Sharon Schulze (15 page)

“Padrig—it’s good to see you, lad!” Ian left the saddle before his stallion had come to a stop. He’d recognized that orange cloak immediately, despite the muck and leaves clinging to it. The boy looked frozen and ill, face pale but for the bright slashes of color high along each cheek.

He whipped off his cloak and swung it about Padrig’s bony shoulders.

“Milord,” Padrig said, his voice raspy. He attempted a bow and nearly fell over. Ian grasped his arm and steadied him. “We were set upon by bandits days ago—four days, I think. They took us by surprise, and the guards—”

Ian ignored the tears washing over Padrig’s dirtsmeared cheeks and urged him toward a large rock alongside the trail.

“Sit, lad, and catch your breath.” Dai handed Ian a flask; he uncorked it and held it to the boy’s lips. “Rest a moment. You can tell us when you’re ready.”

Rannulf joined them, wrapping a blanket about Padrig. He crouched next to him and offered him food. Padrig refused with a shake of his head. “Later, milord,” he said. “I can wait a while longer.”

The boy huddled into the blanket, still shaking like a leaf in the wind. But he looked determined.

“I fear for Lady Catrin, milord.” He swallowed, fighting back tears. “She took my sword, ordered me to go for help, then ran after the bandits. I heard sounds of battle, but she made me swear to leave at once.” He tugged the blanket high about his throat. “It’s been so long, sir. I came as fast as I could.”

Ian patted him on the shoulder. “You’ve done well, lad. You’ll make Lord Rannulf a fine squire.” He turned to Rannulf. “Would we be better served to make camp here, or to take him back to l’Eau Clair?”

Rannulf led Ian away from Padrig. “From the look of the boy, we’d best get him inside the keep. L’Eau Clair is near enough as to make no difference.” Ian nodded. “Do you think he can tell us where they were?”

“I hope so,” Ian said. “At least we’ll know where to start looking.”

He turned back to Padrig. “Think you can sit a horse?” he asked.

Padrig nodded, then crumpled over in a faint.

L
ate afternoon found Nicholas and Catrin plodding wearily along the rutted track leading to the gates of Ashby. Surprisingly, they met no one approaching or leaving the keep. The unnatural silence and the absence of people sent a chill down Catrin’s back.

“Nicholas, there’s no one working the land.” The fields surrounding the road were devoid of laborers and lay untended—nay, abandoned—for as far as she could see. It looked as though they’d seen neither scythe nor plow in many years, far too long for them to be left fallow.

“I know.” He led the mare to the side of the road. “’Tis eerie to see no one. These fields should have been plowed and planted, and we ought to have met someone on this road—it leads to the main gate of the castle.” His hand lowered to his waist, meeting the emptiness where his sword should be. “Damnation. I don’t like the feel of this at all. And to enter a strange stronghold unarmed—”

“But ’tis
your
keep. Surely there’s no danger to you.”

He tugged his hauberk off the mare’s back and unfolded it, spreading it over her rump. “At least I have this.” He wriggled into the armor. His head popped out
of the neckline, the sight of his disheveled curls making Catrin’s fingers itch to smooth them.

She laughed. “You don’t quite have the look of an invincible warrior, I must admit.” But no one would ever mistake you for anything else, she thought as her gaze roamed over his powerful body and took note of the air of command that was so much a part of him.

“I doubt anyone here would recognize me under any circumstances. Who knows what they might do before they discover who we are?” He bent and slipped the small dirk into his boot, then buckled his belt and settled it about his waist. Checking the dagger and sharpened stick, he tucked them into the belt. “Although I must admit, the men they’ve sent me to train up as men-at-arms were singularly ill-prepared. There’s probably little threat. But I’d rather not take any chances with your safety. I brought you here to get well, not to harm you further.”

Catrin felt more secure simply knowing that Nicholas was prepared for adversity. He’d gone to so much trouble for her already. “A moment, Nicholas,” she said before he had a chance to walk away. He turned back to face her, his expression questioning. “Wear my favor, milord. For luck.”

“You honor me, milady,” he said formally, coming to stand before her. She reached down and tied one of the laces from her gown around his upper arm.

’Twas a Norman custom, one she’d only heard of. Catrin couldn’t have said why she’d had the sudden impulse, or why she’d given in to it. It appeared she’d done it properly. But now she felt a fool, until she chanced to look into Nicholas’s eyes.

He seemed pleased by the gesture. Capturing her hand in his, he raised it to his lips. “Are you ready?” He turned her hand over and kissed her palm, then closed her fingers
over it. “For luck,” he repeated, before he turned and took up the reins.

The warmth engendered by Nicholas’s touch lasted until they crested the last rise and Ashby came into view. Outlined against the orange and pink of the setting sun, it looked harsh and forbidding, a typical fortress. A fortress under siege, she thought. The drawbridge was up and, as in the fields along the way, she didn’t see anyone outside the walls—or on them, for that matter.

Nicholas led the mare to the very brink of the moat, practically gagging at the noisome stench rising from the murky water. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to turn back after all, he thought as he surveyed the crumbling walls of his ancestral home.

This
was the specter that haunted his worst nightmares, the embodiment of all he’d never be because of his father’s shame? His boyhood memory was of an awe-inspiring citadel, standing so high above him he was unworthy to set foot within its gates. The image faded away like a morning mist, leaving only a curious sadness in its place. Ashby had gone the way of the family honor, it seemed, becoming tarnished and shabby around the edges.

But like his honor, Ashby hadn’t disappeared completely. With luck, there was enough left of it to restore it to its former glory.

Heartened, he raised his head proudly and scanned the empty battlements. “Open the gates for Lord Nicholas Talbot,” he bellowed.

And waited.

The mare shifted restlessly behind him. He turned to see how Catrin fared and discovered that somehow, despite her pain and weariness, she held herself straight and tall. She was a vision of queenly grace. Only someone standing as close as he would notice the strain in her eyes,
and the way her nose twitched as she inhaled the foul air. He watched her proudly. She was a true lady.

Was there no one alive within the shabby walls? Impatient, Nicholas watched Idris frisk about as if he were a pup, darting around them, then veering away to race over the open land surrounding the keep.

If only I could run off my frustrations so easily,
Nicholas thought.

The sound of steel scraping against stone brought Nicholas whipping around. Tilting his head back, he saw a man move into view between two battered crenels above the portcullis.

“What do you want?” the man snarled. “Best to go away—we got no use for the likes of you.” He leaned forward and spit over the wall.

“I am Lord Nicholas Talbot, the master of this godforsaken place. Lower the drawbridge that I might enter.”

“Get ye gone. You ain’t Lord Nicholas,” he scoffed. “That misbegotten whelp’d never dare show his face here.”

Nicholas had heard enough. He drew himself up to his full height, pulling the aura of command about him like a cloak. “If you don’t open the gate—and soon—I will find some other way to get inside. And when I do—” his fingers caressed the hilt of his knife “—I will show you what this ‘misbegotten whelp’ learned from mercenaries and infidels.”

“Ye don’t scare me—ain’t no way you’re Lord Nicholas, ye scabby oaf.” More scraping heralded the arrival of another man. “What do ye want, Clarence?” the guard asked impatiently. He looked back over his shoulder.

“Clarence, show yourself,” Nicholas ordered. Clarence was the man he’d sent to Ashby in his stead. Perhaps now they’d make more progress.

Clarence ignored the summons. “Go on,” the guard said. He swung at the unseen man. Clarence suddenly appeared, the guard jerking him closer to the edge of the wall by the tunic. “Tell him he ain’t who he says, so’s we can get back to rollin’ the bones.”

If he weren’t already so aggravated by his reception, Nicholas might have done violence when he saw Clarence. The man had hidden his weakness well in London, it seemed, but now his round face was ruddy with drink.

Clarence lurched forward until he appeared in imminent danger of falling over the wall. His eyes widened suddenly when he saw Nicholas, and he grabbed wildly at the crumbling stone to keep from tumbling forward. “Shit.” His face turned an odd shade of green. “We’re all dead men now.” He leaned his head over the wall and disgorged the contents of his stomach, then disappeared from view behind the crenel.

Although they weren’t in his path, Nicholas leapt back, pressing the mare back with him. “Christ,” he growled. “Damned drunken sot.”

He turned and glared at Catrin when he heard her stifled giggle. “I—I’m sorry,” she stammered, her gray eyes dancing. “’Tis just that it’s so ridiculous.” She drew a deep breath and straightened her shoulders, enticing his gaze to the movement of her unbound breasts beneath the thin material of her gown.

Reluctantly dragging his gaze away, Nicholas picked up the reins and spun to face the castle. “Lower the drawbridge and open the gates,” he bellowed. A ponderous creaking signaled that this time his orders had been obeyed. The drawbridge thudded into place amid the earsplitting squeal of rusty chains. Beyond it, the portcullis rose jerkily into the gatehouse.

About to set foot on the bridge, Nicholas looked down
at the splintering wood and nearly balked. They’d be fortunate if they weren’t forced to swim across the moat after all, he thought, grimacing at the notion of falling into the putrid swill below.

But they had little choice. So far as he knew, this was the only way into Ashby. “Best say a prayer,” he told Catrin. Setting his shoulders, he led the mare onto the planks.

Moving swiftly—he didn’t intend to remain on the span any longer than necessary—they made it across without mishap just as the portcullis ceased its noisy ascent. Nicholas felt an uncomfortable itch between his shoulder blades as they passed through the dim passageway, the mare’s hoofbeats echoing hollowly on the cobblestones. He almost expected to see his uncle, the former master of Ashby, awaiting him in the bailey, ready to boot him out the gate again.

But the spectacle that met them when they emerged from the long corridor into the sunlight bore no resemblance to the scene from the past etched upon Nicholas’s memory.

It was far, far worse.

Ian sent up a prayer of thanksgiving as he rode into the clearing surrounding l’Eau Clair. Padrig was still alive, though Ian feared the boy clung to life by a thread.

Shifting in the saddle, he sought once again to move the lad into a more comfortable position. He’d carried Padrig in his arms on the brief journey back to l’Eau Clair, listening to his raspy breathing, feeling the fiery heat of his feverish body even through the layers of fabric that separated them.

Padrig had yet to regain his senses, a fact that concerned Ian. Had he lasted till l’Eau Clair, only to lose the
battle now? He prayed the lad would improve, would awaken and survive.

And not just for Catrin’s sake, although that was of prime importance to him. Padrig was a brave lad, with a bright future ahead of him, should he live.

Ian cursed his sister’s impulsiveness, even as he prayed for her safety. She had endangered more lives than her own, and for what reason? Boredom? The chance to show him that she would do as she pleased? Disappointment weighed heavily upon him; Catrin had been raised to protect those within her charge, not to be capricious with their well-being.

The lad’s safety had been in his keeping, and he’d failed in his duty to protect him.

Gillian and a slew of servants hurried into the bailey.

“Wait, Gillian,” Ian snapped when she reached up to examine the blanket-wrapped bundle he held. Rannulf dismounted and caught his wife up in his arms, setting her on her feet a short distance from Ian’s mount.

“Let me bring him into the keep first,” Rannulf said. Suiting action to words, he lifted Padrig from Ian’s grasp.

Ian slipped from the saddle and, placing an arm about Gillian’s waist to help her, followed Rannulf up the stairs into the keep.

“Bring him into the anteroom behind the hall,” Gillian directed, shrugging out of Ian’s grasp as they entered the huge room. Clapping her hands, she directed the maids to bring hot water to the chamber, then set off after her husband, moving swiftly and with a surprising grace, considering her burden.

“Come along, Ian,” she called over her shoulder. “I’m sure I’ll need your help before I’m through.”

Ian sprawled in a chair by the fire, a goblet of his favorite spiced mead clasped loosely in his hands. Gillian
had treated Padrig’s injuries and dosed him for the fever several hours earlier. They could do little now but wait, and hope the lad came to his senses soon.

Considering that he’d been awake and able to speak when they found him, Gillian didn’t believe his swoon was so deep that he’d sleep much longer now that he was in out of the cold and damp. Although he hadn’t yet awakened, several times he’d come close, and his breathing seemed much better. As for the fever, it had already eased. He should recover, with time and care.

But time was a commodity they did not have. Days had passed since the attack, plenty of time for the bandits to have spirited Catrin away—or done worse. Ian chafed at the inactivity of waiting for Padrig to awaken.

If it didn’t happen soon, he’d strike out on his own.

Rannulf slipped into the room and closed the door. Motioning for Ian to remain seated, he moved to stand beside the bed. “He hasn’t stirred?” he asked, staring down at Padrig consideringly.

“Nay. Nothing more than a few moans,” Ian said. He poured mead into another goblet. “If he doesn’t wake soon, we’ll have to go back out and continue looking. I’m not certain he’ll be able to tell us anything useful, but…”

Rannulf tucked the blankets beneath Padrig’s chin, then dropped into the other chair by the fire, accepting the mead with a nod of thanks.

“I sent Dai back out to look,” Ian told him. “He’ll keep searching for Catrin and the others. I’ll wait a bit longer for Padrig—then I plan to go out looking, as well. The chance we’ll find them unharmed is slim, I’m afraid.”

“Gillian found blood on Padrig’s tunic,” Rannulf said. “Not his, but it looks as though someone was badly injured.”
He sipped his mead. “We’ll find her, Ian, I promise you.”

“How is Gillian?”

“She’s anxious about Catrin. Her concern for your sister has completely outweighed her fear of giving birth.” Rannulf shook his head. “I’d heard that pregnant women have strange ideas. Gillian has believed all along that she could not deliver this child without Catrin. Now her main concern is that we find Catrin and that she is well, but I swear she’s determined not to give birth until we find your sister.”

Ian rose and replenished his drink, then wandered to the unshuttered window. “It’s nearly midday.” He stared out at the sky. “’Tis in God’s hands whether the lad recovers or not, though with Gillian caring for him, he’s luckier than most. But there’s nothing we can do for him now.” He set his goblet on the table with a thump. “I’m going back out to look for them. If you’d rather not come with me—”

“Are you mad? If I don’t go, you’re apt to find my wife trailing along behind you,” Rannulf said with a wry laugh. “Wouldn’t that be a sight?” He continued more soberly, “Of course I’m coming. I’ll do everything within my power to find them.” He stood. “No sense in waiting any longer. If we leave now, we can cover a wide area before dark.”

Ian turned to look down at Padrig. The boy’s breathing and color seemed more normal.