His Fair Lady (12 page)

Ana felt the knight shift in front of her.
Glancing up, she found that he’d twisted in the saddle to look back
at her.

“You’d best put your arm around my
waist.”

“You’re w-waist?” she stammered,
transferring her gaze there and remembering suddenly how he’d
looked last night, naked to the top of his braies. Even viewing him
upside down in the poor light, she’d been able to make out the
well-defined muscles of his upper torso. She could envision them
even now, beneath his chainmail and surcoat.

“Aye, around my waist — lest you fall, my
lady. Hannibal is a monstrous-sized beast and ‘tis a long way to
the ground.”

Ana wrenched her gaze from Sir Royce’s back
and glanced downward. Why did the distance to the ground seem so
much farther than before, when she’d ridden in front of him?

Raising her eyes, she saw how the other
travelers in their company were assembled and beginning to set
forth. Not a few watched her and the knight openly, curiosity and
smiles lighting their faces. ‘Twas as though she and Sir Royce
provided some entertainment and they now waited to see what would
pass next. Did they expect her to fall off the stallion’s hind end,
or was it her contending with Sir Royce that amused them so?

Ana drew herself up, arrow-straight. “I can
see for myself how far it is to the ground, Sir Knight,” she said
brittlely continuing to sit rigid, motionless, clutching at the
back of the saddle.

“Come now, take hold of my middle,” he urged
her. “I won’t bite.”

“I’m not so certain of that,” Ana
muttered.

Wary, she looped one arm lightly about his
waist. The gesture forced her to lean forward, but she managed to
keep her body from touching his. To her surprise, she thought she
heard him chuckle.

“Is there something that amuses—” she began,
irked, but just then the stallion moved beneath her, the muscles of
its flanks bunching and stretching.

Feeling herself slip upon the seat, Ana
seized the knight about the waist with both arms and held tight.
This time Sir Royce’s amusement was distinct — a full, rich laugh
escaping him as they rode forward.

As the band of travelers passed through the
thick towered walls of Le Mans, Ana was struck by the rubble and
charred remains of buildings that greeted them. Proceeding along
the cobbled streets, they encountered whole sections of the city
under construction and other portions so new that the structures
displayed little weathering.

Ana’s thoughts leapt to King John. She cast
about through her memories of the year just past and the tales
she’d heard of him.

John — then a princeling — had been present
in the fortress of Chinon when news of the Lionheart’s death
arrived. She’d seen his troops depart the city as he raced to seize
his brother’s crown and to oppose those who supported his nephew’s
claim.

What happened afterward, she’d heard
recounted many times since, mainly by her foster father, Georges,
who lost no opportunity to bandy the details over cups of ale with
his customers and friends.

Traitorously, the citizens of Le Mans
championed John’s nephew, closing the city gates and refusing the
prince entrance when he arrived. Pressing on to Normandy, John
remained in Rouen long enough to accept the ducal coronet and be
confirmed in his office. Then, before sailing for England, he
returned to Le Mans at the head of a Norman army and took his
revenge.

‘Twas devastating, by the tales Ana had
heard. John destroyed the city. What he and his men did not burn,
they leveled to the ground, and on parting took with them many of
Le Mans’ leading citizens as prisoners.

Evidence as to the truth of those accounts
lay all about, Ana observed as Hannibal continued to pick his way
along the twisting street. She withdrew her gaze from the sight and
brought it to the knight’s back. Had Sir Royce served John at the
time? Had he lent his own sword arm to carry out John’s wretched
act of vengeance?

The thought set ill in the pit of her
stomach for as she looked on the ruin of Le Mans, memories surged
to mind of Vaux — slender memories, but dark ones all the same.

»«

The travelers arrived on the main square and
halted by the well, agreeing to meet and continue on in an hour’s
time, after they’d replenished their supplies.

Spying a cobbler’s stall, Royce directed the
stallion toward it, then dismounted. As he lifted his gaze to the
maid, he found her eyes fixed upon him, her brows pulled together,
her look sharp, assessing. He started to speak, to offer her an arm
down, but the cobbler bustled forth.

“Ah, gallant sir, have you need of a pair of
sturdy new boots? Or comfortable shoes, perchance? You will find
mine to be of the finest grade of leather and the best construction
in all the city.”

Royce saw how the man’s eyes skipped from
his mailcoat to his sword, symbols of his knightly status and the
promise of silver weighting his purse.

“I have need of neither, but my lady does of
both.”

“I’m not your—” Juliana began to protest,
but the man moved quickly to where she perched upon Hannibal and
frowned at her ragged slippers.

“What have we here? The lady’s shoes
are—”

“Worthless. Fit her with your most durable
leather boots. Ones that will bear up walking a distance. A pair of
kid slippers too, if you have them.”

The man shot Royce an odd, frowning look,
then taking measure of the maiden’s feet with his experienced eye,
he scuttled off, disappearing into the back of his stall. Moments
later he returned with a pair of low-topped boots.

“Your accent — ‘tis Norman is it not?” The
cobbler kept hold of the boots, his eyes stabbing Royce, keen and
bright.

Royce inclined his head, wondering what the
man truly sought. Given what Royce had learned since his return
from the East — mostly from the monks at Dover — he could guess the
bitterness the citizens of Le Mans must hold toward the Normans, as
well as toward their overlord, King John.

It did surprise him, however, that
this commoner could not distinguish between a Norman or English
knight. Admittedly, there was nothing about his armor, bearing, or
language that would mark him as one or the other. Equally true was
the fact that England’s Angevin kings — dukes of Normandy and the
Acquitaine — spent more time on this
side of the
Channel than on the other, as did their barons and men-at-arms.
Forsooth, in all of the Lionheart’s ten-year reign, his feet walked
upon English soil little more than the span of five
months.

“If ‘tis an accent you think to detect in my
speech, good cobbler, ‘tis that of the English court. Norman-French
is the language spoken there amongst the royals and nobles — but
that is well known.”

“You are John’s man then.” The man spewed a
stream of spittle on the ground, his words more statement than
question. He held forth the boots. “These will fit your lady. Three
silver deniers for the pair. I have no slippers.”

“Three?” Royce choked. ‘Twas thievery, pure
and simple.

Seeing how he’d begun to draw glowering
stares from the neighboring merchants, he reached for his pouch,
not wishing to provoke the moment. Obviously, like the cobbler,
these simple people suspected any knight who served King John to
have been party to the attack on their city.

Royce held out the coins, believing the man
to have doubled his price specifically for him. After snatching the
silver pieces from Royce’s fingers, the cobbler bit each one with
his back teeth. Satisfied as to their quality, he gave Royce his
back and retreated toward his stall.

Royce heaved a sigh, then turned to the
maid. He halted his footstep, finding that she too, glared at him
from her place atop Hannibal. But this time a condemning light
burned in her emerald eyes, as though she’d made some decision
concerning him.

What next, he wondered tiredly, as he
proffered her the boots. Why did he have a sinking feeling that it
was going to be a very long day?

“Best try these on before we depart. I’ve no
wish to be cheated twice in one day.”

»«

Ana had listened closely to the
exchange. The knight served King John, certainly in regard to
herself. Sir Royce carried out his quest at the king’s behest.
Being that he was a skilled knight — as demonstrated by his slaying
of the wild boar — it stood to reason he’d honed those skills in
the service of another lord. Likely, he’d served the king
for
some time and had used his skills in the
destruction of Le Mans.

Her heart sank at that thought. What sort of
man was Royce de Warrene? Certainly one willing to deprive her of
her family and bridegroom and deliver her to the royal court and an
unclear future. One who would never allow her to return to
Chinon.

Ana’s gaze fell to the boots he held out to
her. Better that she walked barefooted than accept charity from his
hands.

“I want nothing from you, king’s man,” she
clipped out, her voice tinged with indignation.

Some emotion flickered in the knight’s eyes,
one she could not put a name to.

“Consider these gifts from your grandfather
then,” he replied evenly.

Ana’s temper multiplied. “How many times
must I say it? I have no grandfather. I never had, not even a
foster-grandfather.”

“Are you so sure, Lady Juliana? Do you not
wish to know for certain?”

His words stopped her cold. All her angry
judgments of the knight fell away, supplanted by his question. She
crossed her arms over her middle, confusion and doubt bubbling to
the surface of her heart.

“Don’t call me by that name,” she said at
last, unable to think of anything else to say.

She told herself not to listen to his words,
but to concentrate instead on what she must do this day to gain her
freedom and flee the knight.

But some place deep inside her refused to
ignore his challenge. She’d long assumed she had no living
relatives. Not only was she an orphan, but Georges and Marie had
learned from the survivors of Vaux that neither the miller nor his
wife possessed relatives that lived, at least none known to
them.

But what if somewhere, there was someone who
shared the same blood as she? The same forebearers? Who knew
something of her earliest years? The very thought was seducing.

Ana shook away her musings. There was
no one, she
told herself. Not here in France, and
certainly not across the waters in the person of an old man. If
anyone was to carry her blood it would be her children, and she’d
have a say as to who their sire would be.

Ana fell to silence, remaining so as she and
Sir Royce rejoined their companions and departed the city, heading
for Rouen.

»«

Ana winced. The boots hurt her feet.
‘Twasn’t that they were not of the proper size but, rather, her
blisters pained her. Added to that, the boots were stiff, unbroken,
having yet to become supple enough to conform to her feet.
Thankfully, she would be riding, not walking, when she made her
escape southward.

And that time drew near.

Ana drew off the boots once more and
set them aside. She glanced to where Mother Agnes inspected Sir
Royce’s arm, then to the others who milled about the clearing
alongside the road, seeing to their various needs. Fortunate for
her, she seemed to be forgotten for the moment. Most gave their
attentions to a man named Guy of Lisors, a minstrel who’d joined
their company in Le Mans. At the moment, he captivated their
interest with a
lai
he
chanted, having promised such entertainment for the duration of the
trip in exchange for food and drink.

Ana inhaled a breath of the cool autumn air
and looked away. As predicted, their band had journeyed several
hours north of Le Mans before halting for this brief respite. They
would begin again, proceeding several more hours before they
stopped for the night at the small Cistercian hospital of St. Giles
— or so the knight informed her.

Ana recognized that the present moment
offered her best opportunity to slip away with Hannibal. If she
waited longer, till they neared the hospital, there stood the
chance the monks might have something faster than a donkey or mule
to offer the knight to pursue her. No telling whether the abbot
there enjoyed worldly ways. But if she successfully escaped now,
Sir Royce would be forced to return to Le Mans on foot before he
could secure a horse. That would give her all the advantage she
needed to make good her flight. A movement caught her eye. Looking
up she saw that a couple of tradesmen approached Sir Royce,
admiration beaming from their faces. ‘Twas a scene she’d seen
repeated many times throughout the day. As before, the men appeared
to be congratulating the knight on his kill of last night. Using
wide gestures, they simulated Sir Royce’s movements and how he’d
spitted the boar on his sword blade. The minstrel, having finished
his
lai
, joined the spirited
men who launched into a fresh demonstration of the feat for his
benefit. It appeared Guy of Lisors wished to set verses to the tale
and asked for them to repeat it as he picked out a tune on his
lute. Ana rolled her eyes. They would swell the knight’s head if
they didn’t desist. He was insufferable enough as it
was.

She gave her attention to a more important
matter — Hannibal. Best that she move closer to the stallion and
position herself for what she must do. Ana knew little of horses,
but enough to realize ‘twould be unwise to startle the animal. She
would soothe Hannibal with a calming voice and offer him an apple.
If all went well, she’d win his confidence enough to remain near as
she waited for the right moment to present itself to make her
escape.