Anita Mills (10 page)

“I admit nothing!” Then, perceiving how she must sound, she drew in her breath. “Impertinent lout,” she muttered, looking away.

For a long moment he studied her fine profile, thinking she was in truth the most beautiful woman of his memory, and once again he felt an impotent anger that she was beyond his reach. Unlike Aveline, this woman would never have cowered in his bed. But when she turned back her expression was cold. Knowing that soon she’d be gone from his presence forever he could not resist one last gibe, for he’d see the fire in those emerald eyes again.

“I was wrong, sister—’twas not your uncommon size nor your lack of dowry that spared you a second husband.” He paused as color rose in her face, then nodded. “Aye, ’twas your temper, Elizabeth. But had I been there, I’d have taken you despite it.” His gaze moved over her. “Had you been mine, I’d have broken you to ride. You’d have borne strong, fierce sons for me.”

His insolence was too much to be borne. Something deep within her snapped. For a long moment she stared, her eyes betraying rising fury, then her temper exploded. Heedless of the water gate ahead, she stood, towering over him, and pulled at the veil that covered her head, ripping it off. The wind caught her black hair as it tumbled over her shoulders. When she spoke, her voice shook with rage.

“Nay, but you’d not have dared, fool—you’d not have dared raise your eyes to me, you heathen savage! My father would have scourged you for the insults you have offered me. ’Tis to Elizabeth of Rivaux you would speak thus, sir, and afore God you will answer for every word!” Her voice dropped, low and husky, as she leaned over him. “Aye, I am born of the blood of counts, daughter to this earl, Sir Scot. ’Twas to the son of a count I was wed.”

“Nay, you lie.” But even as he said it he knew otherwise, for it explained the arrogance too well.

She’d expected him to cower but he did not, and for some reason that fueled her fury. “Nay, I’d not have mixed my blood with the likes of you, sir!”

She looked up, seeing that they were now within the outer wall. Above her the people were shouting, “For God and St. Agnes! For Rivaux!” Heedless of the winter’s cold, she removed her cloak, letting them see her, acknowledging their cheers. Then, as the barge slipped into its moorings, she walked to the front, ordering those who waited, “Arrest him.” Turning back briefly, she met his gaze with disdain. “You, sir, are my prisoner—may Harlowe teach you the manners you lack.”

Armed men surrounded the barge. Before Giles could lunge for her, she stepped ashore. As Harlowe’s seneschal bowed low before her, she told him, “Sir Walter, see to the Scottish lout. I’d have him held until his overlord ransoms him.”

The older man glanced to Giles, his surprise evident. “Nay, lady, but he does not look worth it.”

“He has sworn to Stephen—or so he says. Mayhap he has value there. And if there’s none to ransom him, he can rot here.”

“Who is he?” the seneschal asked, betraying curiosity.

“He calls himself Giles of Moray, but he is not of the earl’s family,” she explained. “A by-blow, more like.”

“Nay, but …” The officer looked to where Giles stood, now surrounded by guards. “Nay, but ’tis not he,” he protested. “The Butcher of Dunashie would not journey thus. The fellow lies.”

“I care not who he is,” she answered tiredly. “I’d have food and a bath, for I have ridden since St. Agnes. Butcher or no, he’ll stay in the prisoner’s tower.”

“Nay!” Wee Willie, who’d come ashore in one of the boats, saw the drawn swords around his master. He started forward, ready to do battle with his bare hands. “ ’Tis the lying English as calls him that!” Grabbing a bargeman’s pike, he swung it around before him, knocking a stout knight down. In an instant, a dozen mailed men circled him. “Nay, you’ll nae take us!”

“ ’Tis enough, Will—I’d have you live to fight again!” His black eyes betraying his contempt of her, Moray addressed Elizabeth. “ ’Tis poor coin you pay me, lady—I should have let your enemies have you.”

Ignoring him, she moved away, telling Walter of Meulan, “I’d hear how my grandmother fares, sir, that I may write my father of it. And later I would inspect the defenses, for I’d be prepared for siege. Stephen is not like to be pleased to hear that Guy of Rivaux repudiates him.”

Giles of Moray watched her go, passing him with no more concern than if he’d ceased to exist. And in that moment he swore to himself he’d have revenge: he’d see Elizabeth of Rivaux beg at his feet. He’d see fear in those green eyes ere he was done with her. No man or woman living had dared hold him—not since King Henry.

“Unhand me, ye Saxon dung!” Hob snarled at the red-shirted man who reached out to him. “ ’Tis more worthy than ye I am!” Looking up at Giles, he forced a smile. “Och, what now, my lord?”

Moray surveyed the inner bailey grimly, then shook his head. “We await the Countess Eleanor,” he said simply.

“Aye, but Dunashie’ll be beset when ’tis known yer held here.”

“Nay. Mine enemies know I’ll kill a man for every hide they take.” Squaring his shoulders, Giles addressed one whose badge marked him for the captain of guards. “For now, I’d have a bath and food also.”

The fellow moved back warily, lifting his sword. “Art truly the lord of Dunashie?” he asked cautiously.

“Dolt!” Willie snorted.

“Aye,” Giles answered.

A disquieting murmur spread through the men around them, with more than one furtively signing the Cross as though he would be protected from the beast before him. And as he followed the captain of the guard he could hear someone behind him hiss low, “ ’Tis Giles of Moray, whose soul is as black as his hair. ’Tis said he burned his own people.”

“Aye,” another whispered, “ ’tis said he was even tried for murder by the heathen Scots.”

“Sweet Jesu! By combat?”

“Nay, there was none to meet him. ’Twas ordeal.”

Willie watched his master’s jaw tighten and saw his hands clench. And he wished he had the means to comfort him, but there was none. There never had been. “Och, but they dinna know,” he muttered under his breath. “They dinna know.”

The messenger arrived, breathless from the furious ride to Rothesay, Brian FitzHenry’s shell keep. Ushered immediately into the main hall, he approached Eleanor of Nantes and dropped to his knee before her, holding out Walter of Meulan’s letter. A liveried page scampered to carry it to the old woman who sat, a tiny, almost birdlike figure, upon the center chair. She turned to hand it to the woman at her side.

“Mine eyes are not what I would have them, Linn—I pray you will read it to me.”

Aislinn of the Condes, second daughter to Earl Roger and the countess, broke the seal and scanned the parchment quickly, her eyes traveling down the page in disbelief. Brian FitzHenry leaned forward.

“ ’Tis ill news?”

Aislinn reread the first few sentences grimly. “Aye. Guy sends Elizabeth to defend Harlowe.”

“Nay, you must not think I mind it,” her husband hastened to reassure her. “ ’Tis agreed I am more use on the field.”

“She may hold the Butcher prisoner there.”

“The Butcher?” Eleanor asked, frowning. “Nay, but…” For a moment, she was at a loss, then she was stunned. “Does he say ‘tis the Butcher of Dunashie?” she demanded. “Surely it cannot be … we are too far …” Her voice trailed off as she tried to assimilate the possibility. The Butcher. In these troubled times, mayhap there was yet another so called. “Nay, but he comes not to Harlowe,” she decided finally. “We have had no trouble with the Scots, for the distance is too great.”

Aislinn nodded. “Walter writes that she has arrested one who calls himself Giles of Moray, and she holds him for Stephen’s ransom.”

“Dunashie?” Brian gaped momentarily. “Nay, she does not! Not even Elizabeth would be such a fool,” he declared flatly, reaching for the letter.

But Aislinn held it firmly, her dark eyes moving down the page. Finally, she read aloud,

“Sweet Mary,” Eleanor breathed.

“Holy Jesu!” Brian muttered under his breath. “Nay, but surely ’tis not he.” He reread Walter’s words over his wife’s shoulder. “The Butcher would not have so few,” he reassured himself aloud. “Nay, but he would come down with fifty mounted knights and twenty archers beneath his banner, and he would come not in peace. Black Giles would raid.”

“But would the lord of Dunashie journey this far?” Aislinn questioned. “ ’Tis too great a distance to come to steal.”

He shook his head. “He could have come from Wycklow, for he holds that now, and in these troubled times … Well, I’d not think it, but I suppose he could,” he admitted slowly. “But not with a poor mesnie…. Nay, ’tis not he, I’d say. His pride and arrogance are said to be great.”

“I cannot think any other would claim to be he,” Eleanor mused. “His repute is not that which any would wish.”

“Well, if ’tis in truth he, Elizabeth gains us an enemy I’d not have,” Aislinn muttered. “Sweet Mary, but ’tis said he has soaked the borders between Dunashie and Wycklow with blood. Does she forget the raids at Glenochil and Breston, and those into Northumbria? I cannot think that even Elizabeth … Sweet Mary, he even burned his own people.”

“She would not know of that,” her husband cut in impatiently. “But if ’tis thought he may be lord of Dunashie, I’d best ride to Harlowe in hopes of mending the matter ere greater harm is done. Jesu! As David of Scotland sides with the Empress also, ’twill be difficult to explain how ’tis we hold his liege man.”

Eleanor shook her head. “I’d not ask it, Brian, for you are not yet well yourself.”

“Maman …”

“Nay, Linn, I have ruled at Harlowe these twenty-seven years and more, in Roger’s name and in mine own. ’Twould be better were it I who sees to the matter,” the old woman decided. “And if ’tis indeed he, I will release him in Guy’s name, offering him Harlowe’s hospitality ere he goes.”

“What of Elizabeth? If Guy gives her command …”

“Elizabeth is not a fool. Once she realizes what she has done, I expect she will agree.”

“ ’Twould have been better had Guy given her again in marriage,” Brian said sourly. “ ’Tis not meet that she remain unwed when there are alliances to be made.”

“Nay, but she is barren,” Aislinn reminded him. “And who knows why he has sent her? Mayhap Rivaux had not room for both she and Cat.”

“You wrong her, I think,” Eleanor chided her daughter. “She was a sweet child ere she went to Eury.”

“But ever headstrong. I have long thought Guy watched the wrong one. Who’s to say she will bend to your will, Maman? If Guy gives her his writ—”

“She knows that if Elizabeth should be unbearable, she is welcome to return here,” Brian interrupted her. “Aye, you are, you know,” he added, turning to Eleanor. “Rothesay is your home any time you wish it.”

“I have been fortunate in you and Guy,” the old woman murmured, her dark eyes misting. “My daughters gave me the sons I could not bear.” She leaned forward to beckon Walter’s messenger. “I carry my answer myself—aye, we return together.”

Long before Elizabeth finished her bath, her anger had eased and her conscience told her she’d been wrong. Sir Giles, whoever he might be, had in truth probably saved her life not once but twice. And his words had never been directed at Elizabeth of Rivaux but rather to a nun, she mused as she soaked. But they were still offensive in the extreme, she argued within herself, for there’d been utter disrespect for Holy Church also in his remarks. And as the journey had progressed his manner toward her had changed markedly.

She closed her eyes, hearing him again.
Had you been mine, I’d have broken you to ride.
She could see in her mind the way he’d looked at her when he’d said it, and her face flamed, for there was no mistaking what he’d meant.
’Twas your temper, Elizabeth. But had I been there, I’d have taken you despite it.
And for all that she would have despised him, it was somehow gratifying that he’d said it when he knew not who she was.

Resolutely, she put him from her mind, turning instead to the puzzle of Reyner’s attack. Why had he done it? Did he think to deliver her to Stephen as hostage against her father? Did he hope to ransom her? Or did he still fear what she could tell of Ivo? Surely after her years of silence, he would know she could not speak of him. Nay, ’twas more like that he meant to see her dead, for the dead spoke not at all. Mayhap he’d thought her disappearance would be blamed on the lawless bands of brigands that roamed Stephen’s troubled realm.

But try as she would she could not forget what Giles of Moray had done for her, the way he’d stood over her, ready to defend her with his broadsword. His Scots had given no quarter, killing with ferocity any who did not flee, routing more than twice their number easily.
Nay, I’d not harm you.
Again she could feel the support of his arm beneath hers, could see his black eyes glitter above the nasal of his helm.