Margaret Moore - [Maiden & Her Knight 03] (38 page)

“That’s good, Charlie,” the burly one said. “I’ll tie his hands.”

“There’s no need for that,” Alexander said through his swollen lips. “I won’t run and I won’t fight. I give you my word.”

“Oh, ho!” the one named Charlie scoffed. “D’ya hear him, Burt? His word! That’s a good’un.” He scowled at Alexander. “The word of a blackguard like you doesn’t count for nothing.”

Burt grabbed Alexander’s wrist and wrenched his arm so that Alexander had to turn his back to him. “Make it tight, Burt,” Charlie said.

“I am. I only wish it was irons.” Burt took hold of Alexander’s other arm and tied his wrists together with a rough hemp rope that started to cut Alexander’s wrists before the knot was even tied. He leaned forward and growled in Alexander’s ear. “Count yourself lucky you’re still in one piece, you lump of dung. If it was up to Charlie and me, you’d be minus your balls by now.”

Charlie nodded with an eagerness that made Alexander realize how close he was to that fate, and probably worse besides. “I brought your lady’s sister back unharmed.”

Burt shoved him hard against the wall, so that his cheek was pressed against the rough, cold stones. The man held him there with an elbow in his back, and Alexander could feel another trickle of blood from his cheekbone below his left eye. “Mighty big o’ you, is that it?” Burt jeered. “By the saints, I’d hang you myself if Sir Connor gave the word.”

“Is he? Is he about to give the word?” Alexander asked, his face still up against the wall, wondering if he was going to that end, and not really caring. His fate had been sealed from the moment Connor had held his sword at his throat in the clearing.

Burt grabbed his tunic and hauled him back, then pushed him toward the door. “Not him. He’s got notions of doing things by law, so you won’t die today. Not by his order anyway.”

Unable to use his hands, the bindings cutting his flesh, Alexander stumbled out the door and up the steps. “Then what does he want?” He didn’t think Sir Connor was the sort to go in for torture, but his life had shown him he was no fit judge of men.

“What do you care, as long as he ain’t gonna kill ya? Get going,” Charlie ordered with a swift kick on Alexander’s back.

“Now we’re seeing just what sort of blackguard DeFrouchette bred, eh?” Burt sneered from further behind him. “Rotten apples the pair of you.”

Alexander didn’t dispute it.

When they reached the exit, Charlie doused his torch in a bucket of sand by the door. Then he grabbed hold of Alexander’s tunic and pushed him through the door so hard that Alexander fell on his knees on the cobblestones.

Trying to ignore the pain, Alexander blinked in the brighter light. It wasn’t the full light of day, for the sun was low, but after being confined in the dungeon, it seemed so.

Burt pulled him up by the bindings around his wrist, and Alexander had to clench his teeth to keep from crying out.

Once he was on his feet, the two soldiers began to push, prod and shove him across the courtyard. Three serving women—very different from Hielda and her ilk—stopped to watch.

“Look at him—not so high and mighty now, eh?” one muttered.

“Spittin’ image of his father and just as bad!” the oldest of them declared, glaring at him.

“I wish I had the punishin’ of ’im!” the prettiest of them said, with a bloodthirsty glint in her eye.

Then he heard another voice, from the vicinity of the gate. “But if there is to be a celebration, you
must
let me see the lord. I am the best tumbler in all of Europe.”

Alexander nearly fell over as he recognized Denis’s voice. Craning his neck, he saw his friend talking to the guards at the gate, and he thought he made out Kiera standing just behind him. What in the name of the saints were they doing here? They should have been miles away.

Surely Denis didn’t harbor some mad notion that they could rescue him from this vast and well-manned fortress? He would get captured, and then they might both face death.

Denis caught sight of Alexander. Fearing that any sign of recognition would immediately put Denis in danger, Alexander quickly looked down at the cobblestones at his feet.

At last they reached the hall. There were more servants here, women mostly, and although they didn’t speak, the way they looked at him was more than enough to tell him they agreed with Burt, Charlie and those in the courtyard.

His journey did not end there, for Burt and Charlie pushed him on toward what must be Sir Connor’s solar. After they knocked, Sir Connor opened the door. He ran a quick gaze over Alexander, then regarded his men with disapproval. “What happened to him?”

“Gave us some trouble, sir,” Burt said meekly. “Big fella like that … bound to, wasn’t he?”

“What did he do? Attack you?” Sir Connor demanded, staring at Charlie in a way that made the fellow blanch. “From what I’ve heard of him, I doubt that. If he had, you wouldn’t be standing here now, not without a few bruises and cuts, at least. You two are confined to your barracks when you’re not on duty.”

Burt and Charlie looked as stunned as Alexander felt. “B-but sir—” Burt stammered, recovering first.

“Do as I say, or you won’t be in my garrison another day!”

With that, Connor took hold of Alexander’s shoulder, pulled him into the solar and slammed the door.

A
s Alexander lurched to a halt in the finely furnished room, a movement caught his eye.

It was Isabelle, rising swiftly from a chair near a large oak table.

She wore a beautiful gown of green that fell in soft ripples to the floor, the cuffs long and lined with gold. A gilded girdle rested on her slim hips, and her short blond hair was held back at the sides by two golden combs.

“You’re hurt!” she cried, clasping her hands but keeping her distance, either because she was not the only person there or because what he had anticipated had come to pass. Once she was safe with her family, her feelings for him had altered.

He thought he had prepared himself for that; he had not.

As dismay washed over him, he took note of who else was gathered there, no doubt to sit in judgment upon him.

Lady Allis was seated beside Isabelle. A young man stood behind them, one hand on Isabelle’s chair. To judge by his blond hair and eyes, he was their younger brother, Edmond.

“My men were overzealous,” Connor said as he unexpectedly slit the ropes around Alexander’s wrists with a dagger he returned to his belt. “Not surprising, given what you’ve done. However, I shall remind them that they are to obey orders, not take matters into their own hands.”

Alexander rubbed his wrists, confused that he was no longer bound.

“Aye, they’ve overstepped the mark,” another man said with a Welsh accent.

Alexander started as a stranger stepped out from the shadows on the opposite side of the room from Isabelle. “And you’ll have to come down hard on them, or they’ll get out of hand quickly.”

With his dark hair and angular features, the fellow looked rather like Connor, enough to lead Alexander to suspect this was an older relative, and apparently one who liked to give advice.

Even more surprising, Alexander had the distinct sensation that he should know him, and it was not because of his resemblance to Sir Connor.

“I know how to handle my men,” Connor replied, a hint of annoyance in his tone.

Connor went to the chair behind the table and gestured for Alexander to sit in the chair opposite—another unexpected action. Alexander waited for the older man to object, but the stranger merely leaned against the wall again, as if this matter were not of much concern to him. Meanwhile, Isabelle sank onto her seat.

“My sister-in-law seems to think I should be merciful and let you go,” Connor began. “Indeed, she was quite eloquent in her pleas, and
very
persistent. In fact, she’s barely given me a moment’s peace since she’s been back, practically harassing me until I agreed to listen to her.”

Alexander looked at Isabelle and saw, in the depths of her shining eyes, the confirmation that he had been wrong to doubt the strength of her love and the fidelity of her devotion.

She loved him still, as he loved her.

“So I did listen,” Connor continued. “Over and over again, until she convinced me that you put yourself at great risk to bring her here and that you never intended to collect the ransom when you did.”

Once more, Alexander looked at Isabelle, loving her with all his heart. He should have guessed that she would be as fierce in his defense as she had been in her own. As Ingar had said, what a woman!

Best of all, what a woman who loved him!

“Lord Oswald was not the man I thought he was,” Alexander said on his own behalf. “His decision to force Isabelle to marry Osburn was the last proof I needed that I had made a grievous error, and one that I had to correct.”

“So Isabelle tells me. Yet surely you know I would have paid the ransom for her.”

The younger man spoke. “DeFrouchette knew he couldn’t get it without risking his neck,” he said as scornfully as Burt or Charlie would, “so he gave it up. Better to forfeit some money than be dead, I daresay.”

Isabelle twisted in her chair to look at him. “You shouldn’t speak of what you don’t understand, Edmond. He didn’t have to risk his neck to bring me back at all. But if he hadn’t, I’d be married to Osburn by now, which I assure you would have been a fate worse than death.”

The young man’s eyes fairly blazed with ire and determination, very like his sister’s when she was enraged. “Are you forgetting the hell he’s put us through?”

Isabelle jumped to her feet and glared at him. “I was put through hell, too. But he has brought me back, and if
I
can forgive him—”

“I can’t and I won’t!” Edmond cried, his face reddening as he gripped the back of her chair. “You women are all the same, with your emotions overruling common sense! If we let him go, what will people think, especially our enemies? That we are weak and—”

Connor brought his hand down on the table with a resounding bang, startling them all.

“Edmond, you are here by my leave,” the overlord of Bellevoire said. “When I wish your opinion, I shall ask for it.”

Edmond retreated into a smoldering silence, as if the fire that burned so vibrantly in Isabelle also lived in him—as a glowing, steady flame of discontent and anger.

Yet the young man was wrong. Connor was not weak, and woe betide the enemy who thought he was. He was everything Alexander had ever wished to be.

Isabelle returned to her seat. While the action may have been obedient, her expression declared how angry she still was.

Connor addressed Alexander. “Isabelle is adamant that you be shown mercy for bringing her back to us. Since I have no doubt that she will find a way to make her case just as eloquently and persistently to any judge the king may send, I have decided to acquiesce to her wishes and set you free.”

Relief and happiness poured through Alexander, but as always, now there was an undercurrent of sorrow. Yes, he would be free, but he must leave behind the woman who had secured that freedom despite all that he had done.

“You’re going to let him go?” Edmond demanded.

“This is not your decision to make, Edmond. In some ways, it is not mine, either, but Isabelle’s, for she has suffered the most from his actions.”

“I don’t believe it! After what he did—”

“Edmond, either be quiet, or go,” Allis said, not raising her voice, but with a steely resolve he had often heard in Isabelle’s. “Connor rules Bellevoire, not you.”

Edmond stalked to the door, pausing to glare at them all. “When I come of age and Montclair is mine to rule, I will not allow blackguards and varlets to go free!”

He marched out, slamming the door behind him.

Alexander waited for someone else to agree with the angry young man, but nobody did. Instead, Isabelle turned to Allis. “I’m sorry.”

Allis shook her head and patted Isabelle’s hand, comforting her and inadvertently reminding Alexander that he could never offer comfort to Isabelle, of any kind, in any way, ever again.

“There are other reasons for this mercy,” Allis said quietly. “You will find out in a moment. I will go speak to Edmond.” She rose, as graceful as Isabelle as she swept from the chamber. “In the meantime, Connor, tell DeFrouchette as we decided.”