, though, had no place in his life any more. When he’d realized Francine had betrayed him, and not with just any man, but his own brother, his faith in the intangible—in love—had dissolved like honey in hot water.

Nay, he hadn’t slept well because of the ruby. More likely, he’d been very tired after days of broken sleep. ’Twas why he’d slumbered until daylight.

He glanced at the cot, to find Magdalen was still asleep. Sunshine played over her features, her eyes closed, her lashes feathering against the silken curve of her cheek. So incredibly beautiful—and worthy of a far better man than he was. Still, a warm tingle of admiration trailed through him as he eased the cats from his lap and stood, and then stretched his arms up over his head.

The thunder of tiny paws sounded, and Perceval galloped into the room.

If Perceval was awake, Borden must be too. Cyn glanced at the hearth and saw that all three dogs were gone; as usual, they’d accompanied Borden into the forest for his morning jaunt, when he gathered fresh mushrooms, roots, and plants.

Cyn moved to intercept the kitten, but Perceval raced past and leapt onto the cot’s blanket hanging toward the floor. Using his little claws, he hauled himself up onto the bed.

Magdalen’s eyes fluttered open. When she saw the kitten walking alongside her arm to reach her face, she smiled and scratched his furry head. “Good morning, Perceval.” Her gaze shifted to Cyn, approaching the bedside. “Good day to you, too.”

“Good day. You slept well?”

“I did. And you?”

“Astonishingly well.” He held up the ruby. “I am not convinced that I have this stone to thank—”