Yearning Heart (32 page)
“Nay, ‘tis haste we need.”
He knelt in front of Rebecca. He no longer wore the face cover, and she stared at the waxen features, almost as though carved from stone. Light gray eyes were surrounded by red veins, causing a pinkish cast. His wide mouth was without color, almost as the mud on the highway. He looked ill.
“What nobleman is thy husband, my lady?”
“ ‘Tis a manor officer, not a nobleman, sire.”
“Ah, one of the king's favored servants, is it true?”
“Sir Stephen Lambert, my husband, is a friend of his royal highness,” she said.
“Friend?” The man shook his head, and his mouth drooped sadly. “Nay, the king has no friend. ‘Tis a bastard, he is.”
Rebecca eyed the man with disfavor. How dare this ... this highwayman speak thus of King Henry? She was not enamored of him as Stephen was, but this man spoke blasphemy.
“Art such a wonder of a man that thou canst speak evil of the king?”
The man laughed.
“I am known as the young king, namesake for his majesty, King of England.”
Rebecca tried to hide her horror but could not. “Thou art the one taught by Sir Thomas ere he became the archbishop?”
“The same, my lady. Training of the highest caliber was not too good for the young king. As thou canst see, I have been taught by the best.”
“Art sorry for they father to stand so accused by the entire country, even though he had naught to do with the murder?”
“It matters not to me who killed Sir Thomas. I hold captive the wife of one of the king's most trusted servants. And should Sir Stephen not wish to ransom thee, then I shall inform the king he wilt receive thy lifeless body if he dost not deliver that which is asked for thee. There is much money in the king's coffers, and his majesty can share it with his son, can he not? Especially to rescue the wife of one of his most trusted officers.”
The young king rummaged around in his loose fitting coat and brought out a silver flask. He tilted it, drank deeply and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. Then he coughed, a thick rasping sound, a cough which caused Rebecca to take a deep breath as though to aid the man in his breathing.
“What plans have thou to get money from the king? Sir Stephen has lands but money is not easily found until lands and sheep are sold.”
The young king smiled at Rebecca in an almost fatherly way.
“Thou wilt write the note, my lady, and when the honorable Sir Stephen sees the handwriting, he will find a way to get money for return of such a lovely body to his bed.” His gaze, sad and, Rebecca thought, most weary, slid over her body and back to meet her questioning blue eyes. He smiled. “Do not worry thyself, Rebecca, the money will be forthcoming.” He lifted his head with an effort. “William!”
William shuffled forth, eyeing Rebecca with glittering desire. “Aye, Henry.”
“Fetch the paper from the bag, and we will fashion a ransom note.”
“We have no nib, Henry. How thinkest to write?”
Henry reached into the edge of the fire and removed a charred stick.
“ ‘Twill do,” he said.
William took the cup, now cold, from her hands and gave a rolled script sheet to Rebecca. Henry passed the burned stick to her.
“Write that we expect one thousand pounds ere we deliver thee to London alive and well,” Henry said.
“Stephen will not be blackmailed for such a sum, my lord,” Rebecca said. “I am not worth that to any man.”
“Methinks thou art wrong. Methinks Sir Stephen or the king will make haste to pay for thee so as not to add another murder to the archbishop's.”
Rebecca was not yet afraid they would harm her, but she did not wish Stephen to pay so large a sum of money to these rogues.
“That is too much,” Rebecca said. “Surely one hundred pounds would be enough to buy food and drink for thy band.”
William laughed.
“But ‘twould not buy favors from ladies, eh, Henry? And our bodies crave such after much delay.” He winked craftily at her. “Unless thou seest fit to favor us?”
Rebecca shuddered and bent to write the note.
When the note had been fashioned to suit young Henry, William hurried from the circle of stones, and Rebecca heard lowered voices, then the sound of horses leaving. Two, at least. That left a man outside to guard and Henry inside with her. He had not retied her hands, and Rebecca sat quietly so as not to remind him. She could do naught with bound hands, but if she could find a knife or even a rough stone, something with which to strike.
The young king moved from her sight, then returned past a tall, rounded stone at her side. He regarded her silently, reddened eyes brooding as he sipped from the silver flask. He turned away, walking with hands behind his back, the flask held between thumb and forefinger of his right hand.
Rebecca's stomach rumbled, and she was reminded of the discomfort of her fluxes while sitting on cold dirt and unable to move. She slid her hand across her stomach, slightly swollen during these vexing times, and felt the pouch she carried with herbs Margaret had fixed for her when she journeyed with the minstrels. If she took double the potion Margaret told her to, she became dizzy, sometimes retching, but it lessened the pain. It was potent when taken in certain ways.
As she watched, Henry drank from his flask.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Stephen grumbled as Malvina fussed over him. She bade him drink from the bowl of liquid she had made from herbs to which she had added a potion known only to the old witch who came to New Sarum by dark of moon. To keep Malvina from quarreling so much and causing his head to ache more, he sipped the vile-tasting tea.
“ ‘Twill ease the ache in thy head, my lord,” Malvina said, working quietly to cleanse and examine the ragged wound. The club had cut deeply, and Malvina had summoned Lady Witherstone from a nearby village to stitch the red flesh. Now she bathed the wound, checking the neat threads holding it. There would be a scar but that could not be avoided.
Stephen grew still, knowing Malvina would have her way as long as she thought to soothe his pain. For the first time in a long while, he thought of Mary. It had been long since he'd thought daily of Mary. His thoughts recently had been of his wayward wife, and even before she left, he had gone days without thinking about the woman he'd grieved for so much. Gentle and loving Mary, Malvina's sister. The two were alike in that they wished to serve the ones they loved.
Rebecca was different. Oh, indeed she was. She could be gentle, but sometimes her temper wasn't easily controlled. She seemed sometimes not to care for Malvina, watching her with clear blue eyes, refusing to smile even when she met one of Malvina's own. Questions she would turn on him and he, not understanding, refused to ask the meaning. If he forbade her to argue, she gave him a look that spoke more loudly than words. When they loved, he often thought she returned his feelings, but Rebecca did not speak of such. He had wanted her to, had often thought of asking, but he had never done so.
How he had missed her all those long nights she'd been gone.
“Rebecca is in danger,” Stephen said.
“Art sure ‘tis the king's son who did this?”
“For truth, Malvina, and I wish it were not so, but there is no doubt that is who led the highwaymen. Dost not the king and queen have trouble aplenty without a renegade son to do penance for?”
Malvina gazed at Stephen, noting the tired voice, the deep worry in narrowed blue eyes. Mary had loved this man more than life itself, as did the Lady Rebecca. But the Lady Rebecca had grown cold, had chosen to leave them, for what reason Malvina could not fathom. Stephen did not beat her. Indeed, at times he indulged her as a child, Malvina thought.
Did he not come to Rebecca when he needed a woman? Not all husbands lay only in their own beds, she knew from gossip. Especially gossip about the king and queen. Oh, but Stephen forbade such talk. Still, the Lady Rebecca did forsake them without cause. Her own feelings had suffered, but she hurt more for Stephen who searched for his wife so many months before finding her in Troyes. In a minstrel camp. Rebecca gave no explanation, offered no reasoning. Indeed, she refused to speak of times spent on the road with minstrels and gypsies, would not talk about things she had done, places she had seen. Malvina wanted to hear, she hungered to know of things outside of the villages, outside of Glastonbury and New Sarum. London was a rich and powerful city. Many things happened there that would make wondrous stories. But Lady Rebecca did not allow questions, even refused to talk with Malvina as she once had done. It saddened her, but there was naught could be done about it.
When Stephen first brought Rebecca to Glastonbury, little more than a child, she had not welcomed the confidence of her handmaiden although she had offered friendliness to Malvina for a time. The loss of the baby had somehow changed her back into a little-known person, someone Malvina could not talk woman talk with as they once had done.
“The young king, he would not hurt the Lady Rebecca, would he?” Malvina shuddered to think of the gentle Lady Rebecca in the hands of robbers and rogues. She would be at their mercy, and it would be more than Stephen could bear to have his young wife hurt.
“Young Henry is severely ill from drink and hard living. I do not know his personality. From the looks of his followers, it is a rough group of highwaymen, and highwaymen are sometimes cruel to victims they steal.”
Stephen seemed to be speaking to himself, and as he said the last words, he winced and squeezed his eyes closed. “If he should harm Rebecca, I shall have to kill him, no matter the king and queen's feelings.”
“What dost thou plan, my lord?”
Malvina finished tending Stephen's wound and took the pan of dirty water and bloody wrappings from the floor near them.
“Aubin tells me he heard the young king give orders to ride to the place of rocks two days east of New Sarum. I will take Aubin and three of the strong young farmers from the village, those who do not fear danger. I will not tell them they must go but that they canst refuse, and no harm will come to them.”
“Thou art a beloved nobleman, my lord. Thou hast only to ask for help.”
For the first time in days, Stephen smiled. “Thou art a true friend, Malvina, to say such. Mayhap you will find Aubin and have him go to the village and inquire. Tell them we leave two days hence at first light.”
“Nay, my lord. Thou art weak and thou needs be strong for such a task.”
“Aye, ‘twould be foolish at other times but this will not wait. Each day, yea each hour, puts Rebecca more in danger. I do not trust the young king to keep his party of rogues in hand many nights.” Stephen lay back. “Go, then, see to it, Malvina.”
* * * *
'Tis no wonder the king and queen need Stephen's strength, Rebecca thought, as she watched the stumbling steps of the young king. If the other children are as unstable as this one, their problem is multiplied six-fold.
What would Queen Eleanor do in my stead? She is strong, she would not be afraid. She is intelligent—she would use her head to determine a suitable path to follow. For truth, she would not cringe in the dark and do nothing.
Rebecca's hands lay across her unsettled stomach, massaging gently at the deep ache on each side. She fondled the bag of herbs, wondering at their strength if mixed with the spirits in the young king's flask. She must find a way to get some into his drink and pray it would somehow affect him.
The largest of three fires the highwaymen had built burned against two long stones, cornered together, a height to reach Rebecca's waist. Nearby, on a dingy sheepskin, was a pewter cup alongside a leather tankard.
“Dost hate the king and queen?” Rebecca said.
Young Henry did not turn but scoffed gruffly. “'Tis not worth the energy to hate such. Truth to say I do not love them, but to hate? ‘Tis strong language.” His voice became distant as though deciding if he needed to say more. He did not for a long time.
“Dost hate Sir Stephen because he serves the king?”
Young Henry laughed and turned to look her way. The dimness of the close standing stones hid his eyes, but his voice was low and rough, as though it hurt to pass his throat.
“I do not know Sir Stephen except by name. ‘Tis only his poor luck he was in the first carriage to pass our camp, and our good luck he had with him his lovely wife.”
“If he dost refuse thy demand for ransom?”
“Do not think thus, my lady, for if ‘tis true, thou art the one to suffer.” He walked away, putting distance and stones between them. It was the same as closing a door.
Rebecca stared into the emptiness the young king left behind him. She was the one who would suffer, he said, so she was the one who must find some way to put an end to her danger. Her eyes rested on the flask and cup.
Ears and eyes attuned to sound and movement, she slid one hand between blouse hooks, between her breasts, to the waistband where the pouch of ground herbs rested. Perhaps a half portion remained. Quickly, Rebecca withdrew her hand and remained still, listening, and then she moved to the flask, shook it and heard a faint gurgle. The wooden cork had swollen and resisted her efforts to pull it out but came loose suddenly with a loud pop. She held her breath hoping the sound did not carry far enough to be heard by the young king.
Wind whistled around stones with a sound like the moaning of someone in pain. A gust made its way through the place Rebecca stood, whipping at the flames and sending sparks fluttering at her feet. She shivered. Such a cold and lonely place, this city of stones.
Where is young Henry? she wondered, but she was too busy to linger on the question. Pushing the opening of the cloth pouch into the flask neck, she shook the contents into it, moving the wine container back and forth to dissolve any solid particles. The herbs were bitter when taken only with water but, mayhap, the wine would hide the sharpness.
A thick, rasping cough sounded and Rebecca laid the flask back in place and, rolling the pouch into a ball, pushed it into the fire. A blue blaze sizzled for a breath and was gone. Rebecca knelt by the fire, hands extended as though for warmth, and looked up as her captor appeared like a somber ghost from the shadows.