Joining (25 page)

At least now, after what had happened with the king, she didn’t doubt she would get Nigel’s approval. Ironically, she actually had King John to thank for that.

Clydon was less than a day’s ride from Shefford. She knew that much. And she soon found a road leading south, so she left the woods, knowing that she was more likely to come across others who might give her exact directions if she kept to a well-traveled road.

She was being followed. She had known it since she had left the woods. But she wasn’t worried, assuming the three men to be a Shefford patrol who had spotted her in the woods and thus were doing their job, to make sure she wasn’t poaching or anything else they might have to put a stop to. She expected them to double back the way they had come as soon as she was fully off Shefford lands.

She did get a bit uneasy, though, when they slowly but surely shortened the distance between them. They were not trying to be obvious, which was why she was getting nervous. If they wanted to have words with her, they were close enough now to get her to stop with a shout. They were instead being sneaky.

And that was when she recalled that in escaping one threat against her, the king’s revenge, she was leaving herself open to that other threat—the men who had thrice tried to do her serious harm. If they had not given up, if they had been watching Shefford from afar…
Jesu,
why hadn’t she once thought of them before
she’d plotted her escape? Not that it would have stopped her. John had been the more immediate threat. But she could have been more cautious if she had recalled them sooner.

She had several choices. She could set her horse into a gallop and head back into the woods on either side of the road, to try to lose them. Not the best of choices since she wasn’t familiar with these woods. Or she could stop beside the road on some pretext, to see if they would pass her by and continue on. Nay, she didn’t like that idea either. It would let them get too close if they were indeed who she feared they might be.

There was one more choice. She could turn to confront them now, with drawn bow, which would get them to at least stop and explain themselves—or not. Yet if they were merely a Shefford patrol, they could likely convince her easily of that, find out that she was harmless herself, and go about their business. And if they were the Shefford patrol, they would also pursue her if she suddenly made an attempt to lose them, thinking she had something to fear of them in particular. So that would not let her know, really, who they were.

Either way, she would be better served to confront them, and hope she was being nervous over naught. But she needed to dismount to do so. If it was necessary to use her bow, her feet needed to be solidly planted. She couldn’t take the chance that her horse might shift his weight or otherwise move to ruin her aim, when her aim was her only advantage.

It allowed them to draw closer when she stopped there in the middle of the road. But
they did stop as well when she dismounted. She wasn’t prepared, though, for their reaction to her bringing the bow off her shoulder to hand and reaching for an arrow.

They dispersed instantly, and in opposite directions, two galloping off to different sides of the road, and the third charging right toward her. It was a maneuver to confuse, expertly done, likely planned in advance. She couldn’t keep her eye on all three of them if they were circling around her.

She had only moments to decide that the one charging directly at her was the one of immediate import, and only seconds to shout, “Desist and you can live!”

He didn’t. She fired. Notching a second arrow was automatic and nigh instant for her, and she was turning toward the next target before the first hit the ground.

Two more arrows were released in quick succession. Whether she had done any serious damage through their heavy winter clothing was questionable, but she didn’t stay to find out. One was slumped over his horse, the other two men were sprawled unmoving on the ground. She had disabled them for the moment, which was all she had really meant to do, in case they
were
Shefford men.

But those two who hadn’t moved worried her as she galloped off. She prayed they hadn’t been the Shefford patrol. She prayed that if they were, she hadn’t killed them. She was sick at heart, fretting over it. Trying to convince herself that she had just saved her own life wasn’t easy when she didn’t know that for sure.

Thirty-four

Clydon was easier
to find than Milisant had thought it would be, simply because it was much bigger than she had realized. Verily, the huge white castle with its high curtain walls spread out over many acres. It was a strong deterrence for the area, and that Shefford was its overlord made her realize just how powerful the Earl of Shefford was—and how powerful Wulfric would one day be.

Strangely, when she should have been thinking only of Roland and what she would say to him on that long ride, it was Wulfric who plagued her thoughts. She expected him to be relieved by what she was going to do. He would be able to marry as he wanted now, mayhap even that woman he was in love with. Despising him as she did, it was ironic that she was doing him this favor.

They would both benefit, and the king could go find someone else’s life to meddle with. It was almost accomplished. She could be wed to Roland in a matter of days. She knew she could
be happy with him. Well, she was sure. They were good friends, after all. So
why
wasn’t she ecstatic? Why did she feel as if she had left something unfinished?

She was able to find a secluded spot in the woods to change clothes before she approached Clydon, and did so quickly. The sea green and gold bliaut went well with her light green eyes, which was likely why Jhone had picked it. Her attire had been the first thing Jhone had remarked on when she’d seen her dressing in her old clothes.

“You cannot arrive at Clydon and expect them to believe who you are, dressed like that. You may not even get past the gates.”

Thus she had brought the one change of clothes, to get her inside Clydon—and it did. The guards barely questioned her, though they did look at her strangely. Likely because she still had her bow slung over her shoulder. And her luck was holding true. Roland was in residence. One of the guards even went off to find him, while the other summoned a servant to take her to the keep.

She was impressed with Clydon Castle. Shefford was bigger, and with more people, always cluttered with activity. Dunburh was cluttered, too, though not just with people who lived there, but with the many travelers it offered hospitality to. But Clydon was clean, orderly. There was activity in the bailey, certainly, but it was more a homey atmosphere, with much friendliness.

And grass, rather than dirt, covered the large bailey. The mud left behind by the recent snowstorm
wasn’t present here as it had been at Shefford, and always was at Dunburh as well. It made for a much different appearance that Milisant, loving nature as she did, appreciated. She was pleased, aware that she would not mind at all living here.

Roland found her before she reached the keep. She would have known him in any crowd, just because of his height. Had he actually grown even more since she had last seen him?
Jesu,
he really was a giant, only a half foot short of seven feet. And so handsome—well, how could she forget that?

He had his father’s light blond hair and violet eyes, a remarkable combination. And he was not slim of build for all that height, far from it. He had one of the more perfectly proportioned bodies she had ever seen on a male, broad and thick where he should be, tightly muscled where he should be. It was why she had always enjoyed watching him at arms practice. He was a perfect example of his gender, what other men only wished they could be.

In all fairness, she had to admit that Wulfric was another example of a perfect physique, if a few inches shorter. His perfectness ended there, though. Roland had a wonderful disposition to complement his strength: a teasing nature, kindness, gentleness when called for. Wulfric, however, lacked all of that; he was brutish, of sour disposition, argumentative, and… and why was she still thinking of him, when Roland had nigh reached her?

“Jesu,
who rubbed your face in the dirt, Mili?”
was the first thing Roland said to her after he lifted her high and bear-hugged her in greeting.

Milisant’s cheeks burst with hot color. She had remembered to change her clothes so she would present a ladylike facade to enter Clydon, yet she had forgotten about the sooty makeup she had applied for her disguise. No wonder the Clydon guards had looked at her funny. Faugh, as if she cared what she looked like.

So why was she blushing? But she knew why, if she cared to admit it. It was Wulfric’s fault, for making her aware of her appearance lately. His blasted compliments. The way his eyes took in every detail of her whenever he came near her. She had actually found herself using a looking glass before she left her chamber in Shefford, something she had never thought to do at home.

“Put me down, oaf,” she grouched to Roland in her embarrassment, and pointed out, “What traveler ever arrives without a good deal of road dust?”

“What road dust?” he countered, laughing. “The recent snows washed it all away.”

He set her down and immediately started thumbing the dirt off her cheeks, an action very familiar to her—Jhone always did the same. And as was usually the case, she swatted the hands away automatically. It did give her pause, though, to realize that he was treating her as her sister did, and she had just done the same to him.

“The dirt was applied for a reason, to get me here without much bother,” she decided to tell him. “I traveled not dressed as you see me, but in my leggings.”

“Why leggings? And who wouldst dare bother a lady under escort, which is the only way you… would…?” His words trailed off because she was looking decidedly uncomfortable, and refusing to meet his gaze now. So it wasn’t really surprising to hear him add, “Do you tell me you traveled here alone, I will beat you.”

He would do no such thing, and they both knew it. He did know her well, though, which was why he had guessed accurately. And she did plan to tell him everything, so there was no reason for her to be embarrassed about it, other than the fact that she had never done anything so wildly dangerous before as travel so far from home—alone.

So she began, “’Twas necessary for me to leave Shefford without permission.”

That she had obviously arrived safely, in whatever manner, allowed him to set aside his concern long enough to tease her with a grin, “I know you think I need protection, Mili, but you did not need to come here to escort me personally to your wedding. My father always takes a large force along when my mother travels with him, and I will be with them… Forgive me. That expression you now wear says this is no matter to jest about.”

She shook her head. “Nay, I love your teasing, so do not apologize. ’Tis just that much has happened, and none of it good. I do mean to explain fully, I just do not know where, exactly, to begin—nay, I do. The reason I had to leave Shefford in secret is I had an altercation with King John, who arrived early for the wedding.”

Roland frowned. “What sort of altercation?”

“A serious one. ’Twould seem he is not pleased by the matter of my betrothal, and bethought himself a way to have it set aside—by bedding me. I objected—forcefully, for which he is like to want revenge, especially if I still join with Wulfric of Shefford. The only way I can think to appease John is to marry someone else.”

“Jesu,
Mili, you need not make such a sacrifice because of John’s predilection for wenching. I can see why he would want to add you to his tally, but Shefford is too powerful for him to make an issue of this. He tried and failed. He is sure to leave it at that.”

She shook her head once more. “’Tis not what you are thinking. He did not just want to ‘add me to his tally.’ He wanted to give Wulfric a reason to repudiate me. He bespoke benefits for us both.”

“Do you tell me he thinks so highly of himself that he accounts bedding him as a benefit for you?” Roland scoffed, then corrected himself with a measure of disgust. “On second thought, if anyone would esteem himself that highly, ’twould be John Lackland.”

“But not in this case,” she clarified. “I had let the king know I did not want to join with Wulfric in marriage.
That
was the benefit for me.”

“Are you daft?” Roland asked, incredulous over her words. “How could you not want Wulfric de Thorpe? He will one day be my father’s overlord, and mine after that. If his power is not enough to humble you with thanksgiving, the look of him should make you—”

“Not another word or I will clout you. Humble
me with thanksgiving?” She snorted. “When did I give you the impression that I aspired to be a countess?”

“You did not have to. From birth you were destined to be Lord Wulfric’s countess.”

She sighed. “Not by
my
choice, Roland. We never spoke much of it at Fulbray, but I have despised Wulfric since we were children. He hurt me badly when we did first meet, caused me months of fear and agony when I thought I would be crippled for life. I can never forget or forgive that.”