Love at First Sight (36 page)

Run! Run!

Golde blinked, her thoughts returning to the present, and focused her gaze on Sperville’s back. The chamber- lain walked ahead of her now, the footpath too narrow to accommodate more than single file.

What had distracted her? Was it voices she heard?

Aye. Faint at first, they grew in volume with each step she took. And as they grew, so did Gavarnie’s pace quicken.

Abruptly he shoved the servant aside and lunged forward. The peasant scuttled back in the direction of the road, the light from his lamp quickly swallowed in gloom.

She hesitated a moment to watch the man flee, but Sperville was hard on Gavarnie’s heels. By the time Golde rushed to catch them, both men had reached the middle of a clearing where a small fire burned.

Two young serving maids shrieked, and the manservants who’d sat huddled beside them half rose. “Sit!” Sperville commanded in a surprisingly hard-edged tone.

Golde halted and searched the shadows beyond the fire. There. Gavarnie had pinned Gundrada to a tree, his blade pressed to her throat.

“Where are they?” he snarled.

Gundrada spat in his face, then sneered, “You are too late. Your demon children are halfway to France.”

Golde quickly scanned the clearing again. Ronces and Alory were nowhere in sight. Nor was Sir Nigel to be seen. A pithless feeling clutched her stomach. Without question, the boys had escaped. But had the steward recaptured them?

“You lie!” Gavarnie roared, an animal sound filled with unspeakable pain. “You have killed them!”

Grabbing the neckline of Gundrada’s tunic, he spun her about and flung her toward the fire. Horror-stricken, Golde watched as the woman stumbled and fell. Would Gavarnie kill her?

“They are bound for France,” Gundrada whined, raising her arm as Gavarnie advanced on her. “I swear it!” “Liar!” Gavarnie bellowed. “You would be with them.”

“I—I—”

“Cursed whore. You will speak the truth or I will cleave you in two.”

The servants scooted backward en masse, looking like a flock of sheep bound for the banquet table. Gavarnie moved to tower over Gundrada, his twisted, swarthy complexion burnished orange before the fire. Blood yet smeared his blade from the liegemen.

And Golde knew at once that he would not harm Gundrada.

Nay. He needed a worthy opponent to spend his rage upon, not some puling woman.

“They escaped!” Gundrada screeched at last.

“Escaped?” Gavarnie thundered, raising his blade. “You have spoken your last.”

“’Tis true!” Gundrada jerked her skirts up to reveal her shins. “Look what the little bastards have done to me.”

Golde squinted to see a thick purple welt on each of her legs.

“What have they done, wife?” came a coarse demand from behind Golde.

Even as she swiveled about, Golde knew ’twas Lord de Warrenne. And he had Ronces and Alory. They were restrained by grim looking men-at-arms, as was Sir Nigel.

“Walther!” Gundrada cried.

Golde glanced back to see the woman grow still as Gavarnie placed the sword tip beneath her chin, forcing her head back.

“Have a care, husband,” she croaked. “He can see.”

Golde’s flesh crawled as de Warrenne strode past her into the clearing, a great, ponderous bear walking on its hind legs. His liegemen hung back at the edge of the clearing, eight in all. Her spirits sank. Gavarnie and Sperville could not possibly hope to win against so many.

Reflexively she checked the dagger in her hair. Could she reach de Warrenne and sink the blade in his back before one of his minions captured her? Or should she aim for the men-at-arms who held Ronces and Alory?

Before she could decide, Gavarnie threatened, “Release my sons or your sweet wife will die before your eyes.”

De Warrenne halted, his back to Golde. “Sweet wife,” he growled. “Women are poison, one and all.”

He turned and signaled for Nigel to be brought to him. It required two men to perform the task, for the Steward put up a valiant struggle. His grunts and frantic cries rent the forest night like obscenities.

Realizing de Warrenne’s intent, Golde sidled to her right, blocking Ronces and Alory’s line of vision. The boys should not witness such brutality.

Without batting an eye, de Warrenne drew his blade and split the steward’s head in two. Sperville made no move to stop Gundrada’s servants as they scrambled from the clearing.

Golde shifted her gaze to Gavarnie. His nostrils were flared, his black eyes pitiless at the steward’s demise. He yet held his sword to Gundrada’s throat.

“What think you of your lover now, sweet wife?” de Warrenne demanded.

“’Tis not what you think,” Gundrada rasped, her eyes round with pleading. “He was useful—”

“Shut your flapping mouth,” de Warrenne spat. Turning, he inclined his head at the men-at-arms who held Ronces and Alory.

A low, threatening rumble crawled from Gavarnie’s mouth, and Golde snatched the dagger from her hair.

“Release them,” de Warrenne ordered.

Golde blinked, then stared at the Baron of Adurford. Had he said—

“Papa!” Alory cried, racing for Gavarnie. Ronces was fast behind him.

Sperville dropped his sword and grabbed both boys before they could get past him.

“Leave go!” Ronces shrieked, even as the chamberlain began pulling them toward one side of the clearing— away from de Warrenne and his liegemen.

Golde moved quickly to help, for the children struggled hard to free themselves. Gripping each boy by one shoulder, she leaned close enough to hiss in their faces,

“Distract your father now, and he could lose his life. Instead of squirming about, think how you can help should he need you.”

“Nay!” Gundrada shrilled.

Golde straightened to see that Gavarnie had removed his blade from the woman’s throat. And now she rose like an angry squall.

“Fool,” she snapped, stomping toward her husband. “Know you the effort I have put forth—”

De Warrenne clubbed her before she could finish, a blow so stiff she staggered. “Await me at the roadside,” he commanded his men.

“Mi’lord,” a liegeman queried, “are you certain?” “Leave us!” the baron roared.

Within moments silence had settled over the clearing, eerie and strained. Then de Warrenne turned his attention on Gavarnie. “Fate has e’re smiled on you, Delamaure. Take your children and begone.”

Sperville was already ushering the boys away. Golde noted their retreat from the corner of her vision, but kept her gaze trained on Gavarnie. Bewilderment struggled with distrust to claim his harsh features. His blade hung in his hand, a weapon with no direction.

“I beg you, husband,” Gundrada pressed, though she kept her distance from de Warrenne. “Do not let them go. You could yet have the king’s favor, and Skyenvic.”

“Mi’lord!” Golde inclined her head at Gavarnie, urging him with her eyes to come away. Something terrible was about to happen. She could feel it. Death. Its rancid smell engulfed the clearing. And it had naught to do with Sir Nigel’s corpse.

Suddenly de Warrenne lunged forward. ’Twas amazing the speed with which the big man clutched his wife’s throat. He used but one hand, the other yet holding his sword. Gundrada clawed at his great wrist and her lips moved fervently, but only choking sounds issued forth.

“De Warrenne!” Gavarnie’s tone was appalled.

“Mi’lord,” Golde called again, shivering. “Let us begone.”

Gavarnie shook his head at her, the fool. What was he about? He was free to go, yet he would remain?

“Walther,” Gavarnie said in a most reasonable tone. “You do not want to do this.”

If de Warrenne heard, he gave no indication. Gundrada’s strangled gasps were growing more feeble.

“Listen to me, man,” Gavarnie persisted. “She is not worth the suffering you will visit upon yourself.”

Golde stared at him, unable to believe her ears. Was de Warrenne not his sworn enemy? Had not the evil baron and Gundrada near destroyed Gavarnie? Yet he felt compelled to save them from tragedy?

Gundrada’s legs gave way and her eyes were beginning to bulge. De Warrenne’s wrist and forearm were bleeding where she’d gouged him with her nails.

“I tell you, Walther, you do yourself a grave injustice. The memory of this will haunt you unto death.” Gavarnie edged close enough to lay a hand on de Warrenne’s arm.

“Gavarnie!” Golde cried. If the witless imbecile got himself killed, she would never forgive him. Still, she could not bring herself to physically interfere. In her heart, she knew Gavarnie had the right of the matter.

“Send her away,” Gavarnie coaxed. “You need never lay eyes on her again.”

Abruptly a sob tore from de Warrenne. He threw Gundrada from him, then took several reeling steps. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he circled his wife where she lay unconscious.

Golde started forward to see to the woman, but one look from de Warrenne’s glittering, close-set eyes stalled her. He yet had a steady grip on his blade.

“Convents are e’re in need of patronage,” Gavarnie said in an emotionless tone.

At last de Warrenne halted. “I am not without honor,” he spat.

Gavarnie held up a hand. “No one has said—” “Think you I know not how it feels to have a son held hostage?”

Golde frowned. What was the man talking about?

Gavarnie’s visage grew cool. Apparently, he understood. “Do not think I will say I am in your debt for releasing my sons.”

De Warrenne snorted. “Do not hope I will say I am in your debt because my wife yet lives.”

“Do not believe,” Gavarnie shot back, “that I will not bring charges against you on the morrow for the murder of my wife.”

De Warrenne’s chest expanded. “You will not.”

Unable to hold her tongue a moment longer, Golde blurted, “Then I shall.”

Both men looked at her as if they’d just realized she were there. De Warrenne scowled and turned away as if he would ignore her. Then, just as quickly, his gaze swung back to regard her.

Refusing to give in to the impulse to cringe, Golde crossed her arms over her chest and presented what she hoped was a fearless mien.

“Your witch-woman,” de Warrenne remarked sourly, returning his attention to Gavarnie. “She has done much for you, has she not?”

He paused to study Gavarnie’s stony features. “What if she roused you in the dead of night, her clothes soaked with blood? Then she rants wildly how she has just murdered another man’s wife. What would you do?”

“Golde would not—”

“Think you I ever dreamed that Gundrada was capable of such?”

“Do not attempt to excuse your actions,” Gavarnie sneered.

At his contemptuous tone, the Baron of Adurford stiffened. Golde winced and gazed heavenward. Did Gavarnie yet spoil for a fight with the man?

“You are a simpleton.” Spit flew from de Warrenne’s mouth. “My precious honor once cost me a son. Forgive me if I am not as swift of wit as you. I could scarce think when Gundrada presented me with Isabelle’s murder. I only sought to protect her.”

Gavarnie’s eyes narrowed. “You expect me to believe your woebegotten tales?”

There must be some purpose to Gavarnie’s cruelty, Golde decided. Poor de Warrenne was baring his soul.

“I tell you,” de Warrenne spoke through clenched teeth, “Gundrada spread her legs for your steward to gain his aid. ’Twas Nigel who poisoned your drink the night Isabelle died so your sleep would be deep. He let Gundrada in through the pantry. Once she had murdered Isabelle, they managed to drag you to your chamber—”

“Where they left me,” Gavarnie interrupted. “And all, I suppose, without your knowledge.” His tone dripped sarcasm.

De Warrenne inclined his head. “Believe what you will. I never intended for matters to get so far beyond my control.”

“Charging me with murder—was that beyond your control?”

De Warrenne took a deep breath, and Golde saw sullen resignation writ on his swollen features. “The king had assigned me a task. There are benefits to being perceived as greedy and slow of wit. Such a man would never be suspected of being William’s agent by those plotting against the king.”

De Warrenne eyed Gundrada’s prone form, and his shoulders slumped. “I’d been ordered to bind myself to Roger de Breteuil. To gain information on the insurrection he and his brother-in-law, de Guader, are planning. I could hardly be involved in scandal. ’Twas an important matter. It is still an important matter. You might wish to consider such before carrying this tale to the king.”

At last Gavarnie appeared stunned. Praise the Goddess Danu. Mayhap now, Golde thought, he would realize the Baron of Adurford was not as stupid as he appeared.

“I would not have allowed you to be convicted of Isabelle’s murder,” de Warrenne grumbled. “I did my best to appease your anger by offering to foster one of your sons. When I learned that Gundrada and your steward were scheming yet again, I warned you. I had no clue the two would take your children hostage.”

A muscle twitched in Gavarnie’s jaw. Fearing he might continue to prick de Warrenne’s temper, Golde spoke up. “I overheard them plotting in the wood this afternoon. They saw me and must have panicked, knowing I would tell Gavarnie.”

Ignoring her, Gavarnie demanded, “What of the treasonous documents Nigel was to have planted in my chambers? According to your wife, they were missives written by you to de Breteuil.”

“And so they are—written at the king’s behest. Think you I would be fool enough to tell Gundrada the true nature of my business after all she has done?”

Gundrada groaned and coughed.

Gavarnie did not soften one whit. “Mayhap you should kill her after all, if what you claim is true.”

“Nay. You are right. She is not worth the misery.”

Gavarnie strode to clutch Golde’s arm, and herded her to the footpath. “I have located the missives,” he said to de Warrenne. “Rest assured, they will be delivered to the king. If you have lied—”

“One more word,” de Warrenne’s tone grew menacing, “and one of us will die here and now. Do as you will.”