Lady At Arms (2 page)

But it was his weight that rose from her.

Merciful Lord!
she called praise to the heavens. However, when she lifted her lids, she saw it was no angel come to her rescue. The man had pushed up onto his knees to remove his tunic. She started to look away, but her gaze was drawn to a long, jagged scar that slashed across his lower abdomen.

“Fight it, and ‘twill go worse fer ye,” he growled, only to shake his head and press a hand to it.

Realizing he still suffered from his injury, Lizanne threw herself to the side but got no further.

He thrust her onto her back and, gripping her throat, lifted her face toward his. “Listen well! I prefer not to spoil yer beauty, but I will. Do ye understand, wench?”

She understood, but it did not stop her from prying at fingers that denied her air. What did still her was the pain that lanced across his brow.

Do something!

She swung a clumsily bunched fist upward and, to her amazement, connected with his head wound. However, there was no moment to rejoice, for a blinding pain shot through her hand and wrist.

When the man slumped atop her, she only distantly noticed his weight as she sucked in precious air and whimpered over the shards of light dancing against the backs of her eyelids.

Why did it hurt so? What was this pain that made it feel as if she had laid her hand upon a fire?

As the lights began to recede, she opened her eyes and focused on the pale head upon her shoulder. Except for the shifting of hair by the meandering breeze, there was no movement about the man.

Was it possible? Had she, who had never struck another being, knocked the man unconscious?

Question not, Lizanne! Run!

Biting her lip, drawing blood as she tried to distract herself from the pain in her hand, she twisted beneath the man and used her forearm to push him off. As he rolled onto his back, he groaned.

Run! Now!

Holding her hand to her chest, she stumbled to her feet and looked one last time at her assailant. Had she a weapon—and the courage—she would put an end to him.

Skirts gripped high, she plunged into the wood. Deeper and deeper she went, oblivious to the sharp rocks and pine needles that tore at her feet, the branches that tangled her hair and scratched her face.

How far or how long she ran, she did not know. Only when she tumbled into a narrow ditch, lungs raw from exertion, did she notice light had begun to seep into the sky above the wood.

Panting, she squeezed her eyes closed and listened for the sounds of pursuit. All she picked out were the innocent noises of an awakening wood—the buzzing of insects, the twittering of birds, the gurgle of water.

Would they come? She raked her fingers through the hair falling about her face and shoulders, prayed she had outdistanced them.

Knowing she should continue on, she tried to stand, but her legs would not hold her. She would have to stay awhile. For fear her clothing would reveal her amid the greenery, she burrowed deeply into the undergrowth and promised herself she would not sleep. But her body had other plans.

With her last presence of mind, she dug her uninjured hand into the loose soil beneath her, unearthed a rock, and clasped it to her chest lest she find herself in need of a weapon.

As fatigue dragged her under, images of the night past tumbled through her mind, the worst being her brother’s ravaged body. “Ah, Gilbert,” she whispered, “’twill not go unavenged. This I vow.”

England, 1156

By degree, Ranulf Wardieu became cognizant of his surroundings. A fetid, musty odor assaulted his senses first, the taste of it on his indrawn breath making his throat constrict.

Lord, I thirst!

Swallowing hard against the parched tissues of his mouth, he lifted his chin and put his head back against cold, weeping stones. Where his head settled, he felt an aching throb, but before he could ponder the cause, he became aware of lowered voices.

He opened his eyes and peered into the dimly lit room. Though it was too dark to be certain, his wakening senses told him he was in a cell. As his eyes slowly adjusted, he watched indistinct shadows move in and out of the light cast by a single torch.

’Tis but a dream
, he told himself. Still, he leaned forward to catch the conversation, and it was the rattle of chains on either side of him that brought him fully awake.

Though his senses screamed with shock and outrage and his mind protested the pain in his outstretched arms and the numbing chill throughout his body, the warrior in him forced him to stillness.

Unfortunately, the protesting chains had already alerted his shadowy companions that he had regained consciousness, for the voices had gone silent and the flickering torch was the only movement to be seen.

His own face in shadow, Ranulf peered at the dark figures through narrowed lids. Why did they not show themselves? Who were they?

Then they were moving again, speaking again—though not loud enough for their words to have form. Would they draw near?

A door was thrown open on the far side of the room, the light that shone through transforming the figures into three men who filed out.

Dear God, I truly am in a cell!

The last of the men pulled the door closed behind him, returning the cell to its state of near-darkness.

Although Ranulf’s eyes and ears confirmed he was alone, his senses said otherwise. Someone was yet within.

Resenting the torch that cast its dim light across the floor and illuminated little save the lower half of his body, he determinedly set about assessing his situation.

He was imprisoned, stripped of tunic and boots, his only clothing undertunic and chausses. Chained upright to a wall by manacles that bit into his wrists, his arms were stretched out to the sides. Beneath him, his knees were buckled, his arms having carried the weight of his slumped body for… How long?

Though he felt the grip of manacles around his ankles, there was no tension between them. He lowered his chin and peered at the chain that ran from one ankle to the other, the excess of which lay pooled between his feet.

Grinding his teeth to keep from giving voice to the pain in his limbs, he searched for an answer to his predicament and, gradually, memories unfolded.

He had been at Langdon’s Castle. Full of wine and ale and against his better judgment, he had succumbed to the beckoning of a comely maid and followed her down a narrow corridor. She had teased him, allowing glimpses of slender calves as she danced ahead—always just out of reach.

Upon rounding a corner, he had been set upon. Though he had delivered a retaliatory blow, his assailant had struck again—this time to the back of his skull—and it had dropped him to the stone floor. He had only a moment to focus on the darkly hooded figure bending over him before darkness dragged him away.

Now, most acutely aware of the injury to his head, he moved it, and the ache trebled. Still, it did not equal the discomfort in his burning joints that tempted him to get his legs under him and take the weight off his arms.

Trembling from the effort to contain his spiraling anger, he turned his head and searched the darkened cell. The cloaked corners revealed nothing he had not seen before, but he continued to feel another presence.

He remained unmoving several minutes longer. Then, with raging resentment, he lowered the heels of his bare feet to the cold earth—and brushed something soft and warm that shrieked and scuttled away.

Straightening, he peered at the manacles overhead. Thick bands encircled raw wrists darkened with blood. As he was large-boned, they intimately tested his flesh, nearly cutting off the laborious upward flow of blood.

He opened and closed his hands until he was rewarded with a prickly warmth that spread from his aching shoulders to the tips of his fingers. With the return of feeling came a measure of strength and, eager to test it, he thrust his arms forward. The restraints held, drawing fresh blood as their clatter violated the silence.

When the noise died away, he caught the sound of movement to his left. “Show yourself!” he demanded, his voice echoing around the stone walls.

Nothing.

’Tis a game we play, then.

Straining to the right, Ranulf put all his strength into his left arm and wrenched it forward. The manacle bit more deeply, causing blood to trickle down his wrist. Where was he, and who dared chain him like an animal? With his bare hands, he would crush the miscreant!

Fury, fueled by imaginings of revenge, intensified until there was nothing to do but release it. He propelled his body forward and, ignoring the pain in his shoulders and wrists, fought the chains until his strength drained. With hoarse curses, he collapsed against the wall.

“What ails you, my lord?” a sweetly sarcastic voice cut through his stream of expletives.

He snapped his chin to the left. A darkly clad figure stood an arm’s reach away. It was impossible to make out the features of the upturned face amid the shadows of a hood, but the woman’s eyes caught the barest light and glittered coldly.

He swept back to the moment before he had lost consciousness at Langdon’s castle. It had to have been her.

“A lord, indeed,” she murmured. “I never suspected as much.”

Though size and gender could be deceiving, Ranulf did not doubt this woman was his captor. “Who are you?” he demanded.

“An old acquaintance.” She stepped nearer, rose to her toes, and boldly tested his chains.

Maddening! Close enough to smell the sweetness of her woman’s body, but he could not so much as touch her. He curled his fingers into fists.

“They hold well,” she said, and her gloved hand grazed his as she stepped back. “Best you not waste your strength so foolishly…my lord.”

Ranulf jerked the chains. “I demand to know the grounds for my imprisonment!”

She turned away.

Forcing himself to a calm he was nowhere near to feeling, Ranulf followed her progress across the cell. When she stopped before the wall sconce with its single torch, he saw she was not clothed as the lady her voice proclaimed her to be. Visible beneath the hem of her cloak were the chausses and boots of a man.

As he watched, she removed the torch and used it to light others around the cell. Soon, every corner stood out in sharp contrast to its former self, confirming the two of them were the only occupants.

Immediately, he imprinted every detail upon his mind. He was chained to the wall of the main room where guards could be stationed. To the left, beyond an iron-banded door with its grate set at eye level, was a row of individual cells. To the right, stood a corridor that stretched into nothingness, and from which he detected the sound of running water.

When he returned his attention to the woman, she faced him, and he almost laughed at her bold stance, legs spread and hands clasped behind her back. Unfortunately, he still could not make out her features, and he wondered if she had good reason to keep them hidden. After all, what kind of woman dressed as a man and tended a cell with such ease?

He felt the tug of a smile. Never had he been intimidated by a woman—not even his strong-willed mother—and this woman’s display sparked humor in him despite it being an entirely humorless situation.

Shaking off the emotion, he asked, “Am I to be told of the charges against me?”

The woman traversed the earthen floor and once more came to stand before him. The hood continued to hide her features, though he could now make out the line of a straight nose and the curve of full lips. More intriguing was a pair of keys on a thin leather thong about her neck. Surely worn to taunt him, they would fit the manacles.

“You are here, Baron Wardieu”—she pushed the hood back—“to atone for sins visited upon others.”

He narrowed his eyes on her pale, familiar face, shifted his gaze from her intensely green eyes that regarded him with loathing, to the blackest hair he had ever seen—like the starry night of a new moon.

His captor was Lady Lizanne, though he knew her only from the one time he had made inquiries after catching a glimpse of her at Lord Bernard Langdon’s castle. Shortly after his arrival, while he and his vassal, Sir Walter Fortesne, had been seated with Lord Langdon and his steward in the hall, a commotion at the opposite end had interrupted their discussion. Exhausted after two days of riding in the constant drizzle of the season, Ranulf had been annoyed at the intrusion and turned in his chair to observe the perpetrator.

There she had stood, all that unconstrained black hair about her shoulders as she berated a servant who, it seemed, had dared lay a hand to her maid. Despite the drab bliaut the lady had worn ungirded, Ranulf had been intrigued.

“Lady Lizanne!” Lord Langdon had arisen so abruptly he upended his chair.

The lady had turned and looked across the hall, eyes wide with surprise.

“Apologies, my lord, I did not realize…” The moment her gaze lit upon Ranulf, her words fell away.

Swiftly, he had risen from his chair and, towering over Lord Langdon’s plump figure, smiled and dipped his chin.

Her eyes had widened further and mouth gaped as the color drained from her face.

Wondering if he should take it as a compliment, Ranulf had stared as she stepped toward him. Then, with a strangled gasp, she had pivoted and fled as if evil itself were at her heels.

Grunting, Lord Langdon had reseated himself in the chair his steward had rushed to upright and said, “My apologies for Lady Lizanne. Would that you knew what a trial she is to me.”

“Your daughter?” Ranulf had asked.

“God’s mercy, a daughter such as that?” Lord Langdon guffawed. “No worse curse could be visited upon me. Nay, she is my wife’s cousin. It will be a blessing when she returns to her brother, Baron Balmaine, on the morrow.”

“The lady is not wed, then?”

Lord Langdon’s smile had disappeared. “Take my advice, young Ranulf, and stay away from that one. She is mean-spirited.”

Ranulf’s curiosity had only increased. However, the lady had not appeared in the hall for the evening meal, and he had not seen her again. Instead, he had followed the skirts of an enticing maid straight into an ambush.