After the Storm (6 page)

Sizemore, Susan - After the Storm

Chapter 3

"
Kill the peasant
!" Father John snarled as he pushed Matilda out of the way to get to Henry. The girl made a frightened sound and fled behind Libby once more.

Sir Stephan crossed his arms and asked, "Why?"

"He struck your son!"

"So he did. Saved me the trouble of doing it myself," he added to approving laughter from the crowd.

"What cause had you to strike Henry?" the priest demanded. "What cause had any man?"

It was the sheriff who answered. "Well, it looked to me that the brat was going to strike Lady Isabeau."

"The Welshwoman had dared to raise her hand—"

"Foot, actually," Libby interrupted. Her correction earned her an acid look from the priest.

Father John pointed dramatically at her rescuer. "How could you allow this man to assault his betters. For shame!"

"Yes, isn't it?" Stephan replied dryly.

With a look of disgust, the stranger began to turn away. Libby would have tried to stop him, but Marj's hand landed warningly on her shoulder before she could get involved.

Sizemore, Susan - After the Storm

It was Sir Stephan who said, "Wait, good yeoman." The stranger turned back, one eyebrow raised with sardonic curiosity. "I know not your name, nor have I thanked you yet," Sir Stephan said as he stepped forward to offer his hand to the other man. The stranger hesitated noticeably before clasping Stephan's hand.

"Bastien," he answered. "Bastien of Bale."

He had a deep voice, with a lilt to his accent that made Libby think of Ireland or Wales or perhaps the highlands of Scotland.
He's definitely not from around
here
, she thought as he turned toward her and his long, serious face was transformed by a smile. The assessing look in his eyes left her blushing all the way down to her toes. Not one to be intimidated, she looked boldly back.

"The archery contests are beginning. Come with me,
my lady
." He spoke as though she were the only person present, and the way he spoke her title left her confused as to whether the words were meant to be rude or possessive.

Since the man had just rescued her from a potentially humiliating scene she didn't mind how he used the words. "I'll gladly go with you, good sir."

"Not sir. I'm of good, common stock," he corrected as they walked away from the staring group. "Never sir," he continued loudly as people began to murmur behind them. "I'd hate to be a gentleman."

Libby could hear people following them, but she didn't turn around. Bastien also pretended there was no one there, but he did it with a smirk. Rude, she decided, and enjoying the license to be so. She slipped her hand from his. She didn't mind the rudeness, and certainly didn't blame him for it, but it wouldn't do either of them any good for her to go along with it. The Middle Ages were the pits for everybody involved, especially bad for anybody below the aristocratic class.

Bastien here seemed to have that fact of life pretty well figured out, and he obviously didn't like it. His attitude was refreshing, actually, but dangerous.

Sizemore, Susan - After the Storm

"So," she found herself asking him as they approached the archery range, "what exactly does a yeoman do, anyway?" Yeomen, she knew, were peasants, but they weren't bound to an estate like serfs. They were small landowners who had more freedom in many ways than the nobles who were in power. Bastien, here, probably owned a nearby farm.

"Pay too many taxes," was his reply.

"Besides that."

They stopped walking and he leaned on his staff, his gaze on the archers rather than her. The swish, thwock of the contestants' arrows hitting straw-filled sacks set up as targets became background noise to their conversation as he answered.

"Yeoman do what they can, and what the nobles will allow."

"Do you use a bow?" Libby asked as she found herself reminded of Robin Hood.

"I do, my lady."

"As well as you use a quarterstaff?"

He gave her a sidelong look, a definite glint in his narrow green eyes. "You could find out."

Women were allowed to compete in the archery contests. Libby grinned. "You're on."

"On?"

"You are suggesting a wager, aren't you?"

"With a noblewoman? Not I." His smile told her otherwise. "What would a lady wager a peasant with? What might you have that I would need? A poem? A song? A pretty piece of embroidery? What might I wager that you would want?"

The look in his eyes told her exactly what he thought he had that she might want, and what he'd want from her.

Sizemore, Susan - After the Storm

She looked him over, she couldn't help it, he was lean, far too handsome for his own good, and probably hers as well. Despite the teasing, suggestive thoughts that came to her, she carefully kept them to herself. She should not have suggested a bet, it was totally out of character. Besides, time-traveling amnesiacs had even less business getting involved with the local peasantry than real noblewomen did. She refused to respond to the look he gave her, as she reminded herself that his behavior was completely improper for the period, even more than hers was. He shouldn't have the
chutzpah
to be talking to her.

"We don't have to wager anything," she told him. "Sir Stephan will award a prize to the winning archer."

"I want no prize from Sir Stephan."

Libby gave him a challenging grin. "Who says you're going to win?"

"See how she suffers from the sin of pride, as well?"

Father John again. Libby whirled to face the crowd and the sneering priest. She planted her hands on her hips as she declared, "Who says it's pride? Maybe I'm good at this. Maybe I can—" This was no time to mention the sudden vivid memory of shooting arrows using a recurved bow while riding on a galloping horse. "Use a bow," she finished.

"I can use a bow," Father John answered smugly, "but I do not have to brag about my prowess. Only a foolish woman would—"

"We can all use bows," Lady Sibelle interrupted. "Women and men alike are trained in my lord's household, are we not?" There were nods of agreement as the Lady of Passfair stepped forward. "Come," she said, "let us chose teams, women against men, Matilda, myself, Lady Marjorie and Lady Isabeau against my lord, Sir Reynard, Father John, and Master Bastien. What think you, my lord?" she deferred to Sir Stephan.

Sizemore, Susan - After the Storm

Sir Stephan nodded, and slapped the priest on the shoulder. The friendly looking gesture was hard enough to make Father John wince. "I've often heard you praise your talent with a bow since the king did me the great honor of sending you to serve as my chaplain, good father." He looked around at the other men. "How can we lose to mere women with John's prayers and sharp eye to lead us to victory?"

The only man who didn't laugh was Bastien. The only man who didn't quickly gather around the Lord of Passfair was the scowling yeoman. "I have no taste for the competition," he said when the knight gave him a curious look. "I would not challenge my betters," he added. His tone was polite, but his expression was not.

"Snob," Libby muttered under her breath. She was willing to bet he always had been. It was in the nose. It'd almost be a waste not to be arrogant and elitist with a hawk beak like that.

The silence that followed Bastien's words was tense and uncomfortable. It was broken by Sir Reynard slapping him on the back, about as hard as Stephan had jarred the priest. "Don't be troublesome, lad.

Archery's a common man's sport. Compete on your own ground."

"On May Day all are equal," Lady Sibelle added.

After a moment's hesitation, Bastien gave a slight nod, along with a dangerous smile for the crowd. "You are wise, Lady Sibelle, and Sir Reynard is correct. I will fight with the knights of Passfair for today."

"You speak as though you would fight against us on another day," Stephan commented.

Before Bastien could reply, Henry came stumbling up. He had a red knot on his forehead about the size of an egg, but didn't look too worse for wear. Pity, Libby thought, then noticed that he looked more embarrassed than in pain.

Sizemore, Susan - After the Storm

He planted himself in front of the man who'd knocked him out and said, "I deserved that." Then he turned to Libby and bowed. "My apologies, Lady Isabeau." His tone was gruff, but he seemed sincere. After Henry spoke to her he glared at the priest, continued to ignore Matilda, and asked, "What's going on?"

Libby exchanged a look with Marj as the challenge was explained to Henry.

"What's with the brat?" she whispered to her companion.

"Maybe he needed to get hit on the head," Marj whispered back.

Libby gave a quick look back at Bastien, and the thick wooden staff in his hands.

"Think it'd help my memory if I asked him to hit me on the head?"

"Might not hurt to ask."

She didn't intend to ask Bastien of Bale anything. She had the feeling that being involved with him in any way would be dangerous. He was too handsome, too masculine, and belonged to another time. She was glad the group had divided up into teams, that there was something to do besides talk to him. She had no business talking to him, and she didn't need his help with her memory, either, she thought.

Maybe she didn't need any help, at all. Hadn't she just recovered another one of her Mongolian memories without any conscious effort? She wanted to get her hands on a bow, to find out if the memory was as real as she thought it was.

The merry crowd was growing larger around the archery range, waiting for the men and women to begin. Wagers were being made, and loud opinions were being exchanged. Libby grew tired of waiting for Sir Stephan and Lady Sibelle to decide on the rules and went over to pick a bow from a selection being watched over by one of the castle guards. She picked one, waited impatiently for the guard to string it for her, then tested the pull.

"It will do." Her arms were going to hurt from the exercise when this was over, Sizemore, Susan - After the Storm

but she'd manage. "May I take a few practice shots?" she asked as the others came over and began choosing their own bows.

"If it's true the Welsh are the finest archers in the world, then it would be cheating for the woman to practice before she shoots," Father John protested.

For a moment, Libby saw red as anger very nearly overtook her. She'd had about as much as she could take of the man's—. Calm down, girl, she reminded herself as she clawed back from the ragged edge of fury. She would not lose her temper.

She tried hard not to let him get to her.

In the short time it took her to get her fury under control, Bastien was standing beside her, an expression somewhere between humor and concern in his green eyes. He held an arrow out to her. "Why don't you try putting a practice shot through the priest's tongue?" he suggested.

Libby didn't know whether to be appalled or laugh at his advice. She knew she should be appalled at being tempted to take Bastien up on his words, but Father John was the worst pain in the butt she'd ever met.

"What have I ever done to him?" she asked Bastien instead. You weren't going to talk to Bastien, she reminded herself even as she spoke to him.

He flipped a bit of hair back off his shoulder, the casual grace of the gesture completely riveting Libby's attention. "Perhaps your beauty tempts him to forsake chastity, my lady."

She was so caught up in her fascination with the man that she didn't notice the compliment he'd given her for a moment. When his meaning did hit her she blushed, and turned away, feeling totally out of her depth in dealing with this handsome stranger.

Fortunately for her skittering nerves, Lady Sibelle raised her bow and said, "Let us begin, shall we?"

Sizemore, Susan - After the Storm

"They make an attractive couple, don't they?"

"No," was Marj's terse reply to the sheriff's question.

"Well, I think so."

Marj heard the amusement in Sir Reynard's tone, but she didn't see anything funny in the situation. She didn't know why he did, either, and didn't intend to ask.

"He's little more than a peasant," she pointed out. About the handsomest, most macho peasant in the thirteenth century, Marj conceded. And Libby's so much more than she seems, she added to herself. Including the boss's daughter. David Wolfe would not like it if his little girl got involved with anybody, let alone a local, which was against the rules, anyway.

"Heads could roll for this," Marj murmured as she watched Libby blush at something Bastien said. "My head, specifically."

Sir Reynard put his hand, his big, warm hand, comfortingly on her shoulder.

"Daffyd ap Bleddyn's a long way away," he reassured her. "And he'd be a fool to hold you accountable for his daughter's actions. She's a woman grown, isn't she?"

Once again, he'd overheard her whispered words. He had excellent hearing, and she had a bad habit of talking to herself. She was acquiring a worse habit of liking the sound of Reynard's deep, rumbling voice. If anyone was breaking the rules here, it was her. Libby, after all, had just met this Bastien of Bale. All right, she was lit up like a spotlight and Bastien practically glowed with sexuality.