Lady At Arms (32 page)

Now, seated atop the outer fence of the corral, idly stroking the muzzle of the great stallion that blew softly into her hand, Lizanne was too intent on the training yard across the way to notice she was approached until a hand touched her knee.

Looking down from her perch, she saw it was Ranulf’s mother.

“Lady Zara.” She gulped, drew her hand from the horse, and clasped it with the other. Immediately the stallion nudged her shoulder, pushing her sideways and forcing her to transfer her hands to the fence railing to remain upright.

“You have a way with horses,” Lady Zara said. “That one is far from being broke, yet he comes to you without fear.”

Blinking at the cryptic compliment, Lizanne glanced at the animal that stood watching her with great, doleful eyes. “I had thought him broke. He seems gentle enough.”

The lady smiled, not a full smile, but it was a beginning. “Try mounting him once, then—” She shook her head. “Nay, I should not even propose that in jest, for methinks you would try.”

“You are right.” Lizanne eased herself off the fence. “You wish to speak with me?”

Lady Zara placed a hand on her daughter-in-law’s arm and guided her away from the corral. “I have received word there is a young child in the village not far from here who has broken his leg, and that it may need to be removed. I thought, perhaps, you would like to accompany me.”

Lizanne halted. “You trust me?”

The look the lady gave her said the question was absurd. “You have proven yourself skilled—far more than I. My son behaves as if he never sustained an injury.”

Lizanne smiled. “Of course I shall accompany you.” However, in the next instant, her enthusiasm shadowed. “Do you think Ranulf will mind if we go? He has forbidden me to leave the castle’s walls.”

Lady Zara frowned. “I do not need permission to see my people. Ranulf is accustomed to my visits to the villages. Besides, we will have a proper escort.”

“Very well. I must needs gather my medicines, and we can set off.”

“Be quick about it,” Lady Zara said to Lizanne’s retreating back.

Their escort was more formidable than it would have been had Ranulf not caught word of their intent. To their ranks, he added a score of armored knights and men-at-arms and chose Walter to lead them.

Staring up at Lizanne where she was mounted and ready to depart, he pushed his hair back from his sweat-streaked face. “Lizanne, pray do not test Sir Walter. Regardless of the child’s condition, I want you back before sunset. Now, give me your word you will follow his orders without question.”

She smiled down at him from atop the wonderfully spirited mare she had been given to ride. “You have my word.”

Ranulf removed his belt, slid the sheathed dagger off it, and handed it to her.

Recognizing it as her own, she eagerly accepted it. “Thank you, Ranulf—my lord.” She lifted the hem of her skirts and slid the weapon in the top of her hose before he could protest her lack of modesty. Then she gripped the pommel of her saddle and bent toward him. “If you do not know it, Husband, I have lost my heart to you.” At his look of disbelief, she smiled, leaned nearer, and kissed him before all. “I love you, Ranulf Wardieu.” As she drew back, she stared into those black eyes that yet reflected surprise. Then, straightening, she prodded the mare forward.

It had cost her much to speak those words knowing he would not return them, but it was as if, in saying them, a burden had been lifted from her. It was done and could not—would not—be undone. Ever.

As she nosed the mare beneath the raised portcullis, she ventured a backward glance.

Ranulf stood where she had left him, hands on his hips as he stared after her.

Due to the nature of their excursion, they rode at a pace that was far from leisurely, and Lizanne thrilled to it. It seemed ages since she had been in control of a worthy mount. The wind in her face, the steady, rhythmic movement of the mare, and the smell of the land, all combined to send her senses soaring.

At the village, Sir Lancelyn, Gilbert’s vassal, assisted with her dismount. Until that moment, she had not realized Gilbert’s men were among those chosen by Ranulf to accompany Lady Zara and her. It seemed a good sign of the two men’s newly formed alliance.

She smiled at the familiar face, then pulled her bag of medicinals from the saddle and hurried after Lady Zara, who was being led to a small hut at the edge of the village.

Inside the one-room dwelling, it was dim, and a small boy of no more than four summers aged lay moaning on a straw pallet, his mother on her knees beside him.

“Lady Zara,” the pretty young woman exclaimed and scrambled to her feet. She rushed forward and touched her lady’s arm.

Ranulf’s mother placed a hand over the other woman’s. “I did not know it was Lawrence who was hurt.”

She nodded, looked to where Lizanne stood upon the threshold with Sir Walter at her back. “’Tis a healer you have brought with you?”

“Aye, Becky, this is Lady Lizanne. It is she who healed my son.”

The young woman gasped, took a step back. “And no doubt caused his injury,” she said.

Though Lizanne knew dislike when she saw it, she refused to waste time on it. The boy came first.

She stepped past the woman and lowered to her knees beside the child. “I will need more light,” she said as she stared down at him.

Whimpering and clutching at his leg beneath the coarse woolen cover tucked around him, he raised feverish eyes to her.

Lizanne smiled reassuringly and laid a hand upon his moist forehead. “You will be all right,” she said softly before turning to her bag and removing a stout vial.

The boy was too weak to protest when she placed the acrid powder on his tongue. Within minutes, he drifted into a blessed, drug-induced sleep.

Gently, Lizanne pried his fingers from his leg and bent near to examine his injury. In spite of the protrusion of bone, the leg was not as bad as feared. With careful attention and prayer, she was confident it would heal completely and he would suffer no lasting ill effects.

While he slept, she cleaned and reset the leg, spread a sweet-smelling unguent over the stitched flesh, and applied a heavy bandage around the splint. Throughout, Lady Zara assisted, while Sir Walter and Becky stood to the side watching.

Afterward, while the child continued to sleep peacefully and the sun moved toward its final descent, Lizanne pressed a packet of medicine into Becky’s hand and took some minutes to impress upon her the importance of keeping the leg clean and covered.

Becky followed Lizanne outside to the waiting horses. “Mayhap you will make Baron Wardieu a good wife,” she conceded with a small smile once Lizanne had mounted her restless mare.

“I intend to,” Lizanne said. “I will return in two days’ time to check on your boy. Do not forget that he should lie abed throughout—even if you must tie him down.”

Becky nodded and stepped back as Sir Walter called for them to ride.

Lizanne urged her horse forward and sidled up to Lady Zara.

“You did well,” the older woman said with a smile. “They will respect you now.”

Feeling she had also earned Lady Zara’s respect, though the woman did not seem ready to admit it, Lizanne smiled in return.

They were within a few leagues of the castle, the sun just touching the horizon, when a large group of riders appeared. At its head was Ranulf, his pale hair flying out behind him.

“He worries too much,” Lady Zara laughingly called to Sir Walter.

Spurring her horse forward, Lizanne overtook the knights at the front of their escort. Though they stayed close behind, none tried to stop her. Out of breath, she reined in just short of the oncoming party and beamed up at her husband when he came alongside her.

He did not smile back.

She frowned and opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. A moment later, she screamed.

Those terrible black eyes Lizanne remembered too well bored into hers as his lips parted to reveal yellowed teeth.

Reflexively, she jerked on the mare’s reins as Darth reached for her. The high-strung animal reacted instantly, turning aside and rearing, its hooves cleaving the air.

Lizanne draped herself over the horse’s neck and clutched at the tangled mane. She held on and, when the animal settled back to earth, eyes rolling, ears flattened to its head, dug in her heels and snapped the reins hard.

Hearing Sir Walter raise the alarm, she jerked her chin around as her horse lunged forward and saw his men draw their swords, close formation around Lady Zara, and turn their mounts to flee the greater number of men facing them.

Unfortunately, there was nothing they could do for Lizanne, who had set her own course far to the right of them.

The assailants surged forward, spreading outward in an attempt to enclose the smaller group. If not that other riders emerged from the cover of the wood, escape would have been possible.

Cursing loudly as a circle was drawn around them, Sir Walter signaled for his men to gather at its center.

Crouched low over her horse, Lizanne sped ahead, eyes trained on the opening between two riders. Knowing that if she could make it, she had a chance to reach Chesne and give warning, she fought down the fear boiling in her belly and held on.

As she passed between the two horses, her mount brushing heavily against the one on the left, the soldier astride lunged for her. And missed. But what he could not do, the well-placed arrow of another did, embedding itself in the mare’s side.

The animal screamed, reared, and flailed as it twisted sideways.

Lizanne groped for purchase as the reins were torn from her hands, then plummeted to the ground. Her head hit something, and though it did not render her unconscious, it left her pained and dazed. However, she was given no time to recover, for the soldier who had tried to wrest her from her horse was upon her and dragging her to her feet.

She swayed against him, lifted her head, and stared at the mounted riders on all sides. So many…

Shakily, she probed the gash beneath her hair, brought her hand forward, and winced at the blood staining her fingertips.

“Surrender or the lady dies,” a familiar voice rang out above the clamor of restless horses and men.

Philip Charwyck! Lizanne swept her gaze over those gathered and searched the ranks for a glimpse of him but could not pick him out from among the other armored men. With their mail coifs, they all looked much the same.

She turned her attention to where Sir Walter and his men clustered around Lady Zara. Lady Zara herself sat unmoving atop her horse, gaze fixed on her second-born son.

Lizanne felt her pain. Here was the son stolen from her all those years ago, and now he returned a villain. And he had not even acknowledged her presence although her hair, so like his own, revealed she was his mother.

“Lay down your arms!” Philip ordered when Sir Walter remained irresolute, “Or I will spill her blood where she stands.” He separated himself from the others and spurred his horse toward Lizanne.

She threw her chin up, glared at him when he came alongside her and motioned for the soldier to release her.

With a shove that sent her stumbling forward, the man complied.

Philip reached down and ran the back of a gloved hand over her cheek. “What? No warm welcome for your lover?”

Lizanne jerked her head back.

“Tsk-tsk,” he clicked his tongue, then he lunged and caught hold of the hair at the top of her head.

Deciding she could afford to lose a few strands, she strained backward and lashed out, striking him with her bloodied hand and soiling the front of the sleeveless tunic he wore over his hauberk.

He retaliated by wrenching her hair and striking her across the face.

Lizanne heard the distressed murmurings of Sir Walter’s men but knew she stood alone. Ignoring the pain, she swung her hand up again and aimed for his eyes.

Philip knocked her arm aside and pulled harder on her hair, nearly lifting her off her feet. “I will tame you, shrew,” he growled.

Eyes flooded with tears of pain, she slammed her knee into his horse’s belly.

The destrier protested loudly and jumped away, but Philip did not release her and she stumbled and fell against the animal.

With a satisfied snort, Philip leaned down, threw an arm around her waist, and lifted her. Being no small thing easily hauled up the side of a horse, especially by a man not much larger than herself, Philip struggled. In the end, it was only with the help of one of his men that he succeeded in seating her on the fore of his saddle.

She strained away from him, but he pulled her chin around and slammed his mouth down upon hers, proclaiming to all that she belonged to him.

But she did not, and that knowledge made her grow still. Though he surely expected her wrath when he lifted his head, she smiled thinly, then made a show of dragging the back of a hand across her mouth and spitting on his boot.

“You taste of sewage, Philip.” That earned her another slap.

Lord,
she thought,
I am not going to be a pretty sight when we get out of this.
She only prayed they would…

“If needs be, I will kill her,” Philip threatened again and pulled his dagger. He touched its point to her neck, drew it down her chest to her abdomen. “Now, if you wish Baron Wardieu’s wife to live, throw down your weapons.”

In the silence, Lady Zara’s voice carried across the cool air. “Do as he says.”

As it darkened into night, the interlopers and their prisoners covered much ground before immersing themselves in a thick wood. And still they rode.

Hours before dawn, they came to a clearing that was deemed suitable to set up camp so the horses might rest a few hours before continuing on.

Halting his destrier in the middle of the field, Philip shoved Lizanne off his horse, sending her sprawling in the grass.

“That,” he said, amid his men’s laughter, “is for the spit.”

Lizanne sank her fingers into the soil but squelched the impulse to throw the clumps at Philip lest she find herself trampled beneath his horse’s hooves.