Knight of Pleasure (19 page)

“He gets angry with her often? The poor woman.”

“Poor Catherine?” Stephen laughed. “Believe me, she has the great commander wrapped around her little finger.”

He was quiet a moment. “There is nothing he would not do for her,” he said, his voice wistful. “Or she for him.”

Who would have guessed the stern commander harbored a great love? Inexplicably, the thought made Isobel’s eyes sting.

“Do not fret over William’s displeasure,” Stephen said. “He is so angry with me, he can have little left for you.”

“What happened?”

“It is because of me,” he said, staring straight ahead, “that Jamie ran off.”

She averted her gaze from the naked pain on Stephen’s face and tried to think of something she could say to comfort him.

“William!” Stephen roared.

She jerked her head up. Time stopped as she tried to make sense of the scene before her: FitzAlan slumped over his horse,
a rain of arrows falling all about him. Was FitzAlan injured? How was it possible?

Stephen’s shouts brought her to her senses.

“To the wood, Isobel! Now!” He pointed in the direction he wanted her to go and then shot forward on his horse.

She turned her horse into the field and galloped across it toward the wood beyond. When she risked a glance over her shoulder,
her heart went to her throat.

Stephen had put himself between his wounded brother and the stand of trees from which the arrows were coming. As she watched,
he leaned over, caught the reins of FitzAlan’s horse, and took off again. Praise God!

Before she entered the wood, she looked for him again. Stephen was galloping, with FitzAlan in tow, in a wide arc that would
bring them into the same wood, but farther up. She entered the wood and rode, as fast as she dared, to meet them.

At last she saw movement ahead through the trees. When she came upon the two horses, panic surged through her. Their saddles
were empty. Then she saw Stephen beside a fallen log, hunched over his brother.

She leapt down from her horse and knelt beside him.

“What can I do?” She gripped Stephen’s arm and peered down at FitzAlan.

Oh, my God.
FitzAlan was drenched in blood. An arrow stuck out of his neck above his chain mail shirt.

“We should have taken the time to don full armor,” Stephen said as he worked the arrow out of FitzAlan’s neck. “Find something
to bind the wound. Quickly.”

Isobel removed the food bundle she had stowed inside her shirt. She let the bread and cheese fall to the ground, shook out
the cloth, and folded it tightly.

“I am ready.”

Stephen pulled the arrow free, and she pressed the cloth against the spurting wound.

God help them, FitzAlan was insensible and pale as death.

Stephen kept pressure on the wound while she cut a long strip from the bottom of her cloak. Then, working together, they wound
the strip over the cloth covering the wound, around his back, and under his arm. Stephen tied the binding tight across his
brother’s chest.

As soon as it was done, Stephen gripped Isobel’s arms and looked into her face. “Those men are still out there. I must divert
them before they come into the wood.”

“You are going back?”
Sweet Jesus, no. Please no.

“I will come back for you as soon as I can.” He pulled the sword and short blade from FitzAlan’s belt and handed them to her.
“But you must be ready should one of them get by me.”

Oh God oh God oh God.

“You can do this, Isobel,” he said, his eyes fixed on hers. “If a man does come, he will believe he sees a helpless woman.
That is your advantage.”

She looked down and saw that her hair fell loose about her shoulders. Where was her cap? It must have fallen…

Stephen took hold of her chin and turned her back to face him. “Use his ignorance against him. Use your sword. Kill him, Isobel.
Kill him.”

Could she do it? Could she? His eyes drilled into hers until she nodded.

He took her face in his hands and kissed her hard. “Give him no second chances.”

As Stephen’s horse crashed through the underbrush, she gazed down upon the man entrusted to her care. King Henry’s famous
commander. Beloved of Catherine. ’Twas her fault he lay here grievously injured. She had distracted them from the real danger.

She took a deep breath and went to retrieve a blanket and flask from the horses. After wrapping the blanket around FitzAlan,
she shooed the horses away so they would not give away their hiding place. Then she gathered armfuls of leaves and piled them
around FitzAlan.

When she was satisfied FitzAlan was well hidden, she settled down beside him behind the fallen log. The smell of decaying
wood and leaves filled her nostrils as she dribbled ale from the flask into his mouth. He swallowed without waking.

She alternated between checking FitzAlan and peeking over the top of the log. Though Stephen could not have been gone long,
each moment seemed a day. She would not let herself think of what she would do if he did not return.

God, please keep him safe. Keep him safe.

She heard a twig snap. Gripping the sword in one hand and the short blade in the other, she inched up until she could see
over the top of the log. Nothing.

She held her breath and listened.

There it was again.

She turned toward the sound, searching.

And then she saw him. A man, twenty yards off and coming straight toward her. She set down the sword to wipe the sweat from
her hand.

Mary, Mother of God. She prayed under her breath that the man’s presence did not mean Stephen was dead.

The man was coming closer. She had to think, to make her plan. He wore no armor, so she had a chance. She heard Stephen’s
voice in her head, saying,
Isobel, you can do this.

She waited until he was ten feet from her.

She stood abruptly, keeping her hands behind her. “Sir! Please help me!”

The man’s eyes went wide. “Now, here’s a bonus,” he said, relaxing his sword arm and breaking into a wide grin. “I was not
told there would be a woman.”

From his accent and his rough clothing, she could tell he was a French commoner. “English soldiers took me from my home,”
she called out, pretending to cry. “You must help me, please!”

The man came toward her slowly, as if she were a horse easily spooked. What if he was not one of the attackers? What if he
was just some peasant who meant to help her? He had a sword, but—

The man raked his eyes over her, and she knew with utter certainty he meant her harm. And when he was finished with her, he
would murder FitzAlan.

She stood very still and waited. One more step. One more step. When he was just on the other side of the log, not four feet
from her, he lunged for her.

The shock of resistance as the point of her sword entered his body made her arm shake. She clenched her teeth and pressed
forward with all her weight. For a long, dreadful moment, he swayed on his feet, staring at her with eyes wide with surprise.
Then he fell backward, ripping her sword from her hands.

She jumped over the log and stood over him, her heart thundering in her chest. The sword. She had to have it back.

Fighting back nausea, she took hold of the hilt with both hands and tugged. It would not give! Her hands felt cold and clammy.
Sweat trickled down her back. She had to have it back.

She put her foot on the man’s chest and pulled with her weight behind it. At last the sword gave way with a wet sucking sound.
She fell back a step but kept her hold on it.

The blade was dripping with the man’s blood. She could not take her eyes from it.

At the sound of a loud grunt behind her, she whipped around and saw FitzAlan. He had one arm over the log, trying to support
himself. A chill ran through her as she realized his eyes were not on her. They were fixed on something behind her.

FitzAlan’s free arm moved in a blur and something whizzed past her ear. When she turned back to look the other way, she saw
a second man not five feet from her. FitzAlan’s knife was in his chest.

She was behind the log before she knew she’d moved.

“My vision is not good,” FitzAlan said in a rasping voice. The poor man’s face was wet with sweat, and the bandage on his
neck was soaked in blood. “But I think there are one or two more of them in the wood.”

One or two more?

She swallowed hard. “I shall be ready this time.”

“Good girl.”

Isobel grabbed FitzAlan’s sleeve to break his fall as he slid to the ground.

I
sobel kept watch as before. FitzAlan’s color was not good. Not good at all. She leaned down and put her ear to his chest again.
Thump thump, thump thump.
The strength of his heartbeat reassured her.
Thump thump, thump thump.

She heard a rustle and opened her eyes to see a man leading a horse through the trees. There was no use hiding. The log did
not block them from this side, and the man had already seen them. She got to her feet and stood in front of FitzAlan.

The man halted several feet away, giving her time to notice the glint of silver on his horse’s saddle and his fine clothing.
This one was a nobleman. A French nobleman.

“Lord FitzAlan, the English king’s great commander, reduced to having a woman champion.” He shook his head and gave her a
bemused smile. “It is quite splendid of you, dear lady. But hopeless, nonetheless.”

So this was no random attack! These men knew their quarry. Somehow they must have learned FitzAlan rode out without his men
today. But how was that possible? Who could have told them? And gotten the word to them so quickly?

The man took a step forward, and she shouted, “Halt!”

“I will not hurt you,” the man said, his voice calm. “ ’Tis FitzAlan I’ve come for.”

“What will you do with him?”

“Take him for ransom.” He took another step forward. “FitzAlan is quite a prize, you know.”

Isobel did not believe him for a moment. These men had sought to kill FitzAlan from the start.

“Halt,” she cried again as the man took yet another step forward. She kept her sword pointed at him.

“I may have to take you with me; otherwise, no one will believe me,” he said, sounding amused. “I’ll wager your husband will
pay a hefty sum to have you back.”

A cold calm settled over her as she accepted she would have to fight him. She felt a wave of gratitude toward Stephen. Every
day he practiced with her had made her better. But would she be good enough? She looked the man over, to judge him as Stephen
had taught her.

Nothing about him reassured her. He was taller and stronger than she was. What worried her more was that he walked with an
easy grace that suggested he would be quick and light on his feet. Damn, damn, damn.

What did Stephen tell her? Find her advantage and use it. Too bad she had no skirt to lift to show her ankles.

She remembered Stephen’s reaction to her leggings and unfastened her cloak with one hand. When she shrugged it off, the man
dropped the point of his sword and gaped open-mouthed at her legs. Before she could overcome her surprise at how well it worked,
he brought his gaze back up to meet her eyes.

“I’d wager your husband finds you a handful.” His tone was still amused, but the glint in his eyes had her backing up. “I
would love to be there when you explain to him how you happen to be traveling alone with FitzAlan and his brother… dressed
as a man.”

Her heel hit FitzAlan’s prone form. She could step back no farther. With the man just two or three feet beyond the reach of
her sword, she could wait no longer to begin her farce. She made a clumsy swing at him with her sword.

This time, she did not miss her moment.

When the man threw his head back, roaring with laughter, she lunged forward with her sword aimed straight at his heart. At
the last instant, he jumped back and saved himself.

“You are full of surprises!” He was smiling, but he had his sword at the ready now.

She had no more tricks. There was nothing for it but to fight as best she could. He came at her hard and fast. The first attack
she fended off. Then the second, and the third. But he was quick and strong, and more skilled than she.

“I see ’tis true that chivalry is dead among the French nobility,” she jeered. “You are the worst kind of coward, to attack
a man so gravely injured and a defenseless woman.”

“You are hardly defenseless, my dear.” He was circling, waiting for her to give him an opening. “I must ask, who was your
teacher?”

She did have one advantage left, after all. From the way he was fighting, he was trying only to disarm her. She fought with
no such constraint; she would kill him if he gave her half a chance.

As they moved forward and back, swords clanging, he showed no concern he might lose. In sooth, the man appeared to be enjoying
himself. He spun in a circle, returning in time to block her thrust. Good heavens, the fool was showing off!

The next time he spun about, she was ready. She lunged at once, putting all her weight behind it. Somehow he managed to duck
below her sword, and she fell crashing forward. The air went out of her as he caught her around the waist.

“You tried to kill me!” the man said.

He hit her wrist with the side of his hand. The sharp pain made her hand go numb, and she dropped her sword.

“For that, I shall make you watch FitzAlan die,” he said. “He must mean a good deal to you, for you to risk your life for
him.”

She kicked and screamed and bit as he dragged her with one arm back to where FitzAlan lay unmoving beside the log. Holding
her against his side with one arm, he raised his sword arm over FitzAlan. The bandage around Fitz-Alan’s neck looked like
a bloody target.

“No, no!” she screamed.

He raised his sword higher. Desperate to stop him, she wrenched sideways, caught his raised arm, and clung to it.

The man threw her to the ground. Her head hit something hard, stunning her. When her vision cleared, she saw him raising his
sword again. She scrambled across the rough ground on hands and knees and flung herself on top of FitzAlan.