The Baron's Bounty (6 page)

“Of course I am.” Conlin took Isobel by the arm once again and led her across the pebbled beach toward the buildings in the distance that made up the town of Great Yarmouth. This looked to be a fishing town, and most likely the residents had shops and homes close to the docks. Isobel was thankful they wouldn’t need to go far.

Her shoes had fallen off with her bout in the water, and she couldn’t walk quickly with bare feet. She felt every pebble, and though the rocks were smooth and rounded from the waves, it hurt her soles and she kept stubbing her toes. She wished the beach consisted of only sand instead.

“Wait!” She talked to Conlin’s back as he all but dragged her along with him. “We’re no’ having the wedding today are we?”

“Isn’t that what you came for?” He turned back toward her as he spoke.

“I – well, yes,” she answered, stumbling and falling into his arms. He caught her and righted her quickly. Why did she feel so protected in his strong arms? She didn’t even know yet if he could be trusted.

She tried to think of any excuse to stall the wedding. Even if she were only a proxy, she’d been through a lot today. She’d lost her uncle’s ship, his crew, and everything she owned that she’d packed for the journey. Besides, she also wanted to find out if Conlin could possibly be the man who killed their king before she took the vows that would join this man to her cousin. “I thought we would be married at yer port in Sandwich, no’ here in Great Yarmouth right on the beach.”

“No time for that.” He sounded as if waiting til the morrow would be such a burden. She started to feel like it was a big mistake to be here at all. Why had she ever accepted Catherine’s proposal and agreed to be a proxy? She looked down to her bare feet and then she remembered. Her reason was now at the bottom of the ocean. She’d really have to do something about her love of shoes because her infatuation only seemed to bring her constant trouble.

“You’ll change into dry clothes and meet me on the pier by my ship within the hour,” he continued. “I’ve paid a priest to travel with me from Sandwich to conduct the ceremony. However, he has things to attend to back home so I won’t keep him another day.”

“Nay!” She stopped in her tracks again, crossing her arms over her chest. The blanket fell to the ground and a gust of wind nearly blew her over. She felt the cold deep in her bones, and she shivered uncontrollably once again. Her teeth chattered together, sounding very loud in her head.

“Me lord, perhaps Lady Isobel could have a hot meal and a bath afore the weddin’?” Her guard spoke up for her.

“Aye, she seems to be very disheveled and cold,” added Toft.

Conlin surveyed her without saying a word. Then he drew his sword from his scabbard, and she wondered if her bold outburst was going to get her killed. She breathed a sigh of relief when he used the tip of his sword to pick up the blanket, handing it to her.

“Cover yourself, my lady. Even if you are only a proxy, I’ll not have you strutting around town like a strumpet.” His eyes motioned to her chest.

She looked down in horror to realize that indeed her taut nipples were showing right through the white tunic. She snatched the blanket from the end of his sword and quickly wrapped it around her, feeling so exposed in front of the men. Why hadn’t he pointed this out sooner? Mayhap that is what the other barons were chuckling about behind their hands.

“Toft, see to it that the pubmaster prepares a hot bath for Lady Isobel, as well as fixes her something to eat.”

“Aye, milord,” said the squire with a nod of his head.

“What aboot me, milord?” asked the Scottish guard.

“Go with my squire and he’ll find you some dry clothes as well as get you ale and some food.” Conlin took a pouch from his side and tossed it to his squire. Isobel heard the sound of coins clinking together as the squire caught the pouch and fastened it to his waist. “See if you can buy a gown off one of the wenches in town for Lady Isobel as well,” he added.

“I want me trunks. Please.” Isobel was adamant about retrieving her things. “I have me own clothes as well as shoes, and I’ll no’ wear the clothes o’ another.”

Conlin just stared at her. “Fine,” he added with a slight nod of his head. “I’ll have my crew bring your trunks to your room above the pub. But I want you to understand, they’re not your things anymore – they’re mine.”

She knew arguing with him would only anger him. And if so, she may never see her things again. “Me trunks are the ones with the curved tops and metal inlaid trim. One is larger than the others – thet is the most important one.”

A nod of his head and he turned and started back toward the docks. As she watched him go, she felt an odd pain in her heart. The man was courageous and strong, and very handsome. He was stubborn, but she’d been known to break the stubborn streaks of many men in her life, including her own father. He’d be a challenge, but still a challenge she was more than willing to take. For some odd reason, she found herself wondering what it would be like to be truly married to the baron instead of naught more than his proxy wife.

“Come my lady,” said her guard, putting his hand on her elbow to direct her. She took one last look at Conlin walking to his ship. He stopped to talk to his crew along the way, smiling and laughing. It made him seem friendly and very desirable to be around. He’d also risked his life to save her, not even having met his betrothed. No murderer would take such risks if he didn’t have to. He’d even given her a blanket and the shirt right off his back. Once again – she didn’t think that was a normal trait of someone who would do something so extreme as to kill a king. She didn’t understand any of this at all.

How could he be a murderer? And was he really? Mayhap he wasn’t. He seemed too noble to ever consider such a horrible action. She’d never seen the murderer’s face, only his shoes, she reminded herself. She’d noticed the baron’s shoes earlier and they were boots made from simple leather - not nearly as elaborate as those of the murderer. But then again, he could be hiding the other shoes.

“Is something wrong, my lady?” asked the baron’s squire.

She turned and looked at the young man. “Nay, no’ at all.”

“Then let’s go,” he told her, leading the way to town. She turned back and looked at Conlin once more, suddenly envying her cousin and cursing herself.

Chapter 4

Isobel sank down into the hot water and a moan of delight surfaced as her cold body finally warmed. She dunked under the water to wet her hair as well. She washed with the soft soap that the pubmaster’s wife had been sure to give her. The woman had offered her assistance as well, but Isobel never liked to have anyone help her with the simple things such as dressing or bathing, so she’d dismissed the woman and was now alone in the room.

The Fish Head Pub wasn’t Kirkcaldy Castle, but at this point she didn’t even care. A little musty air, dirty rushes on the floor, and the bug-infested pallet was nothing to her because she was only too glad to be alive. She laid her head back on the edge of the wooden tub, feeling every aching muscle in her body. Her ordeal in the ocean left her drained of energy and so exhausted that she fell asleep immediately. She’d hoped to rest and relax, but instead she dreamed of her past when she first came to live with her cousin when she was only nine years of age.

Isobel ran to her secret hiding place under the wooden staircase in the east wing of the castle. She despised the fact her father had sent her here to be fostered by her Uncle Chisholm and Aunt Enid at the death of her own mother.

She settled herself under the stairs in her private safe haven. Here is where she liked to come to be alone and play with the rag doll the cook had made for her. But she was never really alone here, because above her head people constantly walked up and down the stairs. She heard footsteps and looked up to watch as someone started up the stairs of the east wing. She could only see shoes from her position, but didn’t need to see faces. She’d learned to identify people by the shoes they wore and they way they walked. It was like a game to her, and she loved games of any kind.

It was her aunt ascending the stairs. She knew her aunt’s quick, short steps and the flat ankle strap shoes she wore on her feet. She stopped halfway up to talk to someone, not knowing Isobel hid in the shadows.

Isobel heard heavy footsteps next. One foot was being dragged slightly. She realized it was her uncle. He’d been wounded in battle years earlier, and he always dragged his right foot slightly when he walked. His short boots were oil-dressed, giving the leather a yellowish, but porous and soft texture.

“I don’t know why you agreed to foster that girl. She is nothing but trouble,” complained Aunt Enid. She was English, and also the mother of their only child, Catherine, who was Isobel’s cousin.

“She is me brathair’s wee lass and only child,” answered her uncle. “He said the lass is havin’ a horrid time coping since her mathair died from eatin’ tainted meat.”

Another pair of feet joined them, and by the lithe steps and the look of the ornate side-laced slippers made of soft silk and embroidered with colorful flowers, Isobel knew it was her cousin, Catherine.

“Mother, I don’t really like her,” she said in a soft voice. “Is there any way we can send her away, please?” The spoiled girl complained, but in a sweet manner.

“Nay,” answered her uncle. “She’s part o’ our family now, so treat her nicely, both o’ ye.”

Isobel listened to her uncle’s footsteps as he made his way down the stairs. The slight drag of one heavy foot over the stone floor echoed through the corridor then faded away.

Next, she saw simple drab commoners’ shoes with triangular side flaps through the slats in the stairs and knew it was a servant.

“Catherine, go with the chambermaid,” said Aunt Enid.

“Nay!” Catherine’s meek demeanor changed to that of a lion as she fiercely objected in a loud voice. “Do not touch me, wench! I will go nowhere with you.” She was being very outspoken for such a young child.

Isobel ducked as a chamber pot came flying over the side of the stairs, obviously taken from the maid and thrown by Catherine in one of her fits of rage. The chambermaid shrieked and ran off, and Aunt Enid could be heard calling to one of her guards.

“Elliot, come help me with Lady Catherine.”

Catherine was a shrew, even at the young age of nine. By right she should have been fostered out or even betrothed by now, and Isobel didn’t know why she was still living at the castle.

A steady, strong gait and the stomping of feet up the stairs stopped right in front of Isobel’s nose. The smell of smoke-tanned leather filled her nostrils, and she noticed the high boots of a soldier. Sir Elliot.

“Me lady, come te the kitchen with me and we’ll get ye a cup o’ wine te calm yer nerves,” said Elliot.

“Have the cook make her something to eat. Perhaps she’s hungry and that’s why she’s ornery,” said her aunt as they headed away with Catherine now as quiet as a church mouse once again.

“Aye, me lady,” came Elliot’s voice from somewhere down the hall.

Isobel played with her doll for a while, watching as the simple shoes of the hired help went up and down the stairs. The soft slippers of the noble ladies were followed by the swishing of their long gowns. The women giggled and spoke in hushed voices as feet clad in long-toed shoes of the noblemen followed.

Then she heard a new set of footsteps she couldn’t identify. They stopped just above her head. When she looked up she saw side-laced riding boots made from two-toned Cordoba leather. Her heart beat faster. These shoes looked familiar but she couldn’t place where she’d seen them before. She pushed back into the shadows trying to see whom they belonged to, but all she could see through the opening in the stairs was a person in a long dark cloak. It was the rugged dark cloak of a man, not the dainty, light colored cloak of a woman.

The man bent down toward the steps as if he’d seen her hiding there. She held her breath. Then an arm shot out through the slats in the stairs, reaching around in the air but unable to touch her. “Issssssobel,” came a sibilant whisper, and she closed her eyes hoping the person would leave.

When all was quiet again, she slowly opened her eyes, only to see the shadow of the man now standing before her. His face was hidden by the hood and he was lit from behind by a torch that flickered from the iron holder in the stone wall.

Isobel was so frightened that she couldn’t speak or even move. Then the man reached out and grabbed her tightly by the shoulders and shook her.

Isobel screamed out and opened her eyes to see Baron Conlin standing to the side of the tub, his hands on her shoulders, shaking her.

“Let go o’ me!” She pushed his hands away and backed up to the edge of the tub, hiding her nakedness with her arms crossed over her bosom.

“My lady, you fell asleep and I didn’t want you to sink below the water, as I know how much it means to you to keep your head above the surface lately.”

Isobel looked around and saw what looked like some of the baron’s dockmen bringing one of her trunks into the room. Water dripped out from the sides, and the trunk seemed very heavy, as it took two men just to move it.

“Put this around you before you give my entire crew a show they’ll never forget.” Conlin held up a large drying cloth to block the view as she stood and did as he commanded.

“Och, is thet all?” She felt thankful it wasn’t someone coming to kill her. Or at least she’d hoped it was all only a dream.

“What frightened you, my lady?” Conlin dismissed the men and closed the door.

She tied the drying cloth around her and ran to her trunk. “’Twas naught but a dream.”

“This was the only trunk that matched your description. So I am guessing this was one of yours?”

“Aye,” she said with a smile. “I had three, but this one is the only one thet really matters. It’s the largest o’ the three.”

“I’m sorry we couldn’t have found them all. I hope you have some valuables in there.”

“Very much so,” she said, flipping the latches and opening the lid. Water gushed out and she jumped backwards and laughed.

Conlin liked the sound of Isobel’s laugh. It was a cross between the twitter of a bird and those small bells on the jester’s shoes. This was the first time that he’d seen the girl smile, and it was a blinding smile indeed. Her rosebud lips turned up to reveal a mouthful of straight white teeth. Her hazel eyes held a newfound life in them as she looked down into the trunk. Her level of excitement made him wonder if there were perhaps gold coins in the trunk or valuable jewels. Whatever was inside, it must be worth plenty, just seeing the girl’s reaction.

“You seem happy to see your belongings.”

“I am elated they werena lost at sea.” She kneeled down, almost losing her covering in the process, but didn’t seem to care. She reached into the trunk, and from his position, all Conlin could see was her smile. The lid of the trunk was up in the air and blocking his view. Curious, he stepped to one side, walking to the front of the trunk eager to see his new bounty, but stopped in his tracks when he saw what was inside.

“Bid the devil, is this some kind of bad jest?” He stood staring at a trunk filled to the brim with . . . shoes. Tall boots, short boots, elite slippers embroidered with colored thread and even thick wooden pattens – the shoes that were worn over others in bad weather, were all inside. They were all soaking wet, and there looked to be a good amount of water in the bottom of the trunk as well. The shoes were packed in tightly, piled atop each other, and it looked like enough shoes to cover the feet of half the occupants of his castle.

“Thank God, me shoes survived.” She grabbed several in each hand, not caring that they smelled like wet leather. She brought them to her mouth and actually – kissed the damned things.

“What is the meaning of this?” Conlin didn’t understand at all. “Where are your gowns and where are my gold coins and jewels?”

She stood up, still holding onto the shoes, and looked at him blankly. “I suppose me gowns and jewels and even the coins I brought with are nestled at the bottom of the sea. But it doesna matter, I have what I need now.”

She smiled when she said it, and it didn’t seem as if it even bothered her that the rest of her things were gone. Instead, she bent over, allowing him to see down her cleavage and up the back of her covering as she dug through the trunk of shoes like she’d found pirate’s booty.

“Och, they arena completely ruined like I thought they’d be. Jest a little work from the cordwainer and they’ll be as guid as new.” She stood up with several shoes under her arm, and so many in her hands that she was dropping them.

“What is the meaning of this?”

“The meaning?” Once again, came a blank stare. “I wear them on me feet. They’re shoes!” She giggled and it sounded so sweet it was hard to be angry with her for acting like a dolt. He was starting to see now why she made such a fuss about having her trunks returned. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to wear another woman’s clothes – she just didn’t want to lose these shows for some odd reason.

“Pick a pair to wear, and put the rest back in the trunk,” he told her in a low voice.

“Oh, I dinna ken,” she said, examining the shoes as if she were a healer with a sick patient. “They are all so nice, and I dinna like te show favorites.”

“Egads woman, they are only shoes. Stop talking as if they were your children.”

“They may only be shoes te ye, but they are so much more te me,” she said, picking up a few more tho he didn’t think it was possible. “Each pair holds a meaning fer me.” She held up a pair of small, simple brown shoes. “These were the first shoes me faither bought me when I turned into a woman.”

“They look small,” he grumbled.

“They are. Me feet have grown two sizes since then.”

“Then why do you still have them?”

She seemed appalled by his question, and cradled the blasted things to her chest as if she were protecting a baby.

“They mean a lot te me. Just like these shoes that I wore when me mathair took me te Edinburgh the first time I saw the king.” She nodded to a pair of shoes in her hands. “And this pair I found in the moat and had the cordwainer help me repair fer me own needs.” She nodded toward another.

“So . . . those shoes were found in the moat?” The thought was less than appealing. “They could have been off a dead person, Isobel.”

“Well, if so, they wouldna need them anyway, so what does it matter?” She giggled again, and her entire appearance changed. She went from looking like a helpless maiden in distress to someone who held her head high, her back straight, and her entire stance regal. It was amazing, since she stood there covered in naught but an old drying cloth.

“Well, you don’t need them either.” He took them from her hands and placed them back into the trunk. “I can’t believe you chose to bring a trunk to England that contained a bunch of worthless shoes, most of them that don’t fit you anyway.”

“Thet’s no’ true. A lot of them do fit me feet. And they’re far from worthless.” She put down a few pairs and a doting look of comfort colored her face. “They’re all so nice thet I canna decide which ones te wear. I suppose it depends on what type o’ gown I’ll be wearin’.”

“Well, since it looks like you’ll be wearing a drying cloth to our wedding, I’ll do the honor of choosing for you.” He took the armload of shoes from her and threw them into the trunk, watching as her mouth turned into a frown and her eyes narrowed. He reached down and picked up the plainest looking pair that were made from low-grade leather and had just a thin sole. They looked the most functional out of the whole lot, and probably the easiest to walk in. They would protect her feet on the beach, and not slow him down as he dragged her along with him. He held them out to her. “You’ll wear these. Put them on quickly, as we have no time to waste.”