Yearning Heart (33 page)

“Art cold, my lady?” His voice sounded kind. “Perchance thou wouldst like a drink to warm the insides. The drink is good for such.”

“Nay, my lord,” Rebecca said. “I am warm.” She spoke boldly now. “Mayhap a drink is not what is good for thee. ‘Tis a pox on one's health I hear to use a quantity of such spirits.”

Young Henry laughed. “'Tis kind of thee to worry after my health, my lady, but I fear ‘tis late. Too late.”

He sighed and picked up the wine flask. Staring into the fire and mumbling to himself, he slowly moved the container back and forth, back and forth.

Rebecca stared, fascinated, hearing the faint slosh of liquid, her heart beating fast, knowing his unconscious shaking of the flask would further dissolve the drug she had put there. Let there be enough to make him sleep, she prayed. At times, it had taken but a small amount to cause her to doze when her body was not quite right, and other times, it changed little.

This potion must be extra strong else her work had been in vain, and her life perchance forfeited. She did not wish to die. If Stephen did not want her, Hugo and Margaret did, and she could make a good life with the gypsy band of minstrels. There were worse things.

But life without Stephen will be empty, she thought with sorrow.

Young Henry sighed and Rebecca looked at him. His head lay against a curved stone. His eyes were closed, mouth slack, and a thin trickle of liquid slid over his beard. He lifted his right hand with the wine flask in it, and tilted it. Rebecca watched his throat move as he swallowed once, twice, thrice, then his arm dropped, his fingers clasping the long flask neck.

* * * *

Rebecca awakened with a start. The fire had died down, and she was stiff with cold.

Across from her, the young king sat in the same place he had been when she dozed. His eyes were closed and he did not move when she stood over him. Stepping back, she looked about, bent to pick up the wine flask and shook it. It was empty.

How long had she slept? She could not guess if the other highwaymen would soon return nor if the one left as guard would come to where his master slept. Slept? Had the potion worked double with the wine? She wished it so.

Young Henry carried a knife, she knew. What other weapon was there? A goodly supply of stones. There had been bows with well-honed arrows, but there was not one near Henry. He had not carried one. It had been his fellow rogues who handled the heavier weapons.

Rebecca bent over Henry, her fingers probing lightly over his loose fitting cape. His shirt was leather, stiff and cold, and her hand slid easily around him, closing over the handle of a knife stuck into a sheath. Her face was close to his and she could smell the sourness of old food and wine and the musky scent of the drug.

I must remember to write Margaret and tell her of my deed should I escape from this mad scoundrel. Surely, there is a poem to be written of such adventures. If it were not for being frightened to death, ‘twould be comical.

The loud beat of her heart would surely awaken young Henry even from the drugged sleep. The sound seemed to echo around the stones and return ten-fold on the moaning wind.

The knife stuck, and Rebecca tugged. Henry grunted, and slapped at her hand. She jerked away, but as his arm flopped once more, she grabbed the weapon and worked it back and forth until it loosened. Slowly, she pulled, and came near falling as its full weight rested in her hands.

Rebecca backed away from the young king, looking around to see what there was she should take with her. Her cape lay where she had used it for cover at night, and she picked it up to fasten it beneath her chin. She had lost the black velvet muff and the lace wimple. Her hair hung limp over her shoulder, curly pieces sticking to her face where cold sweat had poured as she struggled with the knife.

She looked down at her feet. The rogue called William had removed her boots, and she knew not where they were hidden. Only heavy stockings protected her feet from the bitter cold, and they had been useless except she had her feet near the fire. It was not to be helped.

A leather string was attached to the wine flask, and Rebecca removed it, tying it about her waist. It could be useful should she reach the outside of this maze of stone rooms. She had no way of knowing how she'd get away from this place, but it was something she had to do. If she were to survive.

She gave one last look at the sleeping Henry and made her way past the flickering torches pegged to the stones, turning one way, then another, trying to keep a straight course. She did not remember their way in, only that she had been tired and half asleep when dragged through the narrow passageways, sometimes lifted over low stones, and then made to walk again.

Exhaustion soon made her slow her pace, and she leaned against a stone as tall as the second floor of New Sarum. She looked up at the awesome height, wondering at the appearance of such work long before any person now living had been on earth. Her imagination did not stretch far enough to think how a city of rocks emerged from nowhere, and only a little had been taught about this desolate place in Miss Emilie's class those long summers ago.

Rebecca shook herself, and then trudged on until, suddenly rounding a long stone, she saw light. Surprised, she realized it was not night, as she had supposed. Torch and firelight did little to relieve the cave dimness, not enough to tell day from night.

Her stocking clad feet made no noise on the dirt floor as she reached the opening. There was a guard, but where? Wishing to have both hands free to climb if need be, she had stuck the knife beneath the leather string around her waist. Now she removed the knife, holding it in both hands until she became used to the weight.

She was too short to see over the rocks, and she did not wish to walk into the open space where the guard might be waiting to pounce. She wished surprise to aid in her attack on the highwayman. Lifting her head, she studied the shape of a nearby stone, its side smooth, and its top almost out of sight. She moved slowly, rounded the towering rock, and slid her free hand along the surface. It stopped at a rough spot. She could get her foot into that and climb.

The knife went once more beneath the leather string, and she clasped the rock, pulling herself upward. Her unshod foot found another foothold and, slowly, she made her way around, stopping often to search for another ledge upon which to put her foot. The next crevice she found was shallow, and she held her breath as she inched her way around. She gasped as her foot slipped away and she hung precariously before reaching another ledge. With her eyes closed, she waited until her heart stopped pounding and her legs stopped trembling. Carefully, she eased forward, making sure she had a foothold before she turned loose of the one she was on. When she reached the corner, she heard breathing and hesitated before inching her head around to see what awaited her.

William sat on the ground against the stone, his legs out to the fire. Should he raise his head, he could not help but see her and ‘twould take but one lunge from his powerful arms to reach her.

What do I do now? she wondered. I've come this far, I cannot, must not, give up. She swallowed over the dryness in her throat. What would she do if he came at her with a weapon?

Do not imagine such, Rebecca, she told herself sternly. If thou art to escape this madman ...

Her foot slipped, her hands would not hold her, and Rebecca cried out as she tumbled, struck William's black head with her shoulder, and found herself sitting in his lap. William's mouth opened in astonishment and, for the moment, he did not move. It saved Rebecca. Her mind cleared, and she knew it was now that she must act.

She did.

Grabbing William's hair, she yanked him towards her, and then slammed his head backward against the stone. He groaned and his eyes crossed. Then, with a roar, he lifted big arms to grab Rebecca and dumped her onto the ground. Her hands scraped painfully on small stones, but her fingers closed on a large rock. As William came at her, she brought her arm around with all her strength and struck his temple.

He was on his knees, snarling, his teeth bared, when the rock hit. William slumped, falling half across Rebecca, knocking her flat to the ground. She pushed and shoved, struggling to get free of his tremendous weight. It took all her strength to move him away and crawl from under him. She sat still to catch her breath, listening. She wasn't sure if William was breathing, nor did she care. He was one more hindrance out of her way of escape.

Near the fire lay a knapsack. Rebecca opened it and took out a piece of stale bread. She took it along with a sheepskin flask of water. William's knife was stuck into the back of his belt, and she removed it to put it with the first one at her waist.

She looked at the big man lying with his face in the dirt. He had on boots, too large to stay on her small feet, but she could drape his sheepskin vest over her shoulders. It took long minutes to work the vest off him, and when she put it on her, the smell was not pleasant. But it kept out the icy wind whipping through the rock formations.

It was then she heard the horses. The highwaymen were returning, and William would be the first thing they saw when they entered the rooms. Her chance of escape would be gone when they discovered him. Yea, mayhap her life, too, when they found the young king asleep from herbs and wine.

Quickly, Rebecca turned, threading her way past high and low formations, through dim caverns where tall stones loomed above her, where flat crosspieces went from tower to tower. She did not stop to see if she could climb them, instead going away from the sounds of riders nearing the tombs.

She glanced over her shoulder, stumbled across a many-sided stone, and sat down heavily. Her side ached and her breath came in dry sobs. Her feet were numb with cold and felt as though they were bleeding from walking on rocks and rough ground. She stared at the rock, and then up at the tall pillar it rested against. She had conquered one of those stones—it seemed she was to be tested again.

She dragged herself upward, crawled over the lower rock and, standing on tiptoes, caught a ledge to lift herself. She moved her feet into grooves, held on tightly, and then moved her hands an inch at the time until she felt the flat top. She had not the strength to pull her body over the edge. Exhaustion drained her, left her weak and unable to climb up or down. Her cheek rested against the rough surface, and tears slid down her cheek.

She would never see Stephen again. Nor Aubin. Nor Tor and Bundy, the clumsy stable boy. Not even Malvina whom she swore she did not care for. Just now, she would give her all to see them.

Even Papa.

Rebecca's eyes flew wide in astonishment and she laughed. If she were so bad off as to wish to see Papa, there must be a way out of this so she would not have to do penance, as the king would needs do. She would escape, and she would not want to see Papa. Richard, yes. Papa, no. Lady Elizabeth. Yes, she supposed, she might want to see her mother.

With renewed effort, Rebecca slid her foot upward until she found a small crevice. She stopped thinking that she would not accomplish that which she must, did not use weariness as an excuse to give up, and worked until she lay on the flat pinnacle. Motionless, catching her breath, she listened for the horses. There was no sound.

When she was able to move, she crawled to the edge and looked down. There, looking up at her was Stephen. His head was bound, but he was sitting straight astride a big black horse. Behind him was Aubin, and lined up among the huge stones were four horsemen wrapped in black so that she did not recognize them.

She was safe. She was being rescued by her beloved husband.

“Art hurt, Rebecca?” Stephen said.

“Nay. Only scratches.”

Stephen guided the stallion closer.

“Jump into my arms, Rebecca.”

It was far. Her voice was an unsteady whisper.

“I do not think I canst do it.” She wet her lips and fought against panic.

“No harm will come to thee, Rebecca.”

“No, Stephen, ‘tis frightening.”

Had she not put herself in danger to escape the highwaymen? Had she not fought one of them, drugged their leader, suffered bruises and scratches in her efforts to get back to Stephen? Was there not a limit to one's strength?

“Do as I say, Rebecca,” Stephen commanded. “We do not have time to waste whilst you cower.” He held up his arms. “Jump,” he ordered.

Even when my life is in danger, he must yell and order me to do as he wishes. Rebecca's eyes narrowed on the figure of her husband. He commands, thus he expects me to obey.

I hope I break both your arms, you unfeeling servant of the king.

She flung herself downward.

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Chapter Twenty-Four

Rebecca's body struck solidly in Stephen's arms causing him to grunt. Her head butted his chin, and blackness danced in front of her. Her cape ripped, and the skin on her arms burned as they grazed the cold sheepskin of Stephen's coat. She tasted blood as her teeth bounced against her jaws and lips.

“Rebecca?”

Stephen's voice was uneven, broken with emotion, as he whispered her name. But before she could look askance at his face, he said roughly, “Find a safe place behind yon taller stones whilst we finish our business here.”

He released her from his arms, and she stood by the prancing stallion, looking up at him.

“Stephen, the young king is asleep and William, one of his rogues, is sleeping from a stone at the temple. Two of them art missing.”

“Asleep? The young king is asleep? Then ‘twill be no fight to capture him. What happened to William?”

“I hit him with a stone.”

“Thou?”

She grew impatient.

“There was naught else to do, my lord. Let us leave here.” She looked around and shivered. “It is a dark place filled with shadow demons.”

Stephen got down from the horse to stand beside Rebecca. He wanted to take her in his arms, wanted to hold her tight just to make certain she was safe. His fingers ached to circle the slender throat where he could see scratches, longed to touch the bruises on her arms. Anger surged through him at the thought of someone wounding her. His feelings would wait until a later, more convenient time.