Anita Mills (8 page)

“My lord bids ye keep to the rear, sister, that ye may flee. I am to tell ye there is a small abbey nae twelve leagues west of here—ye have but to follow the sun.”

She glanced up at the grey sky irritably. “Tell him there is no sun.”

“Then ye’d best follow the light.” His gruesome grin widened. “And I’d nae gainsay him, madame. Had ye nae been in Orders, he’d nae bothered wi’ ye. Aye—and if Willie’d nae been spoilin’ t’ fight.”

“In Normandy, the villein does not rule,” she observed acidly.

“Nay, Wee Willie is nae—”

“Hob!” Moray spoke sharply, and the toothless one returned instantly to him, leaving her to wonder what he’d been about to say. It did not matter, she supposed, for once she was safe at Harlowe she would not see Giles of Moray again.

“Aye, my lord?” Hob answered him.

“I mislike the wait. If Willie comes not soon, we retreat to a narrower place. I’d choose ground that favors me if ’tis to be a battle. When they see we do not come, mayhap they’ll move this way.”

“Aye.”

Overhead, a lone goshawk soared, circled, then swooped to attack a fleeing sparrow. There was a cry, a furious flapping of wings, then the hawk rose again and the hapless sparrow fell lifeless to the earth. Slowly now, the bigger bird glided in to land over its prey for the feast.

It was something that Elizabeth, who’d hunted much of her life, still could not watch without feeling a pang of regret for the vanquished. But it was, as her brother had often pointed out to her, the order of life that one thing should prey on another. She pulled her mantle closer over the rough habit and shivered visibly.

Willie returned as silently as he’d left, with only the sound of his boots crunching the dead leaves that littered the forest floor to betray him. Elizabeth strained to hear what he said to Moray.

“ ’Tis the same mesnie as we routed,” the big man reported.

“Jesu! How many this time?”

“Nae but twenty or so.”

Moray gave vent to anger in a dialect she could not understand, then he drew several of the others closer to confer in low tones. Finally he nodded, and turned to address Rannulf.

“While there is still time, you will take the sister to safety. There is a Cistercian abbey you can reach ere nightfall, where she will be welcomed.”

“Nay, I’d not go,” Elizabeth protested.

Without looking at her, Moray continued speaking to her captain. “Perhaps when ’tis safer they will send her on her way.”

Her man-at-arms glanced back uneasily, noting the set of her jaw and the flash of her eyes, and prayed she would hold her tongue. It was a futile hope. “Sir Giles,” she cut in icily, “if you are unprepared to provide the escort you have promised, we shall continue to Harlowe alone. We do not seek a refuge that will delay us.”

“Sister Elizabeth, for some reason, you would appear to have an enemy,” he answered with obviously strained patience. “If I am to secure your safety, I have not the time to dispute with you.”

“I do not go.”

“Lady …” Rannulf warned her.

“I can give you two knights, sir, knights trained in the arts of war far better than”—her eyes scanned the ill-assorted soldiers in his train before she finished—“than yours. We do not flee.”

“Take her reins and lead her,” Moray ordered Hob. “And if she argues overmuch silence her with a blow.”

“You have not the time to waste making me do your bidding, my lord,” she reminded him sweetly. “And if he dares touch my bridle I’ll trample him.”

“Holy Jesu, lady,” Hugh breathed low behind her. “Nay.”

Moray’s black eyes met hers and held. “Were you not Christ’s bride I’d be sorely tempted to beat you for that tongue.”

“Nay, you would not dare.”

“Lady!” Rannulf choked. “Good sir, I pray you will not heed her. The journey has been long, and—”

“’Twas you who insisted on accompanying me to Harlowe, my lord,” she reminded the borderer evenly. “Is the word of Giles of Moray truly worth nothing at all?

His eyes betrayed a flash of temper and his jaw tightened, but his voice when he spoke was cold. “There are but twelve of us against twenty or more, and—”

“Fourteen,” she corrected. “And you needed no more before.”

“I had the advantage of surprise.”

“Art a coward then?” she gibed.

“Sir, she has been cloistered,” Hugh babbled. “She knows not what she says. I pray you—”

“Lady, there is not man nor woman born who has called me craven and lived.”

This time there was no mistaking the fury in those black eyes. Knowing she’d pressed too far, she sought to placate him. “I know you not, my lord, but—”

“Nay, you do not.”

“My lord, they move already—there is no time,” Willie interrupted hastily.

With a curse, Giles jammed his scarred pot helmet onto his head and jerked his reins savagely, pulling away. Over his shoulder he ordered tersely, “See that she keeps to the rear—I have not the men to waste defending her. Aye, and if she falls into their hands, I am acquitted.”

“God’s bones, lady!” Rannulf exploded when he was gone. “If you have no care for your skin, I pray you will consider mine! Let us begone!”

“You forget yourself, sir,” she responded coldly, drawing the mantle about her again. “Follow him. Hugh will stay with me, where he will not risk so much.”

With Hugh muttering something about the folly of a woman, they fell in behind the retreating Scots, retracing the road back to where it climbed over a hill, dipped down into a rocky ford, then rose again at an angle through woods so dense that even without leaves, the dead, twisted brambles obscured much. Giles reined in and looked back down on the road, measuring the distance from the wet, slippery rocks to the trees. His anger mastered now, he turned to Willie, and frowned.

“ ’Tis here we stand. After you send the archers up, I mean to take the others over the hill. Hold your arrows until they are upon you, for I’d surprise them as best we may. When I hear Dunashie’s cry, we’ll attack. You”—he called to Rannulf—”ready yourself if you would stay.”

“Aye,” the captain agreed glumly.

Briefly Moray’s eyes rested on her again, and his face hardened. “Mistake me not, sister—if you are taken, I do not come after you again.”

She nodded.

“So be it then. God grant you the sense to flee if we are overrun. For now, you’d best hide yourself amongst the overgrown brush.” The black eyes dropped lower to the habit she wore. “Mayhap the color will hide you.”

He turned his attention back to his men, watching as a boy ran among them, collecting the archer’s mounts. One by one, their bows slung over their backs, four bowmen chose their trees and began to climb. Apparently satisfied, the Scot led the remaining seven over the crest of the hill to lie in wait.

Elizabeth followed him closely. “ ’Tis cowardly to hide, my lord—I’d not shame my blood.”

“Jesu! What manner of foolish creature are you?” he demanded angrily. “ ’Tis no tourney you would watch.”

“Mayhap I could aid—I could show myself and lead them to you, or—”

“ ’Tis a wonder your husband did not strangle you ere he died, madame, for I’ll warrant he was sorely tried,” he growled. “Nay, you will wait beyond the hill, else I will throttle you myself.”

“But—”

“If you would aid me, pray for rain enough to make the way up the hill slick.” His eyes again met hers, warning her against further argument. “ ’Tis to be hoped you wear a hair shirt under your habit in penance for your shrewish tongue.” Shifting his gaze to Hugh of Liseux, he ordered brusquely, “Take her deeper into the trees and wait with her.”

Reluctantly, she dismounted to lead her horse into the overgrown forest. Behind her, the man-at-arms drew his sword and followed, his heavy boots crunching the dead twigs and leaves. Even in winter the branches of underbrush were so dense that they tore at the black wool of her habit and tugged at her veil.’ Finally, she dropped to sit on a rotted log.

As they waited the mist turned to drizzle, then finally to an outright rain that rattled the few dead leaves above them. Her cloak, already damp, clung to her shoulders without providing much warmth. Hugh hunched miserably against a tree trunk, his body shaking. She thought of her brother’s tales of what it was like to ride fully mailed in rain and snow, encased in cold metal, and she felt a stab of sympathy for the knight.

“When I get to Harlowe I will see you have a warmer mantle,” she announced suddenly.

He turned baleful eyes toward her. “If we get to Harlowe.”

“Nay, we will.”

“Lady, I’d ride on whilst we may. I’d not wait for Moray.” Clearing his throat, he spat on the ground. “I’d not rely on a murdering thief to save me.”

“Nay.” Then, noting the doubt in his eyes, she added more reasonably, “Better twelve thieves than none to stand between us and our enemies.”

The rain increased, falling rhythmically on the sodden, musty leaves at their feet. Suddenly the eerie battle cry of the borderers echoed through the trees, followed by shouts of dismay as the Scots poured over the hill. The clash of steel against steel blended into the howling wind, lending an eerie quality to the brief battle. Then it was over. Horses broke through the forest, passing within fifty feet of her, as the band of knights fled in disorder. The gleeful, triumphant shouts of the Scots followed them, carrying over the cries of the wounded and dying.

Despite Hugh’s protests, Elizabeth rose from her hiding place to look over the hill. She saw Wee Willie moving among the dead, collecting weapons, while others salvaged helmets and mail. Giles of Moray was still mounted, his blood-spattered shield over his left arm. He was alone above the carnage, strangely aloof from it, yet his torn and soaked surcoat gave proof he’d been in the thick of the fight.

“Did you get their leader?” she shouted, gaining his attention.

“Nay, I think not.” He swung down, speaking to a borderer who scavenged over the bodies. Then he dislodged his helmet with an effort, forcing it from his head. “Nay,” he repeated. The water coursed over his black hair and dripped from his face. Looking upward into the rain, he grimaced. “Now you can pray for it to stop.”

“My lord, but three men of Dunashie are hurt and none sorely,” Hob reported gleefully. “ ’Tis one dead and one dying of them—och, but the rest fled.”

Moving stiffly, Giles walked to where the one who yet lived lay twitching in the shallow ford. The rocks were slick and the red water eddied beneath him. Giles drew his sword and bent low over the man, speaking with him, as Elizabeth tried to listen. Whatever the fellow said, Moray nodded, then delivered the death blow.

The wool of her skirts heavy with water now, she walked with an effort, conscious of the wooden crucifix at her breast, where it pressed from the weight of her sodden cloak. As she reached Moray, he rose and sheathed his sword, staring at her with renewed interest. A shiver of apprehension stole down her spine, and her fingers crept beneath her cloak to touch the Cross.

“Why do they want you?” he demanded harshly.

“I know not.”

“I asked why, and unless that poor soul went to hell with a lie on his lips, ’tis you they want. I’d know why I have lost three men wounded for you.”

“ ’Tis folly—he knows me not,” she protested,

“Where is this relic you carry, sister?”

Her cold fingers fumbled with the purse that hung from her waist, then drew out the small pouch. He caught one of his heavy gloves in his teeth, pulled it off, and held out his bared palm. She dropped the pouch into it.

“Open it—mine hands are bloodied.”

“Surely—”

“Open it.”

“Aye.” With an effort, she managed to untie the thongs and loosen them. She held it where he could see it. The bone, grown brown with age, fell into his scarred palms.

“ ’Tis all you carry?”

“Aye.”

“Why would they wish a relic?”

“I know not. Mayhap he thought to rob me, mayhap he thought ’twas a jewel I carried, but I cannot think …” Her voice trailed off as her mind raced, for she dared not let him discover her worth. “Well, he knew not who I was,” she lied again. “They mistake me for another mayhap.”

“Who are you?”

“A poor nun of Saint Agnes.”

“And your family?”

Once again, a shiver coursed through her as his eyes betrayed his suspicion, but she answered him calmly, “My father served King Henry in Normandy, my lord—I doubt you would know of him. He comes little into England.”

Before he could ask further she reached out to take the relic from his palm, and felt the hard scars. Her fingers touched the lines lightly. “Your hand—’twas wounded sorely. How had you this?”

“ ’Tis nothing.” He drew away. “You’d best keep that safe.”

“It looks as though you have been burned.”

“I was. How long have you been a widow, sister?” he asked with a suddenness that startled her.

“It has been three years, my lord.”

“And you have taken your final vows so soon?”

New apprehension prickled her skin and traveled her spine. “I received a dispensation,” she lied again.

“A dispensation? Sweet Jesu, but you must be a woman of worth then, for most poor souls cannot afford the bribes.” The bitterness in his voice was again unmistakable, making her wonder if perhaps his sins had set the Church against him.

“Nay. My priest interceded for me, and as my father did not object, ’twas done.”

“How old are you?”

“Two and twenty.”

“ ’Tis overyoung to wither, sister.” Apparently satisfied, he started to turn away, then stopped. Once again, her heart thudded painfully beneath the heavy wooden crucifix. “Did you bear your lord any sons?” he asked.

“Nay, I was barren. My husband’s family returned me to my father’s house, and as I have sisters…” She let her voice trail off, hoping to give him the impression that she had been little dowered.

He did not respond to that. Instead, he pushed back his wet hair and reset his helmet. Water dripped from his lashes, his cheeks, and his chin. “If you are ready to ride, I’d not tarry here. I’d reach Harlowe on the morrow. Too long I have been from Dunashie, sister, and my land needs me.”

Not for a moment did she believe he held this Dunashie or any lands thereof, but she did not dispute him. It didn’t matter what a lowly knight thought of her, she told herself. Once she reached Harlowe she’d send word to her father, telling him of Reyner’s perfidy. Nay, but the Count of Eury would not have risked harming her unless he had joined Stephen’s cause.