The Baron's Bounty (2 page)

“Stop!” she cried out loudly. Though one of the guards kept on going, the other stopped and quickly turned back.

“Did ye see which way the king went?” asked the man.

“Ye’re daft if ye think I can see anythin’ from down here on the ground. And ye almost trampled me te deith.”

“Well what are ye doin’ on the ground?” He made no attempt to help her up. He sat high on his horse, and looked back over his shoulder down the road as he spoke.

“What is the king doin’ out on a night like this and where is he goin’ in such a hurry?” She’d always been an inquisitive child, and to this day she was still very curious and wanted to know everyone’s business.

Thunder rumbled overhead and shook the earth. Rain pelted down now even harder, splashing up on her as it landed in the muddy puddle in front of her. When she looked upward her attention was immediately taken by his buckle-front thigh-high boots now directly in front of her face.

“He’s on his way te visit with his new bairned wife and in a hurry. Her birthday is on the morrow and he wants te be at her side. Now did he take the right or the left path, lassie?”

“Let me see,” she said, trying to remember. “I wasna really watchin’ where he went, but . . . mayhap . . . ”

The guard was impatient and turned and rode off, taking the path that veered to the left before she could even answer.

“I believe he took the path te the right,” she said with a sigh, but it was too late. No one was there to hear her. She pushed up off the ground, looking at her mud-stained clothes. Her hands were dirty as well, and she just sighed and wiped them on her gown. Then she looked around for her horse. Her clothes were now covered in mud and soaked from the rain and very heavy. It was awkward just to walk. She wished she’d been wearing her plaid instead, but Catherine insisted she dress like an Englishwoman since the baron had been hesitant to marry a Scot in the first place. She’d thought this would make him feel more at ease. A daft reason if she’d ever heard one, but she wasn’t about to voice her opinion to Catherine. Had she done so, the woman would have berated her for hours just for saying what was on her mind.

Catherine always dressed like an Englishwoman, and this bothered Isobel. Her cousin should be proud of being a Scot and want to wear the MacEwen plaid, even if she had half English blood flowing through her veins.

Isobel couldn’t find the horse, and figured she had no choice but to make her way toward the lighthouse on foot. She was already very late, and had been warned more than once by Catherine that the baron insisted on punctuality and would not keep his ship on Scottish soil longer than he had to.

She picked up her heavy, wet skirts and trudged up the road toward the lighthouse. She braved the downpour of rain and the wicked weather. She was almost to her destination when she heard the neighing of a horse through the trees. She made her way toward the noise, thinking it was her own steed, until she saw the horse’s trappings with the king’s crest displayed prominently. She pushed her long, wet hair out of her eyes and walked forward to investigate.

The horse’s reins were tangled in the brambles at the edge of the cliff. She reached out to untangle it, and heard some low voices but couldn’t decipher what the people were saying. Startled, she jumped backward when she heard the loud sound of a thud and breaking branches. Something – or someone fell from the top of the cliff hitting on the rocks and roots along the way down.

She ran to the edge of the cliff and peered over just as the moon broke through the clouds once again. She gasped when she saw King Alexander lying on the beach with his neck twisted at an odd angle, obviously broken from the fall. More twigs snapped underfoot, and she heard the sound of someone hurrying through the underbrush - headed in her direction.

Her heart beat furiously, and her body shook in fear. The murderer of the king was not going to be in a hurry to be caught. She couldn’t let him see her, or he’d kill her as well. Without her escorts she was unprotected and very vulnerable. She had only a dagger at her side – no match for the broadsword of a knight, or even the strong hands of a crazed serf. She had no choice but to hide in order to save her own life.

She hurried behind a tree and hunkered down behind a bush, not able to believe what she’d just witnessed. She heard the person free the king’s horse and slap it on its rear to send it off. Hoofbeats sounded loudly as the horse ran through the foliage. Leaves crunched underfoot and she heard the killer coming toward her.

Step, Drag, Swish. Step, Drag, Swish, echoed in her brain as she focused on the sound of their footsteps. She couldn’t keep her body from shaking as the murderer walked past her, so close she could have reached out and touched him.

She moved her hand slightly, and a twig snapped beneath her palm. The killer stopped right in front of the bush that concealed her presence. She didn’t dare move or even breathe, for fear the man would hear her and she’d end up at the bottom of the cliff alongside their ruler.

Her eyes fastened onto the man’s feet, and his boots immediately took her interest. She’d never seen any like these before. They were side-laced riding boots that looked to be made of two-toned Cordoba leather. They were of the finest quality, and obviously very expensive since Cordoba leather came all the way from Spain. They were made from the hides of Musoli goats, tawed in alum in a secret method only known to the Moors. That’s what the cordwainer in town had told her. They were good friends since she spent so much time in his shop, and she’d learned everything she could about making shoes. He’d also said this type of leather was brought back by the Crusaders and very expensive. So expensive that cordwainers only made these shoes on special order from nobles who paid dearly for them.

The killer, obviously satisfied no one was there, started forward again. As he passed by her, his very long cape dragged on the ground, brushing against her hand in the process. It felt soft, as if it were made from fine-spun wool. It wasn’t the coarse material used to fashion cloaks for traders or servants. This cloak surely must have cost a high price. The killer had money. Or was perhaps a thief!

When she glanced up from the corners of her eyes, she was sure she’d seen a flash of bright blue, red, and yellow that reminded her of the crest of the Cinque Ports. She closed her eyes tightly and clamped a hand over her mouth in order not to cry out. The intruder’s gait continued to echo in her brain. Step, Drag, Swish. Step, Drag, Swish. It was unlike anything she’d ever heard before, and odd. Very odd indeed, but she couldn’t decipher why.

She heard the neighing of a horse, then hoofbeats, and realized the man had mounted a horse that had obviously been hidden in the brush, and was riding away as quickly as possible.

Tears welled behind her lids, and she didn’t move. Her teeth chattered and her body shook and she wasn’t sure if it was from the cold and rain, or from fear. She lost track of time, and had no idea how long she sat there, not moving.

Then finally the storm stopped and the skies cleared. She heard her escorts calling for her from the forest. She thankfully stood up and ran to them, and didn’t stop until she was being hoisted up atop one of the guard’s horses to sit in front of him. She felt safe at last.

“Where were ye, Lady Isobel? We thought ye’d run off becooz ye didna want te meet thet English bastard,” said the guard named Elliot.

“I wish I’d ne’er gone out o’ the castle tonight,” she said, her body still shaking. She considered telling them what she’d witnessed, but then thought better of it. She couldn’t let anyone know about the king’s death. If she did - she’d be a target. The murderer could hear about it and come after her next. Either that, or she’d possibly be accused of killing the king herself, since she was the only one who knew about the incident.

If she told the Scots she suspected her cousin’s betrothed of killing their king, war would break out between the English and the Scots and many of her people would die. She hadn’t seen the killer’s face, so she couldn’t really accuse anyone of such a heinous crime, so she’d just stay quiet for now.

“Shall we go back te the castle?” asked the other guard. “Or do ye think the English baron is still atop the cliff waiting for ye?”

Her eyes opened wide and her chest became very tight. The baron was the last person she wanted to see right now.

“I’m sure the baron has left port by now,” she told the guards. “We’ll go back te the castle anon.”

“Well, the storm did let up,” said Elliot, eying the sky. “But dinna ye think he’d wait te sail til the mornin’?”

“Nay,” she blurted out, knowing he would want to get away from the scene of the crime as fast as possible. “I’ve been told he is impatient and am sure he has already departed. Matter o’ fact, I’m sure he’d risk even the worst o’ storms if he had to, jest te get back te England as fast as possible.”

With that, the guards turned around, and they all headed back toward the castle. She looked over her shoulder at the lighthouse as they rode away, wondering just what the baron – the killer, looked like. Then she decided she never wanted to know.

Chapter 1

England – August, 1286

“Conlin, you fool, why in the devil’s name did you ever agree to marry the Shrew of the Scots?” Baron John Montague from the Hastings Port asked his question as the three friends – all barons of the Cinque Ports - strolled down the docks of Great Yarmouth. The herring festival was in progress, and they had brought their ships and men to fish in the pristine spots. They would also be able to dry their nets on the shores. It was a privilege granted to them by King Edward I himself, in return for servicing the Crown with ships fifteen days out of the year. Without a royal navy, the king had to depend on his barons and the merchants and fishermen of the ports to transport him across the channel, carry him to battle, or assist him whenever needed.

“Aye, I don’t quite understand it either.” Nicholas Vaughn, Lord of New Romney squinted his eyes and just shook his head as if he thought Conlin were daft.

Conlin de Braose, Lord of Sandwich, just stared at his friends with his mouth wide open and his mind blank. He didn’t know how to answer. Why
had
he agreed to such a horrid idea? It was an impulsive move on his part, on a day when he bickered with his daughter. Though the king had granted him permission to marry whomever he chose, King Edward I had still suggested he marry the daughter of the Scottish laird of Kirkcaldy in Fife, for an alliance with Scotland.

Feeling his own unruly daughter needed the hand of a strict mother, and wanting to secure the alliance for his port, Conlin had agreed to the suggestion of the marriage in an act of desperation. But that was nearly five months ago! Between his schedule and Lady Catherine’s sudden illnesses, it seemed there was always something putting a wedge between them and keeping them apart. He’d tried months ago to meet his betrothed right there on Scottish soil but she’d never showed, and he’d ended up leaving in aggravation. He had no tolerance for tardiness, and even if there had been a bad storm that night, he didn’t see that as an excuse.

Perhaps he should have chosen someone more reliable or at least healthier. If only he had known.

Still, it was a good move to secure alliances with the Scots now that their king was dead. King Alexander III’s successor was the infant Princess Margaret, the Maid of Norway. With only advisors to the crown running the country until the girl grew up, anything could happen. He had to be prepared and provide safety for his men, the people of Sandwich, and also his twelve-year-old daughter, Rose.

So he’d reluctantly agreed to the betrothal. This decision only seemed to put more distance between him and Rose, as she did not want a new mother. The last three years had been very trying after the death of his wife in childbirth along with their newborn son. It was a common occurrence for women to die in childbirth, and if an infant lived past the first few years, it was considered a blessing from God. He knew this, but it didn’t make things easier. No matter how much his daughter was grieving, he felt the despair twice as much. No man should have to endure the trials he’d been through. Watching five of his own infant children go to their graves, as well as his wife – all over the past ten years was worse than fighting in the front lines of King Edward’s many wars. All he had left was Rose, and he had to see that she was taken care of should anything happen to him.

But no twelve-year-old girl, no matter how much he loved her, was going to influence his decisions. His choices were not made emotionally, but rather intellectually. He had a good head for business, and this betrothal was really naught more to him than a business deal. Still, he couldn’t say the stories he’d heard of the Shrew of the Scots weren’t making him nervous. Lately, he’d started doubting himself, and this was not a good feeling at all.

He glanced over to his comrade and good friend, John, who was single and happy about it. Then his attention strayed to his other good friend, Nicholas, who’d just gotten married last year. The fool hadn’t stopped smiling since his wife, Muriel, birthed twins six months ago. He had not only one child, but two - a boy and a girl both, and couldn’t be happier. Conlin’s friends were like the opposite sides of a coin, yet they were both happy. He, on the other hand, was somewhere in between and as miserable as he’d ever been in his life.

“I suppose . . . I wanted an heir like Romney.” Conlin used the port name to refer to Nicholas as was proper. He no longer looked at the other barons when he spoke, but instead stared out at the sea as he leaned against the wooden rail on the end of the docks. The waves lapped against the pebbled shores of Great Yarmouth harder now as the winds picked up from the north. “Aye, that is why I agreed to the betrothal. Also to make alliances with the Scots of course.”

“An alliance I understand,” said Nicholas with a nod. “But marrying a shrew who is known to have the face of a horse – I sometimes question your sanity, good friend.”

“Me too.” John walked up next to Conlin and looked out to the sea as well. “I don’t understand at all. You’ve been a lodestone through the years, and even while your wife was still alive you had women falling at your feet. You could have anyone you want – but yet you settled for sediment instead of the cream that rises to the top. Are you sure you really want this marriage? After all, you’ve been dragging your feet for the past five months.”

“Of course I want it.”

“Then marry the girl anon and stop stalling.” Nicholas came to join them.

“I’ve been busy lately with my duties, not to mention Lady Catherine has taken ill on more than one occasion and postponed the wedding as well. But that won’t happen again. Her ship is sailing here to Great Yarmouth to meet me this very day. She should be arriving any time now. We will wed right here on the beach.”

“You told her to meet you here at Great Yarmouth instead of Sandwich?” Nicholas seemed surprised. “Why?”

“Probably because Great Yarmouth is closer to Scotland and he figured she’d have less time to change her mind and turn around.” John started laughing and of course Nicholas joined in. Conlin could always count on his friends to find something funny in everything he did.

“Nay. I just figured while we were here for the herring festival, we’d celebrate with a wedding as well.” Conlin, didn’t want to admit to his friends that they were correct in their assumptions. He’d started feeling lately that perhaps Lady Catherine didn’t want to marry him and was faking her illnesses. And like his friends said – he’d always been a lodestone attracting every woman, so this was something he wasn’t used to at all. It shook his confidence and muddled his brain. He needed to keep his mind clear. It was bad enough that his daughter didn’t want him, but he couldn’t accept that a grown woman wouldn’t want him either.

Usually the other barons had no chance with a pretty wench if he was around. But now – a woman who was said to have a face like a horse and the temper of a bull was rejecting him. Life had taken a cruel turn indeed.

“I thought for certain you’d marry our king’s own niece, or perhaps the daughter of a viscount from overseas with a dowry larger than that small castle of yours can hold.” Nicholas grinned, loving goading Conlin, since it was usually the opposite way around.

“At least I’ve got a castle,” said Conlin, his gaze shooting over to Nicholas when he said it to prove his point. Nicholas was the only one of the three of them without a castle.

“My manor house is just fine, and Muriel doesn’t mind at all,” Nicholas spoke out in his defense. “With a smaller place, it’s easier to keep an eye on the babies now that they’ve started to crawl.”

“Of course Muriel doesn’t mind since she was the daughter of a merchant and only a spinster. Anything is better than that hovel of a merchant’s shop she lived in.” Conlin chuckled in amusement by his own words. “I am marrying a noblewoman with a dowry so large, I might have to get another castle just to store the wealth.”

“Bite your tongue, Sandwich,” growled Nicholas. “I don’t like you referring to my wife as anything less than admirable.”

“I didn’t mean anything by it, Romney. After all, I admire the woman for being able to walk, talk, spin wool, and put up with your antics all at the same time. You ought to knight her for that!”

“I’ll consider that your ill attempt at an apology.” Nicholas shook his head and looked the other way.

John spoke up next. “Would this betrothal have anything to do with the fact that your daughter hates you and you thought this would change things between you?”

“Nay, it has naught to do with my daughter.” Conlin walked away from his friends, taking long strides over the beach of Great Yarmouth, and his friends followed. He made his way toward the fishermen drying their nets on the shore. They’d made a good catch today, and the money for the herring alone once they got back to Sandwich would make him even more of a wealthy man than he already was.

The beach was crowded with all of the barons of the Cinque Ports and their men present today. The herring festival was in full swing, and everyone was drinking heartily. Alewives from town walked around refilling wooden cups, and vendors from the streets now also inhabited the shores as the merchants tried to make a living by selling their wares. Little wooden shacks up and down the shore that were usually used by fishermen were today turned into huts that held food and drink, making it easier for the barons and their men to get what they needed.

The herring festival was the most coveted of the privileges bestowed by the king onto The Confederation of the Cinque Ports. Fishing was the best off the coast of Great Yarmouth this time of year. However, the townspeople were very upset. They felt they had the right to the fish and the shores, and didn’t like outsiders here at all.

The Confederation of the Cinque Ports consisted of the five major coastal trade ports of Hastings, Sandwich, New Romney, Dover, and Hythe. This is where foreigners came with their wares, and where trade negotiations from as far away as the Holy Lands were conducted.

“You are a bad liar,” replied John with a scowl on his face. “Besides, weren’t you the one who told us you didn’t need a wife?”

Conlin stopped in his tracks and turned to face his friends. “And weren’t you two the ones to tell me I did?” His wife, Skena, had died three years earlier in childbirth. She’d tried for years to give Conlin many children, but each time the infants ended up being either stillborns or never lived more than a year or two. His only child to survive past infanthood was his daughter, Rose, who was already twelve years of age. By right she should be betrothed or fostered out to another noble family to be raised by now. However, he found himself not able to do either.

John and Nicholas looked at each other and shrugged. They were both tall and dressed in tunics that bore the crest of the Barons of the Cinque Ports. Three rampant golden lions with the back ends of ships were displayed atop an azure and crimson field. This was the crest that everyone respected, and revered almost as much as the king himself.

“Did we really say that?” asked Nicholas.

“Baron Sandwich, the skies are turning angry over the sea and the clouds are moving in fast.” Conlin’s steward and best knight, Sir Jackson, called out as he headed over to meet him, followed by Conlin’s squire, a young man named Toft. Waves crashed against the rocks and the warm breeze had been replaced by the cold, sharp sting of the biting wind. Conlin could see they were right. It proved to be the makings of a nasty squall. The weather was known to turn quickly this far north. They needed to act accordingly before they were caught in the storm.

“Shadwell,” Conlin called out to get his Tidewaiter’s attention. Shadwell was also his First Mate and more or less the baron’s right hand man, even filling in the position of captain when Conlin was not aboard his ship. “Have the men pull in their lines, and get the nets wrapped up before the rain comes.”

“Aye, milord.” Shadwell bowed his head, and Conlin knew he could count on him. He was mayhap a few years older than Conlin’s age of six and twenty years. He had no family and was a loner, so that worked out in Conlin’s favor. The man was always eager to do Conlin’s bidding. Although his job was to board incoming vessels at high tide and make sure they tied up at the appointed place on the quay, he’d also escorted Conlin on many of his trades up and down the coast and sometimes even overseas.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, and dark clouds gathered over the sea. The storm was moving in fast.

“Hurry,” he called out to his men. John and Nicholas called out orders to their men as well. There was a newfound commotion on the shores. Fishermen, merchants, and knights hurried about, moving barrels of herring toward their ships, and rolling up their nets quickly but in a sloppy manner. The merchants from town collected up their wares and hurriedly headed back to their shops. Everyone scattered, heading for cover before the storm hit.

“It’s going to be a nasty one,” called out John. “I’ll meet you two in the pub.” He hurried off, looking over his shoulder with a furrowed brow. Conlin swore the man was more afraid of a little storm than a prisoner was at the end of an enemy’s blade. Still, John always denied it. But Conlin wasn’t blind. A little thunder or a darkened sky, and John was the first to head to the pub to get an ale to calm his nerves. Conlin figured it had something to do with those blasted nightmares John often had that caused him to cry out in his sleep no better than a scared wench.