Lady At Arms (18 page)

“A sling! Did you learn naught from her first deception? Did it not occur to you she might turn it on you?”

Lizanne came out from behind Geoff and placed herself directly in front of Ranulf. “Unlike some men,” she said, “your squire is not a fool twice.” She snatched up his hand, pressed the sling into it, and stepped aside.

Ranulf looked down and felt his lips twitch when a ball of cheese rolled from his hand to the floor. Immediately, it was snatched up by a scraggly dog that scurried off to a corner to enjoy its booty. “It seems you have learned well, Geoff, but in future, leave your training at arms to men.”

A grin surfacing, the squire nodded and took the sling his lord held out to him.

“And do not call her ‘lady,’” Ranulf added. “She is no more.” Certainly not in this place. But elsewhere? He met her narrowed gaze, then strode forward, took her arm, and drew her stiff figure across the hall.

It was good neither spoke as they traversed the stairs and the corridor, for with each step, Ranulf sensed a lightening of Lizanne’s pique. Indeed, by the time they reached their chamber, she strode almost easily alongside him. Once inside, she pulled her arm free, crossed to the bed that had been put to rights in their absence, and sat down upon it.

“What are you up now, Lizanne?” Ranulf asked where he had halted just inside the chamber.

She crossed her ankles, clasped her hands before her, and shrugged.

“Naught to say?”

She pressed her lips together, shook her head, and raised her gaze to the ceiling.

Wondering where the woman he had held in his arms this morn had wandered off to, he said, “’Tis just as well, for I haven’t time to discuss this with you. But I assure you, we shall later.”

She sighed.

“I shall set men at the door,” Ranulf said, then turned on his heel and quit the room.

The moment the door closed behind him, Lizanne flopped back on the bed and tried not to think about the woman with whom Ranulf would likely be spending time—she of fine hair that could not possibly hold a knot.

“Her loss,” she muttered and turned her thoughts to what she could do with the hours that surely yawned before her. As she mulled, she plucked at the bodice of her bliaut, the dampness of which continued to irritate her skin though it no longer chilled her as deeply. Of course, that had much to do with the warmth of the hall and, now, the chamber.

She sat up, eyed the hearth where a fire once more burned, and was off the bed in a moment and out of the bliaut minutes later. Once she had secured the garment upon the mantel where it might finish drying in Ranulf’s absence, she undertook an exploration of the chamber. Not unexpectedly, it yielded little of interest. However, what did hold her interest was what drew her to the window—the din of squires tilting at a battered quintain in the bailey below. That lasted for, perhaps, an hour, and when it was done, there seemed nothing left to do but pass the time with a nap.

She laid down with her head at the foot of the bed and, hoping her lids would soon grow weighted, considered a scene depicted on the ceiling to floor tapestry that stretched the length of the wall behind the bed—a romantic scene that wove together a lady and her knight in various states of mutual adoration.

Lizanne started to close her eyes against the foolery, but then she glimpsed a flutter of movement from the left-hand side. Though she knew it was likely just the breeze come through the window that had gone to play behind the tapestry, a thought struck her and she slid off the bed.

She drew back the tapestry. Dust particles flew into her face. Rubbing at her prickling nose, undeterred by the accumulation of dirt and the solid stone wall facing her, she went behind the tapestry and, in the darkness, slid her hands over the stones. Near the bed’s poster, she felt the breath of air that moved the tapestry. A moment later, her seeking fingers found the groove of a portal.

With quick, short breaths, she searched for the hidden catch and located it near the floor. When pressed, the door creaked inward to reveal a deeper darkness.

Lizanne nearly obeyed the impulse to go directly into it, but the blast of chill air reminded her of her state of undress and she hurried out from behind the tapestry. With hands that so trembled with excitement it seemed they sought to thwart her, she dragged on her nearly dry bliaut and sloppily did up her laces.

Shortly, she entered the exceedingly narrow passageway and placed her hands on opposite walls to assure her safe descent in the absence of a torch to light the way. She came upon two other landings with doors but, eager to find what lay at the end, moved past them, assuring herself she could explore them on her return.

That last thought made her pause. She laughed and shook her head. If she found a way out of Killian, there would be no need to return.

There were things in the passageway that did not bear thinking about—the moist, diaphanous threads of spiders’ webs, scuttling around and over her feet, the stench of mold and rot. Thus, when she glimpsed a thin line of light ahead, she released one of many breaths she had held.

Taking the final steps with reckless excitement, she came to the last landing and pressed her face to the crack in the door. Through the narrow opening, she glimpsed greenery.

She released the catch and slowly pulled the door open, revealing a wall of thick rosebushes. Stepping cautiously into the bright, glorious sunshine, she eased the door closed and stood silent for several minutes to listen.

Naught.

She pressed herself against the donjon’s wall and moved along it until she spotted a break in the overgrown bushes. She bent low and peered out at an enclosed, unkempt flower garden and, with an eye to escape, surveyed the possibilities. The walls were high, but not so much that they could not be scaled.

When there appeared to be no one about, she carefully eased herself between the thorny branches and straightened on the opposite side. After brushing away the cobwebs and leaves and loosening the thorns from her skirts, she began an exploration of the grounds.

Quickly, she discovered it was laid out like a maze, its paths winding, merging, and often ending abruptly.

Momentarily forgetting her plans for escape, Lizanne plucked a rose and wove it into her braid as she rounded a corner.

She halted. There, on a bench in the middle of a grassy, rectangular courtyard, was the redheaded man who had smiled at her during the morning meal.

She retreated a step, but not before he looked up.

“I am sorry,” she said as he jumped to his feet. “I did not mean to intrude.”

“You are not.” He took a step toward her. “Indeed, I would be honored if you would join me.” Smiling warmly, he gestured at the bench.

She shook her head. “I thank you, but I must return to my chamber.”

“Of course,” he said with disappointment, then asked, “How came you to be in the garden? There is but one entrance.” He nodded at the door across the courtyard.

Only one entrance, and it led back into the donjon. So, she would have to scale the wall after all…

Deciding it best to change the subject, she said, “May I ask your name?”

He strode forward and gallantly bowed. “Sir Robyn Forster, eldest son of Sir Hamil.”

That surprised her. Unlike Elspeth, he did not resemble his father. “Lady Lizanne Balmaine of Penforke,” she introduced herself with a curtsy.

His smile slipped. “Lady? I understood you to be the…servant of Baron Wardieu.”

She had momentarily forgotten she bore that distinction. “I suppose I am that, too,” she grudgingly conceded.

Robyn put his head to the side. “Forgive me if I appear dull-witted, but I do not understand the situation.” Lightly, he gripped her arm and pulled her toward the bench. “Perhaps you can explain it.”

Lizanne’s annoyance flared at his handling of her person for, of late, it seemed she was always being pulled along after a man. And she was weary of it. However, she suppressed the impulse to jerk free when she realized that here might be one whose aid she could enlist. Thus, she allowed herself to be drawn down beside him upon the cool stone bench.

“I would like to know more about you,” he said, enfolding her hand in his and raising it to his lips.

Such was the scene Ranulf Wardieu happened upon.

“God Almighty, what is this?”

Startled to their feet, Lizanne and Sir Robyn stared at the man who filled the doorway.

He looked fierce, muscles bunched in readiness, challenge—as evidenced by his hand gripping his sword hilt—hanging upon the air.

Protectively, Sir Robyn stepped in front of Lizanne.

“Robyn of Killian,” Ranulf growled, “take up your sword, for I would have you feel the bite of mine.”

Lizanne peered around the young man who stood unmoving before his opponent, the likes of which she was certain he had never faced. After a long moment, he raised his hands, palms up. “I am unarmed, Baron Wardieu.”

“Then get you a sword!”

Sir Robyn lowered his arms. “What manner of transgression am I accused of?”

“Trespass!”

The young man gave a short laugh. “If you refer to my being with Lady Lizanne, you are mistaken. We have but talked. No insult have you suffered from our innocent meeting, nor was one intended.”

“Do you think me blind and dim-witted?” Ranulf strode forward. “Get your sword, man.”

Loathing the role of helpless, shrinking female, Lizanne stepped from behind Sir Robyn and hastened forward to meet Ranulf. They halted with barely a foot between them.

Up close, Ranulf appeared even more wrathful. The muscles of his jaw worked, his nostrils flared, and his eyes were like slick, bottomless pools of pitch.

She raised her chin. “There will be no bloodletting. If you must blame someone, blame me, for ’twas I who intruded upon Sir Robyn’s sanctuary.”

“Do not doubt for one moment I hold you responsible for this treachery, Lizanne, but I will see to you after I have dealt with this whelp.” He pushed her aside and advanced on Sir Robyn.

Lizanne spun around, saw the young man’s gaze shift nervously between Ranulf and her.

“Aye,” Sir Robyn said, voice strained, “I will fight you.”

“Nay!” Once more, she inserted herself between the two.

Ranulf halted. “Do not make a coward of a man who has earned his spurs, Lizanne!”

She turned a hand around his arm and said low, “Ranulf, he speaks true. ’Twas naught but a kiss upon the hand. And naught else would it have been had you not come upon us. I beseech you, do not hold him accountable for the sins of one who but thought to use him to further her means of escape.”

Sensing his hesitation in the barely perceptible easing of his muscles, she added, “I am not worth dying for.”

Ranulf nearly jerked at hearing her speak the words that had first passed his own lips and, with their casting, he had meant. No longer, though. In spite of her maddening nature and stubborn resolve to hold him accountable for something so terrible that she had sought his death, he wanted her more than he had ever wanted anything, and if it meant fighting for her, so be it.

Sensibilities stunned by the admission, he said, “I do not plan on dying, not even to please you.”

Her lids flickered as she searched his face, and then she whispered, “It would not please me. But you know that, for as you have told, you know me better than I know myself.”

It was what he had said that morning in the tent when she had stated she would never be receptive to his embrace.

“Please, Ranulf.”

He looked to where Sir Robyn watched warily and felt a rush of shame at having challenged one who was not much beyond the age of a boy. And for a mere kiss upon the fingers.

Lord, what this woman does to me!

Though poised to accede to her beseeching, he realized there was something to be had from the moment. And he intended to take it, even if only for his peace of mind. “Very well. I shall withdraw my challenge—providing you give your word you will attempt no more escapes.”

He heard her swallow and saw the color recede from her face.

“Your word, Lizanne.”

She jerked her chin. “I give it. No more escapes. But if Gilbert—”

“Not even if he comes for you.”

She removed her hand from him and tightly clasped it with the other at her waist. “Not even then. You have my word.”

But would she keep it?

Ranulf returned his gaze to Sir Robyn. “The challenge is withdrawn. Leave us now.”

The young man shifted his gaze to Lizanne. “My lady?”

She looked over her shoulder. “All is well, Sir Robyn. Pray, leave us.”

He inclined his head, then stalked to the donjon and disappeared inside.

In the ensuing silence, Lizanne crossed to the bench and sank down upon it.

Ranulf followed but remained standing as he considered the flower woven into her braid.

He reached forward and plucked it. “Did he give this to you?”

Her hand came up to snatch it back, but when she grasped only air, she blew a breath up her face and lowered her chin to consider the pink ovals of her thumbnails. “I picked it.”

Ranulf looked around. “How came you to be here? I would not believe you single-handedly outwitted the men posted outside your door.” In the next moment, he silently scoffed at the absurd statement. To his detriment, he kept forgetting she was like no other lady he had encountered. “Or maybe I would,” he muttered.

She shook her head. “I doubt they even know of my disappearance.”

He turned and looked up the vertical face of the donjon. “You cannot have climbed from yon window,” he said, though it would not have surprised him to see knotted bed linens hanging from the sill.

“’Twas by a secret passageway I came to be in this place.”

Of course. Ranulf berated himself for not considering the existence of one. It was not uncommon for hidden stairways to be incorporated into a donjon as a means of escape should it come under siege, though they were more often used for trysts among nobles.

Unnerved by how careless he was becoming, he leaned near and tilted her face up. “And you thought to escape.”