Lady At Arms (17 page)

Desperate to recapture the soft, yielding Lizanne of minutes earlier, he gripped her waist and lifted her onto his lap. To his relief, she eased her stiffening, sank back against him, and lowered her head to his shoulder.

Looking down at her, he was drawn to the part in the sheet that she had tied around her shoulders and saw the faint, thin line his blade had drawn across her collarbone when she had forced him to swords.

He reached up and, as he traced its path, heard her catch her breath. “It seems,” he said, “we each bear the mark of the other.”

He heard her swallow. “I do not understand why you stopped,” she said and hastily added, “Not that I am ungrateful.”

Dare he tell her he wanted more from her than a moment of passion? That he wanted her to long for him as constantly as he longed for her? That he wanted her thoughts so preoccupied with him she could barely function as, more and more, his thoughts were fixed upon her? That even if he set aside all Walter had taught him and made her his leman, it would not be enough?

She tipped her head back and met his gaze. “Why did you stop?”

Liking too well the feel of her skin, he drew the sheet over her collarbone and lowered his arm. “Do not doubt that I would have more from you than kisses,” he said, “but just as I do not take what is not my due or has not been given to me, neither do I take that which should not be given to me.”

She narrowed her lids. “Then this is not your revenge? To lure me in with kindness and sweet kisses that I might want what I should not want—what I should rather die for?”

He pondered that. He had not regarded what he had allowed to happen between them as a means of retaliating against her for the humiliation of his capture and imprisonment. However, it was, indeed, a better revenge than any he had previously entertained.

“Though ’twas not intentionally set in motion,” he finally said, “forsooth, ’tis a good revenge. But if it comforts you, know this—you do not suffer alone.”

Lizanne searched Ranulf’s face that was framed by the pale, pale hair that told he was the one. Somewhere, written upon it, there must be evidence of some secret pleasure at having unraveled the warrior she had woven into her being, at having her cling to him like the weak, love-sapped girl of ten and five who had ached for the day she would wed her Philip, at seeing the woman who had wielded a sword against him now wield only the keen edge of tears.

She moved out of his unresisting arms, lowered her feet to the floor, and went to stand before the hearth. Keeping her back to him, she said, “I do not know what has become of me, why I cannot hate you anymore, why my body betrays me.” She shook her head. “How can it be?”

She heard the chair sigh as he leveraged out of it.

“Do not fight it,” he said. “You will only fail, as I did, for you are a question never before asked of me.”

As
he
was a question never before asked of her.

His footsteps retreated across the rushes, and she knew he meant to leave her alone with her misery again. But then a key rattled in a lock and hinges creaked, revealing his destination to be the chest that would yield up clean garments for the day ahead.

As the shush of cloth sounded, Lizanne felt the chill of the room that had been forgotten the moment Ranulf had touched her, fool that she was. Keeping her back to him, she yearned for a dark hole in which to wail out grief over her body’s illicit longings. It was wrong for her to desire Ranulf. But though she dredged up his crimes, she could not help but wonder if his black heart had, indeed, healed, if it was possible to have done the things he had done and now be the man he appeared to be. Was it by faith he had changed? She had heard it said that anything was possible with God.

“Lizanne,” he called, “finish dressing and you may accompany me to the hall for the morning meal.”

There was nothing she wanted to do less. She needed time to sort her thoughts and feelings, to take her body in hand and exorcise its infernal longings and misplaced loyalties—

“Now, Lizanne.”

She turned and saw he was fully clothed, tunic to boots. “I cannot. My bliaut is not yet dry.”

With furrowed brow, he strode forward, pulled her gown from the mantel, and shook it out. “’Tis mostly dry,” he said. “Remove the sheet and lift your arms.”

Wanting to argue but having no energy, she pulled the sheet off over her head, raised her arms, and pushed them into the sleeves when he lowered the bliaut over her. She stood still as he tugged the damp, resistant bodice into place and smoothed the skirt down her hips. Then he pulled the laces tight and tied them off.

“Slippers,” he said, gesturing to where they sat upon the hearth.

She stepped into them.

“You are ready.” He turned toward the door.

“My hair,” she protested and pulled it over her shoulder to start anew that which his hands had undone. Throughout, she felt his impatience, but finally she knotted her hair to end the braid.

“Have you no ribbon?” he asked.

Glancing at him where he leaned against the door with arms folded over his chest, she almost laughed. “I do not, but have not a care, for it will not come undone. ’Tis the nature of my hair.”

“Aye, were it fine like Elspeth’s, it would unravel quickly.”

Lizanne was glad she had not laughed, for she would have noticeably swallowed her mirth at being so unfavorably compared to that woman. Unfortunately, there was nothing she could do about the color heating her cheeks.

Still, there was good to be had in Ranulf’s words, for they hauled her out of her miserable ponderings and back to a semblance of anger that would serve her far better for what lay ahead. And, when she stepped past Ranulf into the corridor and glimpsed the turning of his lips, she wondered if that had been his intention.

Lizanne’s disposition deteriorated further when, upon entering the main hall, Elspeth materialized at Ranulf’s side and placed a familiar hand upon his arm. Her short veil perfect upon smooth hair that could not possibly hold a knot, she looked entreatingly at Ranulf. “You will sit next to me again, will you not, Baron?”

“I would be honored, my lady.” He turned to the dais at the far end of the room.

Lizanne stared after the couple, uncertain as to whether she should follow or retreat.

A touch on her arm brought her around, but the smug smile on Squire Geoff’s face faded when he caught sight of her expression that she should not have allowed to linger.

He cleared his throat. “You may sit with Roland and me.” He indicated the long table behind.

She nodded and followed him.

Though Squire Roland refused to more than glance at her, he moved down along the bench to make room for her.

Seated between the squires, uncomfortably aware of the damp embrace of her bliaut, Lizanne bowed her head as the chaplain said a hasty grace. Immediately following, the hall erupted with the sounds of fifty or more voracious men and women.

Picking at the simple meal that was placed before her, Lizanne found her gaze far too often drawn to where Ranulf was seated between Sir Hamil and the man’s daughter. Each time, she felt her color rise, and each time she regretted the weakness that impelled her to gaze in his direction. The woman fawned over him, touching his sleeve as often as possible and giggling at his every word.

Lizanne grabbed a piece of cold, overcooked meat and popped it in her mouth.
She
did not giggle—had not since she was ten and five.

She looked again at Elspeth and disliked her all the more for the beguiling smile she turned upon Ranulf, and yet more for the taunting smile the petite woman pulled when she looked straight at Lizanne.

Lizanne smiled tightly back, refusing to be the first to look away.

With a tinkling laugh that carried across the hall, Elspeth tossed her head and leaned toward Ranulf.

Lizanne chewed and chewed until she pulverized the tough meat well enough to swallow. It went down like a lump. Pushing away the remainder of her meal, she sat back and folded her hands in her lap.

Moments later, she felt a telling prickle along her spine and looked around to find Squire Geoff watching her.

She swept an errant lock of hair from her eyes and raised her eyebrows. “I do not suppose that if I smiled at you, you would think it genuine?”

He shook his head. “Save your smiles for Baron Wardieu. He will appreciate them more than I.”

She glanced at the subject of their discourse, grimaced, and looked back at the squire. “I do not think so.”

“Then you are wrong.”

She raised her eyebrows again, but Geoff gave her a dismissive look and peered past her. “Mayhap we can practice with slings this morn, Roland,” he suggested.

The other squire leaned forward to get a clear view of his friend without having to look at Lizanne. “I would prefer swords.”

Geoff grinned. “You will never master the sling if you do not try.”

“It is but a toy. Now a sword…”

It was as if Lizanne had vanished. Neither squire acknowledged her, even when she leaned forward and blocked their view of each other. They simply leaned opposite and continued their conversation behind her back.

“I am still a better shot than you,” Roland boasted.

“Ha!” Geoff countered.

Lizanne looked from one to the other. “I can help,” she said and, at last, gained their attention. “I am quite adept with a sling. Have you one along?”

They exchanged looks, then turned their attention back to the meal.

Lizanne laid a hand upon Geoff’s arm. “I speak true.”

He glanced down, then raised to her a face tight with disapproval.

She drew her hand back. “’Twill hurt naught for me to show you.”

“Have a woman instruct me in the use of arms?” He snorted.

She put her head to the side. “Were you not at Penforke Castle when I put an arrow through one of your lord’s pennants?”

His eyes widened.

“I assure you, Squire Geoff, it was not by chance I did so.”

After a long moment, he said, “You would trick me again?”

“Nay, I vow ’tis not my reason for offering to instruct you.”

He studied her, abruptly rose from the table, and stalked away.

Dejected, Lizanne watched him depart the hall, then turned her attention to the other occupants.

Unequally, they consisted of Sir Hamil’s and Lord Ranulf’s men, each group set noticeably apart from the other. Though Ranulf’s men were generally better mannered than Sir Hamil’s, they were coarse—the lot of them.

She shifted her gaze from a disgusting old man who was making obscene gestures at a young serving wench, and her gaze fell upon a handsome, flame-headed man seated at the far end of Sir Hamil’s table. Surprisingly, his attention was set upon her. Having caught her eye, he smiled wide.

Pleased to see one friendly face among the many, she returned the smile and inclined her head before moving on. For the first time since her arrival in the hall, her eyes met Ranulf’s. And his expression told that he had seen the exchange with the other man and was not pleased.

She glared. Having abandoned her, there he sat with that harpy practically in his lap and thought nothing of it. But a mere smile between strangers and he looked fit to strangle them. A blight on Ranulf Wardieu!

“Here,” Geoff said, resuming his seat and discreetly dropping a strip of leather in her lap.

Lizanne lowered her chin and stared at the sling, then at him.

He smiled as he picked up a piece of cheese and handed it to her. “No stones,” he said. “I would not trust you to refrain from launching one at Lady Elspeth.”

She glanced across the hall. Ranulf had returned his attention to that lady and she thought that, had she a stone, she might, indeed, be tempted.

She ran her fingers over the smooth leather. “‘Twould be easier to instruct you out of doors.”

“Surely you needn’t cast a stone to show us how to use it?” Roland challenged.

“’Tis the best way,” she said as she moved back so he could see as well.

After rolling the cheese into a compact ball, she pressed it to the center of the leather. “Assuming this to be a stone, you must place it so.”

The squires exchanged looks of amusement and Roland snickered.

Lizanne raised a finger. “The placement is important. You want your stone to find its mark, do you not?”

They rolled their eyes, nodded, and leaned nearer.

“Place your fingers through the loops…see?” She slid her own through them and turned them over to demonstrate. “Not too tightly, for when you arc it…”

Nodding at something Elspeth was saying, Ranulf glanced toward Lizanne and frowned at the sight that greeted him. Roland and Geoff sat close to her, heads bent over her lap, nodding as she spoke animatedly.

When she lifted her hand above the level of the table, he caught a glimpse of something long and narrow before it disappeared. He did not know the object of their intense discussion, but he did not like it.

He grew even more annoyed when he heard Lizanne laugh minutes later and turned to find her smiling squire to squire. Geoff and Roland beamed back, under her spell once again.

For the remainder of the meal, Ranulf kept a close eye on the far table but never discovered what Lizanne hid. When the annoyingly long repast was concluded, he excused himself and headed straight for her, only to be brought up short by Walter.

“I must needs speak with you, my lord,” his vassal said.

Ranulf tore his eyes from where Lizanne was being assisted to her feet by the squires and glared at Walter. “What is so urgent it cannot wait?”

Walter looked knowingly at the object of Ranulf’s agitation. Jaw hardening, he stepped closer. “King Henry’s negotiations, my lord.”

Ranulf scowled. “First I must see to another matter. I will meet you at the stables shortly.”

Walter inclined his head and strode opposite.

Geoff, followed by Lizanne and Roland, met Ranulf hallway across the hall. “Godspeed, my lo—”

“You have enjoyed yourselves?” Ranulf asked.

Geoff’s smile fell. “My lord, Lady Lizanne was merely showing us how to hold a sling. She knows much about—”