Lady At Arms (24 page)

Her musings were hauled up short as her last observations of Ranulf returned to her with such force they seemed to turn her world upside down. Honorable, patient, kind?

She had acknowledged it herself, and once more the foundation upon which she had built her case against him was shaken. Whence had come these beliefs? The man who had tried to defile her had not possessed any of those qualities, yet the one she had wed truly seemed to.

“Lizanne?” Ranulf’s voice reached her as if from a great distance.

She lifted her gaze to his. “Hmm?”

“All is well?”

She forced a smile. “I am fine.”

He opened his mouth as if to press her further, but then the king appeared.

“Come, Baron Wardieu, do not keep your bride to yourself. Share your good fortune.” At Ranulf’s hesitation, Henry laughed. “I vow I shall not keep you long. I would but have your opinion on a matter that vexes me.”

Ranulf gave Lizanne an apologetic smile, then followed the king.

Dismayed, she watched the two men disappear among the crowd. Alone and under intense scrutiny, she edged her way among the people in search of the friendly comfort of Geoff and Roland.

She did not find them, but Walter found her.

“My lady,” he said, “your husband has not so soon deserted you, has he?”

Lizanne was grateful to see a familiar face, even though it belonged to the redoubtable Sir Walter. “I fear business with the king has taken him away.”

He grimaced. “A pity, it being his wedding day. Perhaps you would suffer my company a while?” He offered his arm.

“You do not trust me alone?” she asked as he led her out of the press.

“Truly, I had not considered that,” he said, and spoke no more until they reached an unoccupied corner of the hall. “But, since ’tis you who broached the subject”—he released her arm and leaned back against the wall—“mayhap you would tell me if you intend to continue bedeviling my lord now that you are wed?”

Feeling her smile falter, she said, “Though you will not believe me, Sir Walter, ’tis not evil that drove me to transgress against Ranulf. At the time, I felt my actions were more than justified.”

“And now?”

She lowered her eyes, stared at the toes of her shoes. “Now I am not so certain. Mayhap I have erred, though logic dictates otherwise.”

“Which will you follow?” he asked. “Your heart or your head, my lady?”

Surprised by his question, she looked up. “Perhaps both,” she finally conceded.

A brief tightening about his mouth showed he was not pleased with her vague answer. “At least lead with your heart,” he suggested.

Warmed by his concern, she said, “I will think on it. But tell me, Sir Walter, do you lead with your heart?” After all, it seemed more than casual advice he offered.

He looked away, shifted his stance, and cleared his throat. “You would like something to drink?”

She laughed. “Your heart or your head, Sir Walter? You have not answered me.”

“And I do not intend to.”

“Very well,” she conceded, “but it seems hardly fair that you expect me to take advice that you yourself have not proven worthy.”

“I did not say I have not…” His voice trailed off.

Realizing he would reveal no more, Lizanne folded her arms across her chest. “Why, of a sudden, are you so kind to me?”

“Am I?”

“Aye. As I recall, you not so long ago took great pleasure in calling me a viper.”

He pulled a face. “I suppose I did.”

“What has changed your opinion?”

“I have not said it has changed.”

She raised her eyebrows. “You still think me a viper?”

He chuckled. “Nay, I do not.”

“I am pleased to hear that.”

In the ensuing silence, her stomach rumbled. Embarrassed, she pressed a hand to it.

“You have not eaten, have you?”

“Not since yesterday.”

Sir Walter motioned to the tables laden with every delight imaginable. “There is food aplenty here. Wait here and I will bring you a plate.”

Alone again, Lizanne looked around. Geoff and Roland were nowhere to be seen, although she recognized many of the Wardieu knights. Idly, she watched as they vied for the attention of the serving wenches and unwed ladies who were far outnumbered by men in the hall.

It was interesting, this ritual, she thought as she studied the beautifully clothed ladies who wove in and around the groups of men.

Lizanne looked down at her wedding gown and was suddenly grateful for the queen’s foresight in providing such finery. The garment was splendid, emphasizing her narrow waist and flattering—

Disturbed that she should appreciate feminine attire with such depth of feeling, she drew a sharp breath. It was years since she had taken any real interest in her appearance. Was this what marriage did to a woman?

Nay, it was what a man like Ranulf did to her. She groaned inwardly. She should be wishing for a loose, comfortable tunic and the freedom of chausses and boots, not this.

“All alone?” a derisive voice asked.

She snapped her head around and her eyes came level with Philip Charwyck’s glacial stare. He stood two feet to her right, his expression one of resentment and contained anger.

Feeling a prick of fear, she said, “I am not. Sir Walter has gone to fetch me food.”

Though her announcement was meant to be more of a warning than informative, Philip deigned to ignore it. “Not your husband? Ah, but mayhap he is as averse to used goods as I.”

Lizanne turned to fully face him. That he had thrown into her face the reason for his rejection all those years past was cruel, but though her first instinct was to launch herself at him, she squeezed anger into her fists to keep from making a spectacle that would surely shame Ranulf.

Philip grinned. “Do you think he is seeking his pleasure elsewhere?”

Knowing that if she did not put distance between this man and herself the wedding celebration would come to a crashing close, Lizanne straightened to her full height and started to step past him.

His hand shot out, captured her wrist, and yanked her near. “Do you think I wished to wed a woman who so freely gives herself to another?” he hissed. “Be assured, I am grateful for your consideration in choosing Wardieu.”

Staring into his face that was too near her own, Lizanne said between clenched teeth, “You sound as if you are trying to convince yourself of that, Sir Philip.” Pleased by how shot with red his eyes were, she pressed on. “You seemed all too willing to take me to wife earlier, and more than a little disappointed when I rejected you.”

His grip tightened so cruelly she was certain there would be bruises. “Do not mistake my desire for your body as anything other than that,” he spat. “Just because you are wed to another does not mean you cannot share my bed as well—and I will have you in it.”

“Release me!”

Fingers biting more deeply into her wrist, he put his mouth near her ear. “Not a soul would notice if we slipped away. Come with me, and I will teach you things—”

She brought her chin around so quickly their noses brushed. “Truly? Even though I am far less pure than I was the day you broke our marriage contract?”

His gaze flickered. “Then ’tis true you were first Baron Wardieu’s leman.”

Never would she have thought she would wish anyone to believe such a lie about her, but she did. “I am proud to have been, and to now be his wife.”

The color in his face deepened.

“Thus,” she continued, “I have no desire to lower myself to your canine slaverings, Sir Philip. And even if I did, I daresay there is naught you could teach me that my husband has not already done.”

His breathing turning shallow. “I will have you, Lizanne Wardieu, and when I have disposed of your husband, ’twill not be marriage I offer.”

Although pierced by his deadly threat, she forced her face to remain impassive. However, he was no longer looking at her, having shifted his attention to something beyond her.

“Release me,” she said again and was surprised when he thrust her hand away. A moment later, she saw the reason—Walter, and beside him strode Ranulf, the latter’s expression thunderous as he stared at her and Philip.

“Your husband,” Philip murmured, “does he not remind you of someone?”

Lizanne swept her gaze to him.

He gave a wicked smile. “A common villein, perhaps?” Then he stepped quickly away.

As Lizanne stared after him as he immersed himself among the celebrants, she felt the walls close in, their thickness suffocating as anger was replaced by the weaker emotions she had earlier discarded.

A common villein… He who had been called Darth?

As the floor began to shift beneath her feet, she tried to pull air into her lungs, but her throat would not open.

Dear Lord, I cannot faint. Pray, not here.

A chill breaking over her, she turned her head and searched out Ranulf.

Through the narrowing field of her vision, she saw he was nearly upon her, his face no longer reflecting anger but alarm.

He blurred, and though she blinked rapidly to return him to focus, he disappeared altogether. Amid her darkening consciousness, she felt strong arms come around her. Then nothing.

“’Tis a fine night for a raid, my lord,” the squire, Duncan, said, voice pitched higher than normal at the prospect of adventure.

A fine night, indeed,
the young man’s liege thought as he assessed the situation.

He and his men stood on the edge of a glade across which a warm wind howled, churned the water of a wide moat, and buffeted the stone walls of a stronghold that rose against a night sky.

Though the moon was near full, it more often disappeared than reappeared in the blue-black spaces between intermittent cloud cover that had stolen in just before dusk—a Godsend for the raiders whose furtive negotiation of the hilly terrain before the castle would be more easily facilitated. Not so for the men who walked the parapet along the crenellated walls and would not see what came their way until it was too late.

Still, the lord concluded, caution would have to be exercised, for the castle appeared to be in a state of readiness for attacks such as the one planned this night. There could be no mistakes.

With much restless shifting amid the excitement that had been building since their arrival, his men watched as the chosen few were given final instructions and their weapons secured fast to prevent them from making noise.

Not until the moon was obscured behind a long bank of clouds did they set off, and when next it appeared, they were halfway to their destination. They threw themselves facedown in the long, waving grass and waited for the protection of darkness to return. It was a long time coming, but at last they were moving again and made it to the bank of the moat.

At the most likely point of vulnerability—the southernmost wall—they gathered before the slapping water and knelt in thick undergrowth just moments ahead of the moon’s reappearance. While they waited, they searched for signs of movement among the crenellations. And found it.

When darkness returned, the lord was the first to enter the chill, muddy water. Steeling his mind against the discomfort that penetrated his clothing and pierced his skin, he led the way forward.

Their progress was mercilessly slow, the mud sucking at their feet as if to pull them down into the murky depths. At the midpoint, the ground dropped sharply from beneath their feet, and they began to swim. To avoid losing the benefit of their blackened faces, they paddled, struggling to keep their heads above the agitated water.

At the sloping base of the great wall, they once again found treacherous purchase for their feet and dragged themselves up the side. Water swirling about their hips, the wind whipping around their wet torsos, they waited and listened for the sound of the guard who patrolled the stretch of wall. Finally, they heard him, his boots scraping the walkway as he passed overhead.

When the footfalls faded, the young squire was urged forward and two men-at-arms held him steady in the shifting mud.

Duncan fit his bow with the prepared arrow, to which a padded hook was attached. Trailing behind this was a coil of light, albeit wet, rope that one of the knights laid across his arms to ensure a smooth ascent.

None could dispute Duncan’s skill. It was the reason he had been chosen for this task. Although not particularly skilled with other weapons, he was nearly unrivaled with the bow.

He drew the string taut, raised the weapon, gauged the air’s erratic movement, and waited for the momentary stillness that would best ensure the arrow’s accuracy. When he released the string, the arrow sailed upward, struggling to maintain its course as the wind revived and shifted direction. Almost miraculously, the feathered shaft dived over the wall and fell with a dull thud.

The lord was the first to go. Arms strong and able, he wasted no time scaling the wall and, shortly, lowered himself to the parapet on the opposite side. Crouching low, he secured the rope, then yanked on it. He felt it grow taut as the first of his men began the journey upward.

The torches placed about the outer bailey gave him a good idea of the castle’s layout, though he had already gathered much from the man he’d had slip through the walls earlier with a group of peasants. The news that the baron had not yet returned had baffled him, but it had also offered a rare opportunity to capture the stronghold with the least amount of resistance.

One by one, his men came over the wall and scattered to take up their positions. The squire was the last. He dropped down beside his lord, and the two promptly made their way from the parapet to the bailey below. It was no simple task, for there were many guards about, and thrice they had to silence one in their progress toward the donjon.

Leaving the squire to watch outside, the lord entered the great, darkened hall, dagger in hand. The sound of sleeping men, women, and children guided him over the dimly lit, rush-covered floor. Warily, he mounted the stairway, grimacing at the sound of his sodden advance that seemed to bounce off the walls of the narrow passageway. At the first landing, he peered around the corner and studied the wide, torch-lit corridor stretching before him.