The Maiden and Her Knight (25 page)

Oswald gestured at her while he addressed Rennick. “You see how easy it can be, Rennick? No violence, no rape—find the weakness and there will be submission. She will do anything for her family.”

“If you harm them in any way, you will answer to the law!”

“Oh, Allis, Allis,” Oswald sighed. “How tiresome you are! You will marry the baron, and Rennick will have the young earl for his squire, to train him in the ways of knighthood. As for pretty young Isabelle, she will marry Auberan. There is nothing you can do to stop it.”

They had the fate of her family all planned. Yet there must be something she could do. There had to be!

“I grow fatigued and it is nearly dawn,” Oswald said as he hoisted himself to his feet, “so do with her as you will, Rennick, to ensure her cooperation. Just take care not to leave any visible marks.”

Rennick stood stiffly, as if he were not a human being at all, but a blue-eyed marble statue. “I know a way, my lord.”

Oswald eyed him as he sauntered to the door. “I thought you might.”

As the door closed behind Oswald with a dull thud, Rennick lunged for Allis and shoved her hard against the tapestried wall. His wrathful, icy blue eyes bored into hers. And although he held her pinned against the wall as he had before, there was no lust in his eyes—and that frightened her even more.

His eyes glittered like hard blue diamonds as he pressed his body against hers. His knee slid between her legs. Panic seized her, but she forced it back. She must think, and remember Connor, and not be afraid.

“Why do you make me do this?” he murmured as he put one hand on either side of her head and leaned closer. “Why do you goad me?”

Her throat parched with dread, she swallowed hard. “I am not goading you, Rennick. I did not fall in love with Connor to spite you.”

He kissed her neck and the feel of his wet lips disgusted her. “You wanted to inflame my desire, and you have.”

Oh, why had she ever said that to him? she silently cried as she willed herself not to move. “If I were not sincere, would I abandon Montclair, and take Edmond and Isabelle with me?”

He abruptly drew back. “Then you do give me no choice. Hear this, my lady, and remember it well: you will do as I say, or your lovely little sister who spoke of passion will pay.” He boldly caressed her breast. “Do you understand how?”

Oh, Connor, Connor, I need you! I need your help and your strength.
The words keened through her mind as she numbly nodded her head. She looked up into Rennick's face, and his eyes told her that he saw her surrender. “I believe you understand me, Allis, but just to
make sure you know that I can and will punish you in other ways, you will come with me.”

Weakened, distraught, not sure how or if she could fight him anymore, she put up no resistance as he hauled her to the door. “Now take my arm, my lady, as if we are going for a walk in your lovely garden.”

The garden, where she had kissed Connor. At least he was well away from here, and safe. Yet even that knowledge couldn't silence the wail of misery that seemed to swell within her, trying to burst free, as Rennick led her from the solar.

They passed through the hall, past Merva and the servants and soldiers who looked confused and fearful, but made no move to intervene. They went out through the courtyard and toward the armory. Was he going to rape her there? Her steps faltered, so that he was all but dragging her by the time he pushed open the door with his foot.

“Attila?” he called out.

There was no answer. Was that good, or bad?

He roughly pulled her into the workroom. “He's getting drunk in the village, I expect. I don't suppose the clever chatelaine of Montclair knew that about her armorer, did she, or that the man will do anything for pay? He will burn the pieces of a broken lance, or ignore a woman's cries for help.”

Allis tried to breathe, to think, to stay calm as he forced her down the steps. A scuttling sound told her rats were the usual denizens of this horrid place. At the bottom, he shoved her into a small, dank, windowless room.

Was this where he was going to rape or beat her?

Rennick stood in the doorway like a hellish gate-keeper, watching her.

She crouched, almost afraid to disturb him, because at least he was not touching her.

She dared to hope a man of honor lurked in him somewhere. “Rennick, it is not too late. Show yourself a chivalrous knight of the realm and let us go! You know what you do is wrong. I have seen it in your eyes. If you truly care for me at all, you will let me and my family go.”

He started to close the heavy wooden door, shutting out what little light there was.

“If you do this, Rennick—if you treat me and my family as pawns for your gain and ambition—you will live to regret it.”

She could no longer see his face, so his voice seemed to come only from the darkness, like that of some grim spirit.

“My father used this method of correction on me, and it always worked. And my only regret is that I didn't try it sooner.”

T
ired and hungry, his knees aching and his shoulder throbbing with pain, Connor approached Westminster, that area outside London dominated by the great abbey and the palace built by William Rufus, where Richard would be.

He had been on the road for two days, ever since he had left Montclair as night fell. Determined to get to London as quickly as he could to see the one man with the power to change Allis's fate, he had ridden hard and rested little.

It had been so difficult to leave her in the garden with that blackguard. Only the conviction that he had to go to Richard enabled him to do it, not her pleas, or her belief that she could save him and her family by sacrificing herself. He had known too many men, greedy, self-centered men like DeFrouchette, who
would do whatever suited their own purposes. Men like Richard, and himself, in the days of his youth, before he had seen what selfishness could do. Once more he silently vowed that if he did nothing else with his life, he would do whatever was necessary to save Allis and her family from their enemy.

The people made way for him, and as they did, many pointed surreptitiously at his surcoat, his shield and his helmeted head, for he had dressed to show all, and especially the palace guards, that he was a knight of the realm.

He passed the abbey, the large hulking building built for the glory of God. Only slightly less impressive was the palace, built to remind people of royal power. The sense of awe he had felt the first time he had seen them returned, but muted. He had learned that men of God could be as fallible as men of power, and men of power could be as vicious and unchivalrous as any brigand.

He dismounted and approached the soldiers guarding the entrance.

“Who are you?” one of them demanded, stepping out to meet him.

“I am Sir Connor of Llanstephan and I have come to see the king.”

“You and half the nobles of England,” the guard replied with a smirk.

“If our sovereign spent more time in England, he might not be so besieged.”

The man frowned and glanced at his fellow guard, obviously not sure what to make of Connor. “Who did you say you was?”

“I am Sir Connor of Llanstephan, and I was in the king's retinue on the Crusade.”

“That's what they all say,” the other guard scoffed. “The king'd be a poor man if he had as many in his retinue as claim to be.”

Frustrated to be so close and yet kept at bay by two foot soldiers, Connor spoke sternly. “The king
is
a poor man. Is my surcoat not proof that I was on the Crusade? Are my armor and my destrier not evidence that I am a knight of the realm? Is not my manner? Or would you care to test me by combat? If not, go to the king and tell him who awaits.”

“You might have stolen those clothes and that horse,” the first guard charged.

“Here, Bert, I'll go. What'll it hurt? And what if he be a knight?”

The first guard gave a reluctant nod, and the second one trotted off.

“So, you were with the king, eh?” the first guard said as he slowly surveyed Connor. “You don't sound Norman.”

His jaw clenched, but it would not be wise to push his way past or fight his way inside, despite the temptation. “I am from Wales.”

“Ah.” The guard leaned on his spear. “You were a good friend of his, were you?”

Although he would have thought it impossible to be more anxious, he tensed. “Not that good a friend.”

The second guard strolled back toward the gate.

“What did he say?” Connor asked, trying to keep the impatience from his voice.

“You're to come inside and see him,” the guard replied, eyeing him as if not at all sure what to make of him. “The king laughed and said you had some gall.”

Richard's laughter could mean so many things, not
all of them pleasant. Still, he was going to the king, and that was what mattered, Connor told himself, as he led Demetrius through the gate.

 

The moment Connor saw Richard enthroned in a chair in the great hall of Westminster, he knew he was not forgotten or forgiven. Suspicion shone in his sovereign's eyes beneath his slightly lowered brows and anger flared his nostrils. A hint of grudging curiosity resided in his face, as if he could not quite believe a man he had threatened so specifically would dare to come into his presence again.

Still the same Richard—haughty, arrogant, fearless, a warrior king for all that meant, and despite all that had passed, admiration rose in Connor's breast. But never again would he stand in blind awe of his king and obey without question. Never again would his hands be stained with blood shamefully shed.

He strode forward, his booted footsteps loud in the silent chamber, and he surreptitiously noted his surroundings. As always, Richard was not alone in the large room, but accompanied by several of his close—and sometimes intimate—friends. They varied in ages, and some might have been courtiers who handled affairs of state. Chances were, most gathered here were not, for Richard was casually attired in a plain red velvet robe.

Surprisingly, it seemed a fairly civilized gathering and not a drunken, noble version of soldiers' barracks. A chessboard stood nearby. Wine and bread were laid out upon a nearby trestle table, and a minstrel sat in the corner, idly strumming his harp. The only thing missing was women, whether to serve or provide company, but it was always thus with Richard.

Connor halted while he was still several paces from the king, then went down on his knee and bowed his head. “My liege.”

“Sir Connor,” Richard replied as he rose with the considerable majesty he commanded. He was taller than his companions, and they fell back as he strolled toward Connor. “Why are you dressed in your surcoat and armor?”

“To make my request to see you easier, sire. I wanted the guards at the gate to believe that I was a knight of the realm and that once I had been in your retinue.”

“That once you had been my friend, until you saw fit to call me—what was it?” Richard's voice hardened. “A disgrace to my name, my throne, my countrymen and my God. So, Connor, have you forgotten what I vowed to do if you ever dared to come into my presence again, or have you finally come to beg my forgiveness?”

He had not forgotten, and he still believed that every word he had said to Richard as he faced him at Acre had been completely justified. Richard had acted without mercy. Without justice. Without honor.

And he had silently vowed to die before he would beg his king's forgiveness for telling the truth. But now, his heart commanded him to do what he had sworn he would never do, what his pride and righteous outrage demanded he must never do—until his love for Allis became stronger than his pride and indignation, and her life more important to him than his own.

Sir Connor of Llanstephan lay face down on the floor, his arms wide, prostrating himself in a gesture of complete surrender and humility. His shoulder screamed in agony, but he ignored it. He must regain
Richard's trust and save Allis. Nothing else mattered. “I most humbly beg your forgiveness, sire.”

There was a long moment of silence like the quiet that had descended upon Acre when the last of the slaughtered Saracens fell. That silence had seemed as if Judgment Day had come and gone, and this heavy quiet was much the same.

Richard's feet came closer. “Is that all you have to say to me, Sir Connor?”

He knew that tone of voice, and his heart began to beat anew. He had opened the door, but now he must do all he could to get Richard inside, and the best way was to appeal to his self-interest. Richard would never go out of his way for Connor of Llanstephan, but he would certainly act if he felt threatened—and swiftly, too. “No, sire. I have also come to warn you. Some of your lords are plotting against you.”

“I daresay they are. Dissatisfied noblemen always plot against their king.”

Although he spoke as if this did not disturb him, Connor knew Richard well enough to hear the subtle change in his voice. “Send these others away, sire, and I will tell you all that I know.”

“What, do you think I wish to be alone with you, a man I very nearly accused of being a traitor? And you are armed, too.”

Connor raised his head to look at Richard. He recognized that shrewd, calculating gleam in the king's eyes and his hope increased. “If you had truly believed me a traitor, sire, you would have killed me the day I denounced you at Acre, or had me accused of treason and executed upon my return to England. You know that I am, and have always been, your loyal subject.”

“Rise, Sir Connor.”

Pressing his lips together to prevent himself from crying out in pain, he put his hands on the stone and pushed, heaving himself upright. “I am still your loyal subject and would never harm you. However, if you doubt me, one of these men may take my sword when they leave the room.”

Richard gestured to the others. “Leave us.”

“But sire!” one protested.

Richard whirled around to glare at them and spoke in the voice that had commanded men in battle countless times. “Leave us!”

As Richard strode toward the large carved chair near the hearth and sat, they scurried from the chamber like sheep being chased by a dog.

Richard gestured for Connor to come closer, but not to sit, and made no mention of his sword. “Well, what is this conspiracy you have come to warn me about?”

“It concerns the Baron DeFrouchette, whom you have just confirmed as guardian of the children of the late earl of Montclair.”

“You think he plots against me?”

“Yes. And if he has Montclair—”

“He does not have it. He is merely the guardian of the young heir, and was named as such in the earl's will. I saw no need to go against Lord Montclair's wishes.”

Not completely surprised, Connor absorbed the revelation. Oswald had not been truthful about how the baron had come to be named guardian. After their last conversation, his doubts about Oswald's loyalty had grown, and now he was sure he was to have been a pawn in the man's schemes. “The late earl was in no fit state to agree to anything, sire.”

Rubbing his strong jaw with an even stronger hand, Richard regarded him skeptically, but he did not contradict him. “How do you know this?”

“I saw the earl shortly before he died. It was quite obvious he was very weak and suffered from melancholy. DeFrouchette preyed upon his weakness, because he wants Montclair for himself.”

“The will was not made shortly before the earl died. It was some time ago.”

That was unexpected, but according to Allis, the baron had been influencing the earl for at least six years. “Be that as it may, the baron has been slowly taking control of Montclair ever since the earl's wife died six years ago.”

“You sound very sure of this, although you were with me six years ago.”

“Lady Allis, the late earl's elder daughter, told me.”

“Isn't she the one Rennick DeFrouchette is going to marry?”

“Yes, sire.”

“Yet she told you this about her future husband.” The king studied Connor, then he smiled. “One can only wonder why.”

Richard was vain and selfish, but he wasn't stupid. If Connor was less than completely honest now, the king would be suspicious, and surely DeFrouchette and Oswald would use his relationship with Allis against them if they stood accused before Richard. “She told me because she trusts me and because we are in love.”

The interest fell out of Richard's face, to be replaced with scorn. “So now you come rushing to me to tell me your beloved's betrothed is involved in a conspiracy. Very convenient for the two of you.”

Connor fought to maintain control, to sound rea
sonable and not the slave of his feelings. “Do you trust him, then, sire?”

Richard tilted his head and regarded Connor with that coldly measuring stare he used to such great effect. “I don't trust any of my nobles.” He got to his feet and started to pace as he always did when he was upset. “I do not trust you, especially when you tell me how you feel about Lady Allis. However, it is a long way to go from mistrust to an accusation of treason.” He halted in front of Connor, and his eyes gleamed fiercely, like a wolf's in the dark. “As you know, Sir Connor, I do not make such accusations hastily.”

He met his king's gaze steadily, and although he forced himself to use a deferential tone, his voice was firm and sincere. “Lady Allis has never wanted to marry the baron. The baron is the insistent one, because he would gain much by marrying her.”

Richard's eyes flared. “So would you.”

“Yes, I would, because of the woman herself.” Richard would not care what Allis was like, so he altered his course back to the king's safety. “I warn you that not only DeFrouchette is plotting against you. Lord Oswald of Darrelby is, too.”

Another look passed across Richard's face. Oswald was a powerful man. Richard might be able to ignore treachery on the part of DeFrouchette, or put an end to it with relatively little trouble. Oswald was another matter entirely.

Connor pressed on, sensing that the king was yielding. “They are combining forces against you, sire, and trying to convince others to join them. They tried to convince me. Lord Oswald was trying to make me so angry at you that I would kill you.”

Richard's glance darted to Connor's sword. “No,
sire, I will not. And there is yet more, Richard. Have you heard of the death of the son of Albert L'Ouisseaux?”

The king nodded and returned to his chair. Gesturing for Connor to sit near him, Richard sat heavily, as if burdened by his cares and the weight of his years, no longer the dashing figure of his youth, but a man who had been in power, with its attendant woes, for a long time.

Connor might have pitied him, save for Acre and the taxes on his family's home. “I believe the death of Percival L'Ouisseaux was no accident, but murder. I think DeFrouchette poisoned him because the boy knew that the baron had tampered with my lance at the tournament hosted by the earl of Montclair, which caused me to be wounded. Or else the lad had done it at his bidding. If the baron will kill a boy for that, he will do anything to have what he wants, even kill his sovereign.” He leaned forward and infused his words with every ounce of conviction he could muster. “You must believe me, Richard. Those two are planning to kill you and I have come to warn you.”