Wicked (31 page)

“Sofia!” Sister Agnes came
scurrying around the corner of the infirmary, her plain woolen scapular clutched tightly in her fists, grape leaves stuck in her linen wimple from where she forgot to duck under the thick vines of the arbor.

She was still out of breath as she stood before Sofia, who was soaking her sore wrist in a warm bath of herbs and salts.

“Sister Judith wants you to come right away!”

“Why?”

“I do not know. A rider came up to the gates. It matters not. She said to come now. Quickly.”

Sofia frowned, took her hand from the water bath and stood, wiping the water on the soft leather of her chausses.

“Hurry!” Agnes turned and scurried off again like the mice that lived in the hole near the chapel’s altar, her small feet taking three steps to Sofia’s long, lithe strides.

Sofia moved with ease and ducked under the arbor when she saw Agnes’s wimple snag on a vine. The little nun slapped a hand over it and never missed a step.

The last time Sofia had been called with such urgency had been when her skills were needed. Robert the Slater had been accosted by thieves. She wondered what was amiss now, and hoped it would not involve her sword hand, for she had fallen on her wrist the day before and jarred the bone. Her grip on the sword hilt was weak and puny.

Agnes pulled open the oaken doors to Judith’s office. “Here she is, sister.”

Sofia walked through the doors, frowning. “What is so urgent?”

Judith stood, bracing herself with her one hand flat on the table before her. In her other hand was a rolled up piece of parchment tied with leather strings. “This.”

Sofia took it, then shoved the string aside and saw the de Clare falcons stamped into the dark wax seal. Her heart picked up speed and her breath stayed in her chest for a moment.

She glanced at Judith, who stood waiting, then Sofia exhaled and broke the seal.

I am coming for you. Be ready.

Sir Tobin de Clare

She blinked, then stared at the message again. She inhaled five controlled breaths, then had to inhale five more.

“What is it?” Judith asked.

Disgusted, Sofia tossed the message onto the table in front of Judith, who picked it up, squinted for the moment it took to read it, then lay it on the table top. “You are leaving us.”

Sofia cast a quick, surprised glance at Judith, the woman who was so close to her. The woman who made her what she was. The woman whose mind was as sharp and ready for battle as was Sofia’s. She was a kindred spirit, this great lady with the scarred face and the broken hip. A person who made a mark on Sofia’s life in a way that few people ever could or ever would again. That she was leaving her mentor, this wise old nun, had not been Sofia’s first thought, and she felt some guilt over that. But she was so angry, truly angry.

“I shall miss you terribly, Judith. Surely you know that?”

“Aye, child.” She cleared her throat.

They exchanged the same look, one that would have told anyone how very close these two women had become.

“Now, now,” Judith said gruffly, shuffling some things atop the desk. “’Tis not as if we shall never see each other again.”

“Aye. I suppose not.” Sofia just stood there for a lost moment, then she looked at the message, scowled and planted her hands on her cocked hips. “I do not believe him. Do you?”

“What, my dear?”

“Not one word from him for all this time and then he sends me this!” Sofia waved her hand at the parchment and stood there, fuming. “Look here.” She jabbed her finger into the signature. “He even signed his full name and title. His
title
. As if I wouldn’t know who he was!”

Wisely, Judith seemed to have nothing to say.

“I am coming for you,” Sofia mimicked. “Be ready. Is he not the greatest of courtiers, the most chivalrous of knights? Pah!”

Judith had to chuckle. “He does not appear to be a man of sugary words.”

“Arrogant lout . . . ” Sofia muttered.

“Well, you haven’t much time, child. The rider who brought it said the arrogant lout was but half a day’s ride from here. I suggest you go get your things together.”

Sofia was staring off at something . . . thinking. “Aye . . . ” she said by rote. After a moment she turned to leave, but walked back and snatched the parchment off the table. “I shall take this with me. If nothing else to remind me of how perfectly romantic my future husband can be.”

Judith chuckled.

Sofia turned. “’Tis not all that amusing, you know. Not to me.”

“Nay. I imagine ’tis not.” But Judith was still laughing. “To you, dear.”

Sofia turned and closed the door on Judith’s grinning face, then she stormed down the narrow walkways to her room. She slammed the door almost as hard as she wanted to slam Tobin’s head. She pressed her back to the closed door and glared at the room. “Damn him!”

She pulled the message out and stared at the words again, then crumpled it up and threw it across the room. She paced back and forth like a caged animal, then she stopped, crossed her arms and stood there, thinking, tapping her foot.

After a second she turned and looked at the note wadded up in the corner. Her eyes narrowed for the longest time, then she smiled wickedly and said, “I shall be ready all right, Tobin de Clare. But will you?”

Tobin came to the
edge of Charnwood Forest, where a small brook washed over smooth gray rocks and ran in a rush down through the high grass where it disappeared into a small rise. He reined in and dismounted, then let his horse drink its fill, while he knelt on one knee and filled a skin with fresh water. He tied it off and strapped it to his saddle, then walked back and squatted down. He bent low over the rocks, cupped his hand and took a long, cool drink.

’Twas hot for October and he could feel the dust of the road clinging in a light crust to his cheeks and chin. He removed his soft woolen cap and tucked it under his arm, then slapped cool water over his face. He blinked a few times to let the water clean his dry eyes and wiped them with his sleeve.

His hair fell sloppily over his damp brow, so he dipped his hands back into the brook and brushed his damp fingers through his hair until it was back from his brow and ears. He dropped some cool water on his hot neck, then stood, stretched and yawned loudly.

He took a few deep breaths and placed his cap back on his head at a cocked angle.

He took two steps.

A whining, whoosh of air snatched his cap right from his head.

Tobin swore under his breath and ducked down behind his horse, using it as a shield before he turned and looked behind him.

His hat was stack into a tree trunk by an arrow, one which was still shuddering from momentum.

He slowly drew his sword, then shifted so he could look about him.

There was pure silence. No sound at all.

Tobin waited, his ears sharp.

Nothing.

He crouched down, grabbing the reins, and he moved his horse along with him as he went toward the shelter of some nearby trees. Sword in hand, he slipped behind a huge oak, pressing his back to the trunk as he peered around.

He moved with stealth from tree to tree, sword up and ready, his eyes darting this way and that, twisting and turning from spot to spot. It took a while to go over the immediate area, but he did.

There was nothing. Not even a sign that the archer had been there. ’Twas eerie and not too comforting. The next arrow could be in his heart.

Finally after checking every tree and bush and rock in the area, he was certain he was alone. Disgusted, he sheathed his weapon, walked over, braced his boot on the trunk and with both hands and pulled the arrow from the tree. Scowling, he stuck his cap back on his head.

“Damn . . . ” He stood there for a moment, knowing he had wasted plenty of time. Too much time. Merrick and his men would be much closer now.

He did not choose to wait for them. He could surely handle one archer. ’Twas probably a lad out to pluck a pheasant and he decided to make some mischief.

So he remounted and rode into the forest, but he was more careful as he rode, using his instincts as well as his eyes to scan for trouble.

’Twas not long till he came to a small clearing, where the forest went up a ridge and the road widened and moved up the hillside.

A sudden and sharp glint of sunlight off metal blinded him for a moment.

He pulled his sword.

At the top of the rise was a lone, mounted knight blocking the road. His mail was darkened, not polished like his unmarked helm. He wore half armor, but no markings on his black tunic, just one black plume that extended from the top of his helm.

The visor was up, but from this distance he could not see the man’s eyes. The warhorse beneath him was stomping and blowing, anxious for a charge, but the knight seemed unfazed. He raised one gauntleted hand and snapped down his visor in challenge.

Tobin drew his sword and held it high. “A de Clare!” he shouted into the tense air and kneed his mount forward.

The knight drew and charged.

Their mounts’ hooves pounded and pounded over the hard dirt of the road.

Tobin watched the knight, looking for weakness in his seat. There was none.

The horses drew closer. Closer. The leaves on the trees were shaking. His heart pounded in his ears. He readied his sword. He would slice downward. Catch him off guard and early.

Then he saw it—the weakness. The knight was holding his sword lower, the hilt not far from his waist. Too low. Bad form.

Tobin smiled.

The knight came toward him.

They were barely a foot apart.

“Your mistake!” Tobin shouted and swung his weapon downward.

But the knight’s arm shot up so fast that Tobin missed it. Their sword hilts locked. Something he had never seen.

It threw him a hair off balance. He clamped his knees tightly on the horse.

But the man shoved him. Hard.

Tobin flew from his saddle. He felt the air, then hit the ground so hard his teeth clamped down on his tongue.

He tasted blood.

But not as much as he wanted blood. He shook his head and leapt into an attack stance, knees bent, sword high. Feet moving. Ready.

But the knight had ridden back to the top of the road. He stopped and faced Tobin. He raised his sword high, then opened his visor and looked down at Tobin, standing there feeling foolish and trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

A second later the knight wheeled his horse around and disappeared over the hill, leaving Tobin standing there, dumbfounded.

Chapter 26

Sofia put her horse in a back stall, a precaution so Tobin would not recognize him. “There’s a good lad.” She stroked him, while he had his muzzle stuck into the grain bin on the wall, munching on oats.

“Together we exacted a fine revenge this day.” She chuckled, then drew her hand along his flank and over his rump before she left the stall and locked the gate behind her. She moved behind the eastern wall of the stables, whistling and seeing that image of Tobin sprawled on the ground . . . the perfect place for him to be—a low place. She laughed again.

Then came a loud bark of male laughter from nearby.

She slammed her hand over her mouth.

“Laugh all you want.”

’Twas Tobin’s deep voice. He sounded annoyed. Nothing unusual there.

“Your day will come, Merrick. You wait.”

Earl Merrick, too? She mentally groaned. Sweet Mary and Joseph! How much time had passed while she was gloating? She stood there, listening. She had little choice. They were but a few yards away.

“Unseated by some knight all in black?” Merrick howled again. “What a fine tale that is! Perhaps you fell on your head, de Clare. Blacked out. Black knight. Same thing.” He kept laughing. “On your ass in Charnwood Forest. Wait till Roger hears.”

Tobin used Sofia’s favorite curse word.

“Where’s your sense of humor, lad?”

“I don’t find this half as amusing as you do. Now leave me be if all you can do is bray at me. I’m going to find Sofia.”

“Damn . . . ” she whispered, then made a quick run for the back of the cloister. Her gauntlet hit the side of the wall and made a clunking sound.

She ducked down behind a cart.

“What was that?” Tobin paused, his hand on the main door to the convent.

“Probably some sheep. Pigs in the yard. Black knights. Ghosts. Witches. You know . . . the usual.”

“Go to the Devil.” Tobin pulled the door open, then held it. The two disappeared inside.

Sofia slipped into the kitchen building where Sister Katherine was working. “Sofia! Why are you in your armor?”

“Shhhh . . . ” Sofia did her best to cross the room quietly. She turned back and whispered, “Do me a favor, Sister Katherine, and bang those pots around. Make noise.”

Sister Katherine frowned, then shrugged and began to tap together the pots and pans. ’Twas a timid clanking, like distant bells. Not enough racket.

Sofia waved her hand up a few times, gesturing to raise the noise. The nun caught on, nodding vigorously as she crashed those pots and pans around something fierce.

At the door, Sofia paused for only a moment, then slipped through and moved in a half-run through the dining room, down the narrow hall and off to side where her room was.

She jerked open the door and slipped inside. Her heart was beating madly. She began to pull off her gauntlets, then her plate pieces on her chest and shoulders. The mail cowl joined them on the floor with a slinking sound as did the rest of her mail. She tore off the aketon and threw her gown on over her chausses.

She contorted her arm over her shoulder, wiggling her fingers as she tried to do the ties on her gown.

There was sharp knock at the door. “Sofia?”

Tobin! Damn . . . damn . . . damn!

She turned and dropped to her knees and shoved it all under her small bed. “I am coming!” she shouted loudly to cover the sound. She straightened.

“Sofia? ’Tis I, Tobin.”

As if she did not recognize his voice. She rolled her eyes. Or his title.

“Open the door, sweet.”