Ransom My Heart (32 page)

I
t wasn't until they were a good distance away, and well out of the mayor's earshot, that the Lady of Stephensgate broke down, sobbing fitfully into her hands. With what would have been comic awkwardness, had the gesture not been so pathetic, the sheriff raised a hand to pat her shaking shoulders, in a manner not unlike the way he often patted his horse, Winnie. If she not been so miserable, Finnula would have laughed.

“There, there,” John de Brissac murmured soothingly. “Things are not as bad as all that. You mustn't let Mayor Hillyard upset you so. After all, Lord Hugo still lives…”

“But for how long?” Finnula sobbed.

“As that old hermit said, only God can tell. But he is a strong young man. He ought to have a few good years left in him, if you don't wear him to the bone.”

Finnula cried even harder at this reminder of her behavior fol
lowing her husband's tossing her braies into the fire. “Oh,” she sniffled, swiping at her wet cheeks with the backs of her hands. “I called him such names!”

“Indeed you did. Fortuitous to his would-be assassin, that was. You certainly
looked
angry enough to kill him.”

“I was,” Finnula confessed. Then she gasped, twisting in the saddle to look up at the bearded man. It was dark on the road they traveled, the newly risen moon half hidden in the thickly leafed branches of the trees that flanked the wheel-rutted path. Still, she could see the sheriff's face well enough.

“But you cannot think I would have done such a thing!” she cried. “Killed my husband over a pair of braies? Oh, surely not!”

“I think nothing of the kind.” She saw the sheriff smile in the wan moonlight. “But somewhere in that throng was someone who wanted Lord Hugo very dead indeed.”

“I cannot think who it could be.” Finnula sighed. She had recovered herself somewhat, and sat a little straighter in the saddle. “Who could hate Hugo so much as to want him dead?” she wondered. “He has only been back in Stephensgate these few days…”

“I think I have a very good idea who might be behind it all,” Sheriff de Brissac said. “Strangely enough, however, he wasn't present tonight to accuse you again, as he did a year ago.”

“You mean Reginald Laroche?” Finnula shook her head. “But why would he want to kill Hugo? For forcing him to leave the manor house?”

“'Tis reason enough.”

“But what else could he have expected Hugo to do? Monsieur Laroche cheated and robbed Lord Geoffrey, mayhap even killed him—”

“Indeed. And Lord Hugo humiliated and threatened him for doing so.”

“But that is not reason enough to kill a man!”

“Men have been killed for many a stupider reason,” Sheriff de Brissac observed.

“But—”

“'Tis possible that Monsieur Laroche thinks that, with Lord Hugo out of the way, he would inherit the title—”

“But that would be impossible,” Finnula said, her tears forgotten. “There's Jamie—”

“Has Lord Hugo declared Jamie heir? I think not. Laroche has more claim to the title—”

Finnula gasped. “'Twould be criminal!”

“'Twould be most convenient for Reginald Laroche, who has devoted so many years to the estate, and has so many friends at court…”

“Has he?” Finnula was surprised. She couldn't imagine Reginald Laroche having any friends at all, particularly wealthy ones. But then she supposed that wealthy ones were the only kind he'd tolerate.

“Indeed. His sister, with whom he went to live in Leesbury, is married to the cousin of the queen's favorite lady-in-waiting—”

Finnula's spirits had returned with enough to force to allow her to snort sarcastically at this piece of information.

“Scoff not, my lady,” the sheriff warned. “'Tis connections like that which aid one in winning the king's favor—”

“Any king who would favor Reginald Laroche over Lord Hugo is a fool,” Finnula declared, with feeling.

The sheriff, she felt rather than saw, since the night was dark indeed, grinned. “Ah, my dear. You will never make a proper earl's wife unless you learn to curb that tongue of yours…”

Finnula frowned, chagrined. Was she forever to be reminded of how inappropriate a wife she was? 'Twas unfair, woefully unfair. Here she was, under arrest for a crime she did not commit, while
her husband, whom someone was trying to kill, languished unconscious some miles away. A fortnight ago, her worst fear had been that Sheriff de Brissac might arrest her for poaching. Now she was being accused of attempted murder, and the very man who had arrested her was trying to aid her in discovering the true murderer's identity. She hardly knew if she was the most fortunate creature in the world, or the least.

“You must stop Laroche, John,” she breathed, using the sheriff's first name unconsciously. “He won't rest until he has what he wants. He's already killed once…Oh, Hugo is in such danger! If only you'd release me! I'd find Reginald Laroche in a snap—”

“Lord Hugo is not the only person in danger from Reginald Laroche, my dear.” Sheriff de Brissac chuckled. “Which is the primary reason why, without a single witness to confirm that you drew a bow, you are under arrest. The last thing this community needs is you, gallivanting after your husband's enemy—”

“But—”

“Cease! I myself will find Monsieur Laroche upon the morrow—I am certain I can do so without your aid, Finnula—and then we will have the truth.”

“And tonight…Tonight you'll return to Stephensgate Manor, and stay with Hugo, and see that…” Her throat closed up, as tears threatened once more. “…See that he is not…”

“Indeed I shall, my dear.” Again, John de Brissac awkwardly patted her on the shoulder. “I shall not stir from his bedside.”

Finnula, relieved, suddenly began to feel the effects of her very long, very trying day. She sagged once more in the saddle, grateful for John de Brissac's supporting arm. As Winnie plodded along the dark road to the sheriff's home just outside Stephensgate proper, Finnula listened distractedly to the frogs and crickets that chirped from the woods alongside the road, comforting sounds that always reminded her of home. Of course, her home
was no longer at the millhouse, but the night sounds remained the same, whether she was sleeping in her attic bedroom with her sister, or in a lord's solar with her husband.

Then she heard something that sent a chill down her spine, and she straightened fearfully. The sound was neither frog nor cricket, and it had come from neither the sheriff nor his mount. Craning her neck to look behind them, at first she saw nothing.

Feeling her sudden stiffening, Sheriff de Brissac asked gently, “What is the matter?”

“I do not know,” she whispered. “I feel as if someone were following us. I thought I heard breathing…”

Sheriff de Brissac pulled his mount to a halt, and, as if Finnula's fear was contagious, he laid a hand upon his sword hilt. “Who goes there?” he shouted, into the darkness. “Reveal yourself, or feel my blade—”

The heavy breathing continued. Finnula felt as if her heart had stopped beating, she was so afraid. Had Reginald Laroche followed them from the manor house, intending to dispatch bride as well as groom? Or was there some foul specter waiting there in the shadows? Finnula did not believe in ghosts…much. But considering how her day had been going, 'twould not have surprised her overmuch had one leaped from the gloom…

The moon, which had slipped behind a cloud, suddenly burst upon them, and in its silver light, Finnula saw that they were followed not by Reginald Laroche, or by any ghost, but by her own mastiff.

“Gros Louis!” She was so relieved, she began to weep once more, even as she laughed. “Oh! 'Tis Gros Louis!”

The dog, panting heavily from his exertion to keep pace with the sheriff's horse, frolicked in the road, delighted at hearing her call his name. Sheriff de Brissac looked down at the capering beast and removed his hand from his sword.

“You have many loyal supporters, my lady,” he observed, his amusement tinged with relief. “If I recall, this animal followed us home the last time you were arrested.”

Finnula smiled fondly at the memory. “And your mother kept him in the kitchen, where he ate all the butter.” To Gros Louis, she cooed, “Such a good dog! Oh, Sheriff, mayn't he stay with me again?”

Sheriff de Brissac shrugged philosophically. He was not accustomed to allowing his prisoners to bring their pets along to jail. Then again, he wasn't accustomed to bringing his prisoners home to his mother. And Madame Clarisse de Brissac was going to be happy about neither his prisoner nor her pet.

During the long ride home, Sheriff de Brissac decided the best course of action would be for him to deposit Finnula with his mother as quickly as possible, then return to the manor house posthaste. The benefits of such action would be twofold: One, he would be able to keep an eye on the victim, and ensure that no more attempts were made on his life. And two, he wouldn't have to listen to Madame de Brissac complain about Finnula and her dog.

This decision bolstered his spirits all the way to his front door. It was only when that door opened that he began to have second thoughts on the wisdom of leaving his prisoner alone with his mother. While of the two, Reginald Laroche was the more dangerous, it was quite possible that Madame de Brissac, too, had the mind of a killer. But her weapon of choice was her tongue: She chose to bore everyone within earshot to death with her incessant complaining. On the whole, John de Brissac preferred arrows as being more efficient instruments of death.

W
hen Lord Hugo finally regained consciousness, the sun was high in the sky, pouring in through the arched windows and making the solar overly warm.

Turning his head, which felt as if it had been stuffed with lamb's wool, Hugo saw that there was a fire in the hearth, adding to the chamber's uncomfortable warmth. In addition, wolf pelts had been piled on top of him until it felt as if an entire pack of the wild beasts had lain down upon his chest.

Hugo tried to lift his arms to push the pelts away, but he was too weak to so much as make a fist. What the hell, he wondered, had they done to him? His shoulder throbbed painfully, but it was his head that ached the most. His mouth was as dry as if he had recently been eating sand, and there was a stabbing pain behind his eyes. His worst hangover in Egypt hadn't been this bad.

“Ah, you're awake!”

There was no mistaking that booming voice. Hugo winced as the sound of it reverberated around inside his tender head.

“De Brissac,” he muttered, through clenched teeth. He closed his eyes against the glare of the bright sunlight. “Get these damned pelts off me before I suffocate.”

“Gladly, my lord, gladly.”

Hugo exhaled with relief as the heavy furs were removed. Shrouded only in a sheet, he risked opening an eye, and found his entire line of vision filled with the sheriff's hairy face and broad shoulders. He lowered his eyelid with a shudder. “Where is my wife?” Hugo demanded, irritably. “Why is it that I wake to find
you
at my bedside and not her?”

“Do you not remember, my lord?” John de Brissac's voice was entirely too loud for Hugo to bear. He groaned and tried to bury his head more deeply into the pillows. “Ah, that's correct. Perhaps you were not conscious at the time. You have been unconscious nigh on two days now, my lord. We quite feared for you, Mistress Laver and I.”

Hugo spoke through gritted teeth. “Where…is…my…wife?”

“Safe. Quite safe. You needn't fear for her. Well, except perhaps for her disposition, which does not seem improved by forced inactivity. My mother, 'tis true, has found much employment for her around the house, but Lady Finnula is one who craves the outdoors—”

Hugo opened both eyes at that and fastened an incredulous gaze upon the sheriff.

“Your
mother
? Why is my wife in the company of
your
mother and not here, tending to me?”

“Because she's under arrest, of course.”

“Under arrest?” Hugo was so surprised that he forgot all about
his pain and discomfort. Struggling to sit up, he found that his limbs, though sluggish and slow to obey, were at least still functional. “Under arrest, did you say? For what crime?”

“For attempting to murder you.” Sheriff de Brissac held up a chalice. “A cool draught, my lord, for your parched throat?”

Hugo, with a swiftness astonishing for a man so grievously injured, knocked the chalice from the sheriff's hand, sending the water cascading to the floor. The metal cup banged upon the hearthstones.

“Damn you,” Hugo cursed. “Stop playing games with me. Tell me what happened, man, and do not spare me. You say Finnula has been arrested?”

Looking a bit sheepish, Sheriff de Brissac bent to retrieve the chalice. “Aye,” he said.

Hugo was furious. “If you have put her in that decrepit hovel you call a jailhouse, I swear to God, I will kill you—”

“Nay, my lord. Your wife is being held in my own home, with none but my mother as warden, though, if truth be told, a less formidable guard could hardly be found…”

“You
arrested
her? Dammit, man, you know it was not she that shot me!”

“I know it, my lord.” John refilled Hugo's cup from a jug on the bedside table and handed it to him. “'Twas not I that accused her, but the lord mayor. And upon consideration of the matter, I deemed it wisest to remove her, in the event that whoever had attempted to kill you chose to next take out his wrath upon your wife.”

Hugo, holding the water-filled chalice in a hand whose trembling he could not control, said simply, “The lord mayor dies.”

“Nay, my lord. You cannot kill a man for standing up for his convictions.”

“Indeed?” Hugo sipped the water, and felt it slide, cool and
soothing, down his aching throat. “When his convictions involve my wife, I believe I can.”

“Then I would have to arrest you, too, my lord. And you I would have no qualms about locking up the jailhouse, rats be damned.”

Hugo drank again, then, dismayed to find that the simple action of lifting a chalice to his lips had exhausted him, handed the cup to the sheriff and sank back down against the pillows.

“And when I refuse to press charges against her,” he said. “Will you then release her?”

“Nay, my lord. I will not.” Without asking permission, Sheriff de Brissac lowered his enormous bulk onto the side of Hugo's bed. The jostling sent shooting pains down Hugo's left arm, but he was too caught up in the conversation to notice overmuch. “'Tis better that Lady Finnula stay where she is at present.”

Noting the grave expression on the sheriff's normally jovial face, Hugo said, “You have not told me all. Do so, now.”

Sheriff de Brissac sighed. “'Twas our belief—mine and your lady's—that the culprit behind the attempts on your life was none other than Reginald Laroche…”

“Of course,” Hugo breathed. “I should have thought of that before. The last thing he said to me was that I had not heard the last of him—”

“Indeed you had not. For I believe now it was his intent to kill you, and then see your lady hanged for the crime.”

“He dies.” Hugo shrugged, then instantly regretted the gesture as pain shot through his chest, radiating in waves from the wound in his shoulder.

“'Tis not so simple as that, my lord. You'd have to find him before you kill him, and it is like he has vanished from this earth—”

Hugo's grin was sarcastic. “What? The man is not with his sister in Leesbury?” He sounded mockingly astonished. “And
I would have expected him to wait there meekly for you to arrest him!”

John grimaced. “I was a fool to think he would go quietly. The sister in Leesbury says she has heard from neither Laroche nor his daughter in a sennight. Wherever they intended to go after you threw them out, 'twas not there.”

“And so Laroche is at large, while my wife stands accused of crimes committed by him.” Hugo's grin vanished. “'Twill not be borne, John. As soon as I am well again, I will hunt down the scurrilous dog myself, and sever his throat.”

“Aye,” John agreed, heavily. “But you will not find him. I have searched every hostel, every barn, every field between here and Leesbury, and found naught to point me in the direction of Laroche and his spawn. I tell you truly, my lord, he has vanished.”

Hugo's brow constricted. “'Tis not difficult for a man to hide himself under such conditions, but there is the daughter to think of. Mademoiselle Isabella is not a young woman to take kindly to hiding in a fetid stable or lean-to. I would imagine that wherever they are, she would insist upon some degree of comfort.”

“But I have inquired at nearly every house in the county, and no one has seen them—”

“No one has admitted to it. But the man lived here years and years. Surely he has
some
friends.”

“One friend too many, I fear.” John sighed.

Hugo fixed him with an apprehensive stare. “I like not your tone, John. What now have you not told me? What friend has deserted me and gone to Laroche?”

“No friend, I expect, and no surprise to anyone. But none of us have seen your squire Peter since you were shot.”

Hugo had not anticipated that. Peter, gone over to the enemy? It hardly seemed likely, considering the enemy's relative poverty. The boy was overmuch fond of luxury. He had complained
nonstop of the discomforts of the road during the journey from London. Why would such a boy leave the manor house for the unease of living in hiding?

“Are you certain?” Hugo asked, hesitantly. “Absolutely certain? I think it strange…”

“As did I, which is why I searched the chamber where the lad had been sleeping. He took everything, my lord, including his horse. He is gone, and, I think, not likely to return.”

“Back to London,” Hugo said, with certainty. “Aye. He missed the city—”

“Nay, my lord.” The sheriff fixed his gentle brown eyes upon Hugo's face, and there was something almost pitying in his gaze. “Not London.”

Hugo, who could not remember ever having been pitied before in his life, found that he did not much appreciate the sentiment. Irritably, he snapped at the sheriff. “What do you mean, not London? Where else would the boy go? He had nothing, nothing that I did not give him, including his wages. He did not much trouble to keep his dissatisfaction hidden. It seems likely he just gathered up his things and went back home—”

“And do you not find it strange, my lord, that he did so directly after you'd been shot?” The sheriff's voice was kind. “Do you not think it odd that he did not stay even a day after that, to see whether or nay you lived? And after he accused your wife, publicly, of being the one who shot you—?”

Hugo's eyes narrowed. “What say you, de Brissac? Did he dare—”

“I think the boy was not the innocent you'd like to believe,” the sheriff interrupted, quietly.

Hugo was already shaking his head incredulously. “But
why
? Why would my squire want me dead? He could gain nothing from my demise…”

“Nay, but his paramour would.”

“His…” Hugo's voice trailed off, then hardened on a single word. “
Isabella?
”

“'Tis the only explanation I can think of,” de Brissac said mildly. “Laroche has nothing, nothing that would tempt such a lack-witted young jackanapes. Except, of course, his comely daughter. A lad like Peter might do much to win the approval of such a woman. Even attempt to murder his own master, so that her father could inherit…” Hugo started to shake his head in mute denial, a gesture the sheriff dismissed with an impatient wave of his hand. “
Yes
, my lord. Think on it. When Finnula kidnapped you, you sent the boy ahead, no doubt to rid yourself of his annoying presence. He was in the company of the Laroches for some little time before you arrived, but 'twas enough. His loyalties were easily won, possibly because Laroche wined and dined him, but probably because Isabella seduced him…”

“Seduced that boy?” Hugo blurted out. “Not her. She would consider him beneath her prodigious talents.”

“Not had her prodigious talents been rejected by you.” The sheriff wagged an index finger knowingly. “Did she not try to, er, win your sympathies, my lord?”

Hugo stared at the sheriff, realizing for the first time that beneath the heavy beard and jolly belly of John de Brissac lurked a keen observer of human behavior, a man very well-suited indeed to his job. Slowly, remembering the scene he had come upon when first entering the manor house—Peter drunk, and wearing the new gold necklace—he nodded.

“Yes. She came to me,” he admitted. “The night before my wedding—”

“And when you, er, informed her that you were not interested, she turned instead to the boy. Although she had probably been working on him long before she ever came to you…”

“But I still don't understand why,” Hugo declared. “What could she have hoped to get out of it? My
squire
? He has
nothing
!”

“No, indeed, Peter had something Isabella and her father wanted very much. He had your trust. He was able to move about the manor house at will, without causing comment. He was the perfect pawn in their murderous game.”

Hugo knit his brow. “Are you saying—”

“Aye. It wasn't Reginald Laroche who pushed over that merlon, or set that burr beneath your saddle, or shot that arrow. 'Twas your squire, Peter.”

“Of course.” Hugo's fingers curled into fists of rage, but he was so weak that he could not raise them from the sheets. “I'll kill him. I'll find him, and then I'll kill him—”

“Aye,” the sheriff agreed calmly. “Can't you see it, my lord? A ready slave the boy would be in the hands of a schemer like Isabella. She asks him to kill you, but to be certain to make it look as if Finnula did it, and gets rid of two birds, as it were, with a single stone. You are dead, your wife hangs for your murder, and Reginald Laroche becomes the new Earl of Stephensgate. For they will have guessed that surely you have not yet had time to put a will to parchment. And so your father's will is what the courts will have to abide by, the one placing Laroche as heir, in the event that you did not return from the Crusades.” Shaking his head, John chuckled. “Ah! The wily devil. Laroche has more balls than I ever gave him credit for.”

“Balls I will cut off, when I get my hands on him.” Hugo was furious now. Hugo could feel rage flowing through his veins, and could not stay abed a moment longer. He flung back the sheet, only to see that he was naked beneath it. “Damn!” he cried. “Who took my clothes?”

“Mistress Laver, I expect. But where do you think you're going, my lord?”

“To find that bastard Laroche, and run him through,” Hugo replied, in some surprise, as if the answer were obvious enough to any fool. John de Brissac, however, laughed at him.

“Is that where you go, then? And how do you expect to find him, my lord, when neither I nor all of my men have had any luck?”

“Neither you nor your men have the incentive I do. I want my wife back.”

“At peril of your life, my lord? For if you continue thrashing about in this manner, you will surely reopen your wound.”

“I do not know what you're talking about, de Brissac.” Hugo did have to admit that, upon swinging his long legs over the side of the bed, he felt a bit light-headed. But he had been more gravely injured in Acre, and had recovered in less time.