White Lion's Lady (20 page)

“My deal still stands,” Griff told him as he picked up the rope tether and did as instructed. “Cut me loose, and I’ll let you live.”

The knight chuckled. “Ye must take me for God’s own fool, cur.”

Griff shrugged, staring hard, watching, waiting as the guard took a careful step forward and bent to retrieve the rope. Then he sprang. One swift kick knocked the sword out of the knight’s hand. A lunge and a quick twist brought his arms down over the man’s head, locking him in a lethal embrace. The soldier coughed, choked, writhed to get free, but Griff held tight.

“P-please … Don’t—”

“You had your chance,” Griffin told him, long past mercy.

Using the combined strength of his linked hands, he squeezed his arm around the guard’s neck, cutting off precious air. The knight clawed at him in futile struggle. He sputtered, gurgled, then, finally, went utterly limp. Griffin
released him to retrieve a dagger that was sheathed on the man’s belt. He maneuvered the thin blade into place and sliced through the bonds at his wrists, then grabbed up the knight’s sword and mount as well.

With the rest of the Hexford guards gone some time in the opposite direction, Griff headed back toward the path and sped off, determined to catch up to Isabel and the duplicitous Father Aldon.

The sun was nearly at its zenith before Father Aldon finally called for the first rest. They had traveled all morn, a dogged trek that carried them some leagues away from Hexford, following a westbound course of the priest’s own design. Though Isabel welcomed the reprieve from her saddle’s hard seat, the longer they tarried at their refreshment and rest, the more anxious she became. She was exhausted and emotionally drained, simply eager to be done with the journey. Eager to be done with all of this.

She had spent the past few hours trying to convince herself that she had made the right decision, that parting company with Griffin was the best thing to do for both of them. The safest, most sensible solution. Indeed, it was the only solution. For if her heart ached for losing him now, what might it have done if they had completed the trip to Montborne together, then faced the inevitability of parting? She did not think she could have borne that brand of pain.

As it was, she could hardly keep her thoughts from straying to Griffin, to wondering where he had gone after they spoke so heatedly, and as well, what he would do now that he was no longer burdened with her. She tried to busy herself with thoughts of Montborne, thoughts of Maura and their reunion that was soon to come. But none of that, not even Father Aldon’s studious, queerly condemning stare could dissaude her mind from returning to thoughts of Griffin. She could not stop herself from missing him.

“You should eat something, my lady,” the priest said,
those silvery eyes watching her like a falcon sizing up a field mouse. “I daresay you look a trifle pallid.”

“I am merely … tired,” Isabel answered, searching for a word that would explain her prolonged sullenness.

“Very well, eat or rest,” he told her with a dismissive flick of his wrist. “Whatever will put some color back into your cheeks.”

At that moment, one of their armed escorts from Hexford strode up to where Isabel and the priest sat. “The horses will need an hour or so before we continue on to Derby, Father. The weather looks clear, so if all goes well we should reach the shire before nightfall.”

“Excellent,” he replied.

Isabel watched the knight walk away, then she faced Father Aldon. “What is in Derbyshire?” she asked, this being the first she had heard of the apparent planned stop.

“Nothing you need fret about, my child.”

She did not trust his subtly patronizing tone, or the strange little smile he tried to hide behind the rim of his cup as he took a sip of his wine. Suddenly, Griffin’s words of caution in Hexford’s solar came back to her …

You trust him—a man you know nothing about—more than you trust me?

Looking at Father Aldon now, Isabel was not sure she trusted him at all. He had seemed so kind in Hexford’s chapel, so understanding. So willing to help.

Too willing, Isabel was beginning to think.

She considered the gown of fine sendal that the priest had insisted she wear for the ride, the dove-white color and delicate gold braiding at the hem and neckline seeming more fit for court than travel. Even her shoes winked with shiny metallic threads. She had been made to dress like a bride on her way to the altar, an observation that did not seem so alarming before, but now, in light of where she was heading—to Derbyshire, a favored lair of Prince John—Isabel weathered a prickle of ice-cold anxiety.

Was she garbed as a bride … or a sacrifice?

“You mentioned last eve that you had arranged a special escort for me, Father,” Isabel said, interrupting the old priest’s enjoyment of a chunk of aromatic cheese. “Does this escort await in Derbyshire?”

He looked up from his food, his wiry brows rising on his forehead. “Yes, child. We will be met there, just as I said.”

“By whom?” she questioned, heedless of her challenging tone. “Dominic of Droghallow, or Prince John himself?”

Father Aldon nearly choked on his mouthful of crumbly cheese. He started coughing, his lined face turning red, his hand clawing out to clutch his cup of wine. He took a long swallow, then, when it appeared that he could breathe again, he leveled a watery-eyed glare on Isabel. “I am pledged to serve my liege, my lady. I must act in accordance with the prince’s best interests.”

“The prince’s best interests? I thought you were pledged to serve God.”

The old priest merely chuckled at her hot retort. “Perhaps the horses are rested enough to continue on after all,” he remarked casually, snapping his fingers to call forth one of the knights. “The lady is growing fatigued with our company, I fear. Saddle our mounts so that we may be on our way, will you?”

The soldier obeyed without question, carrying out Father Aldon’s orders as if he knew the priest’s commands came on higher authority. Isabel watched the guardsmen prepare the horses, mentally berating herself for not seeing Father Aldon’s duplicity sooner. Cursing herself for placing her trust in anyone besides Griffin.

Dieu, and what of Griffin? Isabel thought with a sudden, sinking dread. Had her foolishness endangered him as well? She prayed not. Hopefully he was leagues away from Hexford by now, well out of Dom’s reach and following his
own path. Just as she would have to follow hers, by way of Derbyshire, it would seem.

She mounted up as directed, being careful to appear somewhat cooperative while inwardly she watched her escorts’ every move and plotted her best odds of escape. With three of them against her, two of them armed to the teeth, she would never elude them on the road. And to wait until they arrived at Derbyshire would be the gravest folly.

Factoring out and discarding nearly a half dozen hazardous plans, Isabel had all but given up hope when suddenly she heard something that made her pause. Someone was calling her name. It was a distant sound, so faint she wondered if she had really heard it at all. She turned to look behind her and then she saw him.

Griffin
.

He was riding toward them at breakneck speed—a more welcome sight Isabel had never seen in all her days. Her heart elated, relieved beyond words, she bit her lip to keep from crying out her joy.

Father Aldon was far less enthused. He hissed a surprisingly vivid curse the instant his gaze lit on Griffin. “Get rid of him,” he ordered the Hexford guards. “Now!”

“No!” Isabel cried. She turned to see the priest’s savage expression, horrified by the murderous intent she saw gleaming in his eyes.

“Damn it,” he growled. “What are you idiots waiting for? Somebody kill the bastard already!”

One of the knights reached for his crossbow and began to load it.

Isabel’s heart lurched when she realized the guard’s intent. “No!” she cried. “Oh, God, no! Leave him alone! Don’t hurt him, I beg you!”

“Do it!” Father Aldon commanded.

“He’s too far away,” the bowman complained as he took aim on Griffin’s approaching form. “That’s it, keep coming, ye bastard. He’ll be close enough in a moment.”

“Griffin, no!” Isabel shouted, pivoting back to face him and heartsick to see him galloping forward so urgently. “No, stay back!”

“Shut her up,” the priest ordered.

When the other guard moved to knit her in, Isabel jerked her horse’s reins and wheeled the beast around. The knight made a grab for her, but she eluded his reach, dodging away when he swung his arm out to snag her.

“Griffin!” she cried. “Turn around! You must go back!”

With a burst of sheer determination, Isabel broke out of the guards’ tight ranks. She slapped the reins against her palfrey’s flank, sending the horse into a dead run.

“Get her!” Father Aldon bellowed. “God’s blood, get the both of them, damn you!”

Isabel rode as if her very life depended on it. In truth, it did. If anything were to happen to Griffin, she would simply die. She had to save him. “Griffin, go back!” she screamed, panicked to the depths of her soul.

Behind her some untold yards, she heard the Hexford knight’s dooming words: “He’s close enough. I’ve got him now!”

Isabel’s heart was in her throat as her palfrey sped on. She kicked her mount into a hard gallop, feeling the landscape whiz past her in a breezy blur of color and eerie, expectant silence. Ahead of her, Griffin had finally hauled on the reins and pulled his mount to a halt.

But he did not turn away.

Heaven help him, but now he was just standing there, watching Isabel ride toward him. “Griffin, go back!” She rode harder, determined to reach him. Determined to spare him in whatever way she could.

Distantly, she heard the guard release the trigger, the staccato snap of the crossbow being discharged ringing like a clap of thunder in her ears.

She begged her horse to run faster, pleaded with God to deliver Griffin from the bolt’s lethal path.

Suddenly, she saw Griffin glance past her, saw his expression freeze and turn to stark alarm. She thought she heard him call her name, thought she heard him tell her to watch out. But she was not concerned for herself. He was all that mattered. She had to reach him in time.

Heaven help her, she had to.

Isabel raced on, close enough to see his face clearly now, close enough to see his fear, close enough to hear him say, “My lady! Oh, God, Isabel! No!”

She felt something strike her from behind, a breath-stealing jolt that knocked her forward against her palfrey’s neck. She felt the searing burn of torn flesh, the liquid heat of blood seeping out of her, trickling down her side. She felt her world tilt crazily, felt the ground come up beneath her, enveloping her in a blanket of fluffy, soundless darkness.

And then she felt nothing at all.

“No!”
Griffin’s anguished, animal roar tore out of him like a living thing when Isabel lurched forward and fell from her saddle. He could not believe what he was seeing, could not accept what had just happened in that terrible moment.

Isabel had been struck.

The stunning horror of that realization took hold of him with icy talons as he spurred the roan and raced to the spot where she lay. He jerked back on the horse’s reins, staring down in fury and helpless despair at Isabel’s crumpled form as his mount reared beside her.

“Isabel!”

He said her name again—his voice strangled, urgent—but she did not so much as stir. She was so still. So lifeless. A dark, wet stain had begun to soak the grassy earth beneath her.

Blood.

Isabel’s blood, spilled to save him.

Damnation, she had done this—she had knowingly put herself in the arrow’s path—for him!

Griffin’s self-loathing was matched in that moment only by his profane contempt for Father Aldon, the man who had pledged his protection, then delivered Isabel into peril. Griff’s angry gaze snapped up, locking on the old priest. Aldon must have sensed the heat of that murderous stare across the distance of the field, for he immediately wheeled
his mount around and gave it his heels, pausing only long enough to shout an order to the two Hexford guards to finish Griffin off.

While the bowman nocked another bolt and took aim, Griffin charged forward. His stolen Hexford mount had the benefit of its dead owner’s shield fastened to its saddle; Griff made good use of the boon, yanking the kite of leather-bound wood free and raising it—just in time to deflect the arrow’s swift assault. He shouted a war cry as he drew his sword and bore down on his attackers.

The bowman who shot Isabel fell first. Griff smashed the crossbow up with the flat of his blade while the knight struggled to reload. The guard then fumbled for his sword, but it was an effort made too late to save himself. Griffin brought the razor-sharp edge of his weapon down hard into the man’s side, nearly cleaving him in two.

The second knight was on Griff at the same time, coming at him from his left, less than an arm’s length away, weapon slicing toward him. Griffin caught the movement in the corner of his eye and pivoted in his saddle, meeting the first blow with the broad face of the Hexford shield. The heavy blade skidded off the shield and narrowly missed biting into Griff’s thigh, an irritation that only heightened his rage. While the knight made to strike again, Griffin brought his sword around and thrust it forward, an unforgiving jab to the guard’s midsection. The Hexford soldier froze in shock, then toppled off his horse with a pained gurgle, likely dead even before he hit the ground.

The two knights dispatched to the hereafter, Griffin wheeled his huffing mount around and headed after the fast-retreating Father Aldon. It did not take long to catch up. The priest’s flowing mantle billowed behind him like a red velvet sail, and he threw a quick glance over his shoulder as Griffin gained on him. Griff leaned in, blood pounding furiously as he approached and came up alongside. He reached out, latching ahold of the rippling waves of
Aldon’s cloak and jerking the old man out of his saddle. Griff threw him down, then reined in his mount and leaped to the ground.

“Stay away,” the priest gasped as he rolled to his back and faced Griffin’s wrathful expression. He crossed himself, then held up his skinned, trembling palms in surrender. “Stay away, I say! I am a man of God!”