Page 1 of A Knight in Tarnished Armor

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The sight of her took his breath away. He, a fierce and valiant knight, sat frozen atop his mount and watched the young woman from the edge of the clearing. She stood captured for a timeless moment in prisms of misty white light that spilled into the forest.

Had he not been alone, he'd have asked his men-at-arms if she were a vision—a dream borne from the weakness of a man who had fought too many battles, drunk too much, and had too little sleep. For only a vision could have hair that rippled down her back, almost touching her knees. Hair the rich fiery color of a sunset. Only a vision could look so innocent. Only a vision could sing like the angels.

To the very crowns of the trees her voice rose in song, a sound that he could only fathom was the music of heaven—clear and fresh and flawless. He dismounted and moved closer, his search for water suddenly forgotten. At that moment it mattered little that his mouth held the dusty flavor of the road, so caught was he by this young woman.

She bent down and picked up another bright yellow flower from the forest floor, weaving it into a garland of wildflowers and lush ivy that hung over her arm. She turned then, spinning on one bare foot while her hair flowed outward and her brown tunic belled slightly. She was singing a bright and merry tune, a song to the kittens that frolicked at her feet.

I've yearned time past to be a fairy,

To fly in the pale light of the moon.

With gossamer wings so light and airy,

On a midsummer night in June.

A foolish song filled with whimsy, yet somehow it charmed him as nothing had in longer than he could remember. He continued to watch her.

Soon a squirrel scurried down from a tall tree, followed by two more. They stood on their haunches and cocked their curious heads as she sang. Three rabbits hopped from the bracken and ferns, twitching their noses and tails instead of instinctively using their speedy back legs to spring away. And the birds—hedgesparrows, robins, and hummingbirds—fluttered above her.

Odd, he thought, how the animals had no fear of her. ‘Twas as if they were drawn like he was to a siren's sweet sound.

He asked himself if he had been too long at war. Had he seen so much bloodshed, been from his homeland so long that the mere sight of an English beauty made his mind play him false? The forest was a dark place of legend, the setting for the evil side of a bard's tale, and home to trolls and witches, if one was to believe in fancy.

But fancy was not for men of war, anymore than a young woman could turn into a fairy. No, to a warrior's mind, the forest was a place for thieves and wastrels, and the best possible place for ambush.

His sixth sense told him there was no danger here. As though enchanted, this forest appeared to come alive in the joyful aura of this one small and lovely creature. And he felt it too, that full feeling of life he'd thought was long lost. Or perhaps it had never even been there.

She danced over to a small bubbling stream where she lifted her tunic and skipped from stone to stone, laughing when the birds followed her and the squirrels, rabbits, and kittens watched her from the bank.

He smiled. God's blood. He asked himself how long had it been since something had touched him so. He knew the answer—too long.

She came back to the clearing, still singing and dancing. Added to her audience were bright butterflies that fluttered through the shimmering mist and a plump white duck with a trail of fluffy butter-colored ducklings that waddled like drunken soldiers from the stream.

He had never seen anything like this.

The girl picked up her flower garland and hung it around her neck, then spun again with her arms wide open and the garland flowing with her. Her song rose higher, its end sadly growing near, so he moved back where bracken was thick and the forest trees and ferns hid him and his mount from sight.

Humming now, she danced a bit closer, pausing at a rock where she picked up a pair of red leather slippers. She chattered to the animals while she dusted the leaves off a small pale foot and slid into the shoe, then propped her foot on the rock so she could tie the laces around the slimmest ankle he'd seen in months.

She finished with her other shoe and gathered the kittens into a small willow basket before she picked up her wildflower garland, this time tucking it around her small waist. She lifted the top on one side of her basket and spoke to kittens, calling them by name, silly, fanciful names that made him smile again. She moved closer to where he stood and when she was but a few feet away she set down the basket, then picked up a dark woolen mantle and swung it around her, tying it securely beneath her small firm chin.

In a gesture that almost made him groan aloud, she combed her fingers through her flaming hair and lifted it, then raised her gaze at the same time. She stood before him, completely unaware of his existence, which almost made him laugh at the irony, for he was aware of nothing but her.

She had a face that was proof of Heaven's perfection—a small nose, lips of rose, and skin the shimmering pale cream shade of dunes in the desert. But her eyes were what struck him, knocked his breath from him as surely as if he'd been struck with a Turk's lance. They weren't the familiar dark brown eyes of the Mideast, nor were they English blue, not even Celtic green.

They were the same golden yellow color of the bright wildflowers she had picked. Yellow eyes. Wild eyes, he thought, watching as she turned and moved toward the opposite end of the clearing.

He waited a few seconds, then followed slowly, using the thick grove of ash trees and heavy mist as a shield. Soon the forest ended and a meadow scented sweet with freshly mown grass spread to a ripening grain field and on toward a craggy hillside where a castle, stark and gray and majestic, broke the blue horizon.

High above the stone walls flew the distinctive flag of the earl of Arden. Minutes later, the girl disappeared inside the gates in a stone curtain wall.

But still he stood there, his arms crossed as he leaned against the trunk of an ash tree. For the longest time, time where seconds turned into eternal minutes, he just stood there, watching, thinking, before making a decision with the same swiftness and gut instinct he used on the battlefield.

His sense returned swiftly and he stood, calling himself a lovestruck fool. He mounted his horse, then rode toward the highway that rimmed the thick forest. The road wound northward, a ribbon of dirt in the lush green countryside of his homeland, and at the crest of a small rise he stopped and turned in the saddle. He took one last long look at the castle known as Ardenwood. For a heartbeat he allowed himself one final golden moment of her memory. She would be his—yes, she would--this fairy child, the woman with eyes so wild.

He vowed that she would be his, because after years of waging war and living in dry, foreign lands, after years of bloodshed and waking to the clash of sword and scimitar, after years of loneliness, he wanted, needed, a little gentleness and peace in his hard life.