Lady At Arms (6 page)

With growing satisfaction, Ranulf watched her sword grow heavier, noted the perspiration on her skin and the frenzied look that entered her eyes as he forced her out of her offensive posture into one of pure defense. She was his.

Deciding it was time to end the senseless exhibition, he hoisted his sword a final time, put his whole body behind it, and brought it forcefully down upon her steel.

The unthinkable happened. At the juncture where blade fused with hilt, his sword snapped.

He looked up to find Lizanne with her own sword frozen midair. She stared, cheeks flushed, lips parted, hair loosed from its braid, rivulets of moisture meandering down the flawless skin of her face and neck and over her scored collarbone.

He heaved a sigh. “Inferior steel,” he pronounced and tossed the hilt aside.

Feeling her dagger where it pressed against his abdomen and knowing he might have to use it to subdue her, he stepped forward. “I am resigned to my fate, witch. Have mercy and be quick about it.”

Sword before her, Lizanne took a step backward. Though her moment was surely at hand, thoughts of revenge began to desert her. She had never killed a man. For that matter, she had only ever taken small game—and with her bow. In the next instant, she accepted what Wardieu knew. She could not take his life.

“To the death,” he said, lengthening his stride. “Was that not our bargain?”

She bolted for her horse. Though she heard Wardieu give chase, each time she glanced around, she was assured of a chance to escape. He was never far behind, but his injury slowed him enough to gain her the time needed to reach Lady.

Hastily, she sheathed her sword, hoisted herself onto the mare’s back, and gathered the reins. She pulled hard, causing the horse to rear and cleave the air with its hooves. And bring her pursuer to a halt.

“I give you back your life, Ranulf Wardieu,” she shouted above the mare’s agitated cry. “’Tis finished!” Veering away, she pressed her heels into Lady’s sides and galloped across the meadow without a backward glance.

Ranulf watched her go. “Nay,” he breathed, “it has only begun, Lizanne of Penforke.”

“Ah, Mellie! ’Tis my brother who comes, not a suitor,” Lizanne protested as the young maid pressed her down onto a stool and began combing her hair.

“Aye, but ye’ve not seen him nigh on two months.” Mellie tugged at a troublesome snarl. “Ye know he prefers it when ye look the lady.”

“I do look the lady.”

“Ah, but such an occasion warrants more effort than simply droppin’ a veil over your hair, especially as you’ve donned your finest.”

Mellie was right. Though Gilbert did not speak against his sister’s preference for hiding her mess of hair beneath a veil or wrestling it into a sloppy braid, she knew he liked it when she gave herself into Mellie’s capable hands. Thus, for him she would do this, but none other. She only hoped it would not be in vain and he would, indeed, return on this, the sixth day since she had released Ranulf Wardieu.

Her insides churned at the thought of that man. As each uneventful day passed, she grew increasingly confident her brother would return in time to quell any retaliation Wardieu might undertake. However, in the event she was wrong, she had seen the castle’s defenses strengthened as much as possible. But Wardieu had not come, and now it seemed unlikely he would.

When the torturous tugging finally ended, Lizanne stood, only to be urged back down. Glowering, she squirmed as Mellie applied hot irons to her hair, creating orderly curls that flowed down her back. Last, a light veil was placed upon her head and secured with a silver circlet.

She would have left her chamber then, but Mellie pressed a small mirror in her hand.

As Lizanne viewed her reflection from different angles, she was ashamed at her twinges of pleasure. Arrayed in her best bliaut, an embroidered garment of green samite slit up each side to reveal a saffron-colored chemise beneath, she looked every bit the lady—the picture of femininity that, as a gawky girl, she had dreamed of attaining. Thoughtfully, she fingered the ornamental girdle settled loosely upon her hips.

Vain, 
she reproached, but could not refrain from staring. Gilbert would be pleased.

“You are lovely, milady,” Mellie said.

Feeling heat rise in her face, Lizanne swatted at a lock of hair that fell across her cheek. “And now to be certain all is in order for my brother’s return,” she said.

Shortly, she descended the stairs. As she stepped into the hall, a lad of a dozen years rushed into her path. When he looked up at her, he appeared momentarily dumbstruck, then his head jerked as if he had been smacked.

His reaction to her appearance was almost enough to cause her to throw off the veil and drag fingers through her curls, but his words trampled the thought.

“Riders approach from the east, milady!”

Lizanne ran, unmindful of appearing unladylike as she hastened from the hall and out into the inner bailey. She sped over the inner drawbridge and across the outermost bailey and, at the gatehouse, threw the bulk of her skirts over one arm and ascended the stone steps two at a time. As she shouldered her way between the gathering of men on the roof, she looked out between the crenellations to the large group of riders descending upon Penforke.

Though they were still too distant for her to make out the pennants they flew, she knew it was Gilbert.

The riders disappeared as they plunged down a distant hillside and reappeared when they crested another hill.

Charged with a mixture of excitement and uncertainty over her brother’s return, Lizanne shaded her eyes against the sun’s glare and leaned out over the stone wall.

These many long weeks had not been easy. In spite of her disdain for court life, she would gladly have accompanied Gilbert if not for fear the king would once again undertake to match her with one of his knights. He had done just that the previous year, and she had caused a most unpleasant scene. In fact, so great was Gilbert’s humiliation that he had not spoken to her for days thereafter.

Once she revealed her abduction of Ranulf Wardieu and his subsequent release, what would be her brother’s reaction? For certain, it would not be good. She’d had too many days to reflect on her deed and accept the truth that, in her impatience to exact revenge, she had acted rashly.

Again, the riders disappeared.

In the lull, she turned to find Robert Coulter, the captain of the guard, behind her. A frown marred his aged countenance as he looked past her, his squinting more from failing eyesight than the sun’s glare.

“Lower the drawbridge,” she ordered.

“But, my lady—”

“Do not argue. Prepare a proper welcome for my brother.”

Grumbling, he turned on his heel and strode opposite.

Lizanne returned her attention to the hills. Over the next rise, the lofty pennants were visible before the riders, their vivid blue, red, and gold colors backlit by sunlight that glinted off armor.

She beamed—until she looked again at the pennants. A denial tore from her lips at the same moment the drawbridge began its descent with a rattle of enormous chains. She rounded on the man nearest her. “Send word to raise the bridge. Run!”

Assisted by a thrust from his mistress, he sprinted to the stairs.

The drawbridge was three-quarters lowered before it came to a wrenching halt. Moments later, it began its laborious ascent. Amid a flurry of confusion, Lizanne swept her gaze back and forth between the drawbridge and the approaching riders.

On level ground now, the army of what appeared to be a hundred strong spurred their horses forward, the thundering of hooves rising above the land to strike fear in the castle folk who, having realized something serious was afoot, were making themselves scarce.

Though Lizanne did not know the colors of Ranulf Wardieu, she did not delude herself into believing the pennants belonged to any other.

He had returned.

She searched among the riders for their leader, eliminating those whose horses were devoid of the trappings emblazoned with the same colors as the pennants. Shortly, she settled her gaze on one who rode before the others, a man large even from a distance. Though his telling hair was covered by a mail hood and helmet, it had to be him.

Her skin pricked with a chill that raised every hair on her body and threatened to buckle her knees. Grasping the ledge of the stone wall, she squeezed her eyes closed in the silly hope that, when she opened them, a far different sight would greet her.

It did not.

Struggling for composure, she began weighing the alternatives she would soon be forced to choose among. Repeatedly, she came back to one—Gilbert. If she could keep Wardieu at bay, her brother’s return would send the miscreant running. And surely Gilbert would appear this day. He must.

As Wardieu’s men flanked the castle’s curtain wall, reining in at a distance beyond the range of arrows, the drawbridge completed its return journey. Silence, save for the labored breathing of the great warhorses, fell.

Mounted astride an enormous destrier as dark as he was light, Ranulf raised his gaze to the top of the wall and searched out the scant men-at-arms visible there.

As he had expected Gilbert Balmaine to precede his own arrival, he was taken aback by the seemingly inadequate defenses. Still, appearances could be deceiving. He shifted his attention to the drawbridge that had been raised against him.

“What make you of this?” Sir Walter Fortesne asked as he urged his mount alongside Ranulf’s.

Ignoring the question, Ranulf continued his inspection of the castle’s fortifications. Although they appeared solid and in good repair, the stronghold would be difficult to defend if it lacked an adequate supply of well-trained men. One by one, he considered the avenues of attack available to him should one be necessary. There were several.

“’Twould appear the lord of the castle and his men have not yet returned,” Walter said.

Ranulf smiled and was reminded of the healing cut near his right eye where the chain-mail hood grazed it. “If ‘tis so, I shall have that which I came for ere the noon hour.”

He lifted his gaze farther up the gatehouse and counted half a dozen men-at-arms stationed between the crenellations of the tower. Was she there? He searched for unruly black hair. As he considered each person, a lone figure to the left caught his attention.

He had only to shift his eyes to see the richly garbed woman who stood on the roof of the tower, motionless except for a white veil shifting in the breeze. Who was she? He had it from a reliable source there were no ladies at Penforke other than Lizanne Balmaine.

Deciding the woman was unworthy of his attention, Ranulf averted his gaze, but not before the air stirred briskly and lifted her veil. Then he knew.

Though he could not be certain from this distance, he thought her attention was fixed on him as well. And at that moment, he would have given much to be able to see her face up close. She would know it was he, although from her manner of dress, it was her brother she had expected. Most assuredly Gilbert Balmaine had not returned. Thus, it would take little effort to capture Penforke.

“My lord, is she the one?”

Ranulf turned his head toward Walter and saw his man had also picked out the lone woman. “Aye, Lady Lizanne.”

A true friend and fiercely loyal, Walter was the only one Ranulf had entrusted with a recounting of his disappearance. Only he could guess at the emotions beneath his lord’s composure—and just as easily disapprove of them.

The day following his release, Ranulf had met up with the search party Walter had organized to find him. Forcing logic to dictate his actions, he had temporarily set aside his plans for revenge and returned to Langdon’s castle to conclude his business there.

He had offered no explanation for his absence to the overwrought Lord Langdon and had set to working day and night to resolve the differences between the lord and his vassal. However, at meals, he had made a point of engaging Langdon’s wife in conversation. Initially, she had been close-mouthed on the subject of her cousin, Lizanne, but eventually she had been coaxed into enlightening him.

Of particular interest was the close relationship between Lizanne and her brother. The two were practically inseparable, and it was not uncommon for Lizanne to accompany Gilbert on his campaigns. That bit of information helped explain her facility with weapons, but it did not explain why the man allowed his sister to conduct herself in such a manner. By all rights, he should have wed her off long ago and been done with her. Thus, Ranulf wondered if Gilbert Balmaine would appreciate the favor that was about to be done him.

When he returned his gaze to the gatehouse, Lizanne was no longer visible. Motioning Walter to accompany him, he urged his mount forward.

A select portion of his retainers took up their bows and followed until they were just within arrow range.

Ranulf and Walter paused to accept the shields their squires passed to them, then proceeded to within feet of the arid moat.

“I am Baron Ranulf Wardieu,” Ranulf shouted. “I command you to surrender and lower the drawbridge.”

Silence.

“Who speaks for this castle?” he demanded.

“I do!”

Of course she did. Catching a flash of green fabric between the crenellations of the gatehouse, Ranulf called, “Do you yield?”

Her answer was an arrow that pierced the cool morning air and cleaved the ground before his destrier. Startled, the horse reared and would have bolted if not for his master’s firm hand.

At once, Ranulf’s men loosed a barrage of arrows.

With an angry shout and a throw of his arm, Ranulf suspended the counterattack and searched out Lizanne, but once again she had gone from sight. Had she taken cover? Or had an arrow found its target?

“That was but a warning, Wardieu,” she shouted. “The next will find your heart.”

He resented the relief that swept through him. After all he had suffered at her hands, he should not care that she was unharmed.

“I would not test her were I you,” Walter said, peering at Ranulf from behind the cover of his shield.