Anita Mills (9 page)

For two days they rode, stopping only to eat loaves of hard bread and chunks of cheese by the wayside, to relieve themselves in the dense, leafless woods, and to sleep no more than a few hours rolled into blankets on the hard ground. He’d fought twice and, given that three men were wounded, he’d not fight again ere he reached Dunashie, Moray told her tersely when Elizabeth complained of the pace.

They were a strange band, this Scot and his men. Where he was cold and hard, they were lighthearted and jovial. The toothless one often rode beside her, telling her of the others, men who seemed to have been named for sport. There was the red-headed giant called oddly “Wee Willie” and pronounced like “Wullie,” not to mention the tall, thin one referred to as “Lang Gib,” which she took to mean he actually had been christened Gilbert. And upon questioning, her toothless spokesman admitted to “Hob,” then revealed he’d actually been “kirked” as Robert. The others he pointed out as “Auld Sim,” “Will’s Johnnie,” “Wat,” “Feir Jock,” and “Saft Launcie.” Only Osbert, Hervé, and Ewan had names that were not alien to her ears. And yet, for all the strange appellations, they appeared to enjoy a singularly non-feudal relationship with their lord, approaching him at will in ways none would have dared with her father. It confirmed her suspicion that he was no more than the leader of a band of mercenaries, and probably only he had the right to wear mail at all. The others had surely stolen theirs.

Still, Moray puzzled her. From time to time, out of boredom, she attempted speech with him, but he seemed wary, answering shortly. Finally, when she told Hob that his master had no manners, the fellow merely grinned, saying something incomprehensible. It took several repeats to glean that Giles of Moray had little use for women beyond the obvious. And somehow it offended him that she was a nun.

“Then why did he fight the first time?” she demanded in exasperation.

“Och, but he nae knew ye then,” Hob answered.

The last time she’d spoken to Moray, she’d merely asked if it rained as much in Scotland as in England. That elicited the comment that if she wished to know she ought to go there. Finally, she could stand it no longer.

“My vocation ought to gain me better,” she snapped.

He leaned forward in his saddle, easing his tired back, before responding. “If you would have my opinion, madame, I think you hide behind your crucifix. And an unwilling bride, even for Christ, is no bride at all.”

“You belittle God’s calling?” she demanded incredulously.

“Nay. I belittle those who are given where there is no calling. ’Tis a plague that infests the Church.”

“You speak contempt for that which you do not know,” she told him stiffly.

“Aye?” One black eyebrow rose to disappear behind the steel. “Then how is it that you have not prayed since we are met?” When she did not answer, he favored her with a twisted smile. “Nay, but ’tis wrong to be that which God did not intend.”

“Jesu! And you think you know God’s intent in all things?” she asked sarcastically.

“He did not make you for this.” His black eyes met hers for a long moment. “ ’Tis too great a waste.”

There was that in his gaze that disconcerted. “You know not of what you speak,” she muttered.

“Nay? Art neither a virgin nor old, madame—’tis wrong that you have not been given again.”

“I was barren.”

His dark eyes moved from her face downward, lingering on the swell of her breasts beneath the cloak. “Art sure? Mayhap ‘twas that they gave you to the wrong man.”

“There was no right one,” she retorted, turning her horse back. “I know not why I seek speech with you.”

Unable to suppress his grin, he watched her retreat to the safety of her men. She was in truth a magnificent woman, but overgiven to intemperate words. His smile faded abruptly with the realization that, whatever the reason she’d given herself to the Church, she was beyond his reach. And he felt a sharp, unexpected regret. It was no justice that gave a man a weeping woman like Aveline and let one like the fair Elizabeth go to a nunnery.

After that she ignored him, keeping instead to the company of Rannulf and Hugh. From time to time, when she glanced Moray’s way, she caught him watching her, but his eyes betrayed nothing of his thoughts. And yet she could not help puzzling over him, wondering how it was that he had not risen before the world, wondering what had made him so bitter, wondering how he came to bear those awful scars on his hands. It did not matter: in a matter of hours she would not have to think of him at all, she told herself resolutely.

The cold winter sun had waxed high in the sky ere they reached Harlowe. Her whole body ached, and she felt tired and incredibly dirty. Beside her Rannulf rode in stony silence, while Hugh still complained of the pace they kept. Directly in front of her Giles of Moray sat straight in his saddle, as though impervious to the journey’s toll. Suddenly the toothless one gave a shout, bringing all of them to a halt.

But it was the red-haired giant who gave voice to their thoughts. “Och, I never beheld the like, my lord.” He spoke in the low, hushed tones of awe.

Moray stared upward with the eyes of one used to making war, taking in the high walls that rose above the water. Situated on a bend in the river that had been damned and excavated until it created the island, Harlowe was a masterpiece of design that commanded his admiration. For much of his life he’d heard of it, but this was the first time he’d actually seen the legendary keep the Old Conqueror had bestowed on the Brione family.

That it had been the patrimony of Roger de Brione made it doubly inspiring, for the old earl’s exploits had been sung at many a winter hearth, including Dunashie’s. That Earl Roger had fought the Scots for his king had not diminished his stature, but rather had enhanced it. Besides, had he not also fought the Devil of Belesme and won? But he’d been unable to vanquish that last great foe, Death, when it had come for him, and ‘twas said the final battle had been a painful one. Now Giles could not look upon the fortress without feeling regret that he’d never actually met the old earl; for in the
Chanson Roger
he sometimes heard something of himself. Like Brione, he too had risen above his birth.

“Only treachery could take it,” he observed aloud. “ ’Twould have to be done from the inside, for ’tis too difficult to bridge the river—a few defenders could drown an army.”

Elizabeth followed his gaze. And even though she’d seen Harlowe in her childhood, she could not help the rush of pride she now felt, a pride so, great it made her forget the terrible fatigue in her bones.

This great stone castle was as much a symbol of her father’s power as Rivaux itself—nay, ’twas more, for in it she could see the rise of her family, she could feel the power of the blood of Rivaux and Brione united. She stared at the back of Giles of Moray’s head, wondering if he felt it also. Her fingers tightened on her reins exultantly. Aye, but he’d have treated her far differently had he known her for Guy of Rivaux’s daughter.

Forcing himself into action, Giles ordered, “Sound the approach, Hob.” As the toothless one raised the horn to his lips, Moray turned to her. “I’d have you ride in front lest they think we do not come in peace.”

“Aye.”

The sound of the horn split the air, prompting a flurry of activity on the walls. The late winter’s sun caught the glint of steel-tipped arrows bristling from dozens of archer’s slits. Above them the gatekeeper peered out curiously, then shouted for them to identify themselves. Elizabeth held her breath as Wee Willie called back, “We seek a bed in peace! Aye, and we bring a nun bearing a relic to ye!”

“A nun?” One of the sentries leaned over the side of the wall to see.

Elizabeth rose in her stirrups and waved, shouting, “I am come to see the Countess Eleanor!”

“Sit you down, else they think you a man in habit,” Giles muttered tersely. “Art overtall for a woman, and I’d not have them think I come in treachery.”

Her temper rose on the instant at the perceived insult, and she bristled. “Nay, but they would not fear a small band of nithings,” she retorted.

Even as she spoke, the iron water gate creaked upward and a small boat slid into the water, rowed by a fellow whose overtunic bore the black hawk of Rivaux. Coming ashore, he bobbed a quick obeisance to the Scots leader. “Alas, sir, but the countess is away, and I cannot—”

“I pray you will let us in,” Elizabeth interrupted him impatiently. “I bring greetings from the priory at St. Agnes to the Countess and people of Harlowe.” Turning to her captain, she directed, “Rannulf, you will accompany him inside that you may present the letter to the seneschal—aye, and give him this,” she added, reaching for the pouch at her waist, lest she arouse Moray’s suspicion.

“But the countess—”

“The letter will explain.”

“God’s bones!” Willie grumbled under his breath. “I’d nae tarry overlong out here—I’d have a bath and a dry pallet ere we journey to Dunashie on the morrow.”

“Aye, and so you will have both,” Giles answered, “for I have heard the Countess Eleanor is generous with her hospitality.”

“Then may St. Catherine’s relic gain us a better welcome than I see now,” the huge man muttered.

Stretching in his saddle, his master tensed tired, sore leg muscles, and flexed arms still bruised from battle. “We come in peace, Will,” he responded shortly.

“Aye, I’d have a wench bathe and salve me this day,” Hob chortled. “I mean to sleep dry tonight.”

Sitting back, Giles reached to push the heavy, conical helmet from his head, then tossed it to Hob. Removing one glove, he combed through his thick, black hair with his fingers, reminding Elizabeth of Richard. Her eyes caught the scars on his palm again, then traveled to his face, seeing the deep imprint where the nasal had pressed against his stubbled cheeks. The thought crossed her mind that he looked older, harsher, than his six-and-twenty years.

For a moment, in his fatigue, his black eyes were unguarded. He smiled briefly, wryly almost. “ ’Tis not a comely countenance, sister, but it serves me.”

Caught, she retorted, “Nay, ’tis not, but it matches the man within.”

The wariness returned immediately, and he nodded curtly. “Aye, I am not a gentle man.”

“A pity for your lady.”

“Prayers serve better, sister, for they are both dead.”

“You have buried two wives?”

“Aye.” He shifted his weight to ease the stiffness again, then favored her with a twisted smile that did not warm his cold eyes. “One departed this earth ere she was bedded, the other found me little to her liking.”

“And she perished in your tender care,” Elizabeth ventured acidly.

His jaw tightened visibly, and it was some time before he answered. Looking up at the high walls of Harlowe again, he spoke low, his voice betraying his bitterness. “Aye, if you have the tale of her family, I poisoned her.” He jerked the reins of his horse almost savagely, pulling away. “I have yet to see any of the dowry she was to have brought me, so ’twas all for naught, anyway. I no longer look to a woman to bring me what I would have—instead, my sword buys me what I want.”

She stared at the set of his shoulders, feeling anger for the unnamed bride as the old hurt washed over her again. She knew what it was to be wed for her dowry, to be wed to a man who did not want her, to be despised in her husband’s house. And in that moment she hated the man beside her. “Your wants must be few, then,” she snapped furiously, “for your sword has not bought you overmuch.”

“I have what I need.”

Shortly after Rannulf de Coucy was ferried inside a crowd gathered on the wall, waving red silk banners that gave flight to the black hawks blazoned on them. This time, when the water gate opened, a barge decked with red silk cushions and canopied with silk and cloth-of-gold emerged. And following it there were boats pulling the floating bridge.

Willie grinned and shook his head. ” ’Tis a fine welcome for the nun, my lord. The countess must be verra pious.”

“Aye.”

It was to Elizabeth that the red-robed man, carrying the keys of his office, bowed low as he stepped from the barge. She cast him a warning look, then nodded toward Moray. “I bid you greet Sir Giles, who seeks lodging here.”

The official’s eyes traveled over the strange mesnie warily. “Sir, ’tis custom here to enter unarmed.”

Moray nodded. “Willie …”

“Och, but—” the big man started to protest, but thought better of it. Reluctantly, he handed his stained axe and his bow to one of the servants who’d come off one of the boats. When the fellow still waited expectantly, he sighed and reached for the dagger that hung at his belt. “The pallet best be saft and the wench comely,” he said, winking at him.

“And you, sir …”

Giles nodded and drew his broadsword, balancing the blade in his hand before he preferred it hilt-first. “ ’Tis not Roger de Brione’s Avenger, but it has served me well enough. Aye, and you can take the mace and broad-axe,” he added, dismounting with far greater ease than he felt.

As the rest of the borderers disarmed, Elizabeth breathed a sigh of relief. No longer did she have to fear discovery—she was safe at Harlowe. She moved quickly to take her seat on the barge. And Moray, seemingly unaware that he belonged in one of the small boats, followed her.

“ ’Tis a grand greeting the old countess gives me,” he observed, dropping his tall body onto one of the seats. Looking upward at the rich carvings and the exquisitely hung canopy, he shook his head. “I’d not expected even Earl Roger to live like this.”

“Aye, ’tis fine,” she answered icily. “My—” She stopped, aware that his eyes were on her now rather than the barge itself. And his gaze, bold that it was, did nothing to improve her temper. “Did none tell you not to gape? God’s bones, Sir Scot, but where did you foster, that you were allowed to stare at your betters? The rules of courtesy—”

“My training was overshort,” he admitted as his faint smile broadened. “Have you always been possessed of such temper?” As her color heightened dangerously, his black eyes seemed to mock her. “Your tongue, I think, has been sharpened by the lack of anyone to warm your bones. Aye,” he drawled lazily, “ ’tis what ails you, and you would admit it.”