Elisabeth Hobbes - Redeeming The Rogue Knight

‘Stop! You can’t go up there!’

‘Why not? What are you hiding?’

Lucy faltered, desperately trying to think of a reason. Perhaps it was the talk of Lord Harpur and his wife that put the idea into her head and she blurted out the first thing she could think of.

‘My husband is up there asleep.’

The men paused and looked back suspiciously. Lucy hoped she had been the only one to hear Thomas’s sharp intake of breath from behind the door. The men exchanged a glance, then looked back at Lucy, eyes raking over her. She drew her kirtle high to her neck as if ashamed of what they might see, whilst at the same time contriving to push her breasts together with her wrists so that the full mounds were visible where the fabric dipped. The smaller man was leering openly, his eyes following and lingering on the shadow between her breasts. Good. If he was looking there, he was forgetting to search the inn, or examine the space behind Lucy too closely.

‘So it wasn’t sleep that kept you from answering straight away.’ The dark man laughed, finally raising his eyes to meet her face. ‘Why was it you who came down rather than him?’

‘My husband has a fearsome temper,’ Lucy whispered. Tears sprang to her eyes as the composure she had somehow maintained throughout the evening began to crumble. She edged around the room to the bottom of the stairs so that the men had to turn to keep her in view, their backs to Thomas’s hiding place.

‘Please don’t disturb him,’ she entreated.

The large man loomed over at her. ‘If I find you’re lying...’

He raised a fist and Lucy flinched. He lowered it again and peered at her face closely, his thick fingers lifting the hair at her temple. She recalled the bump on her head and lifted her fingers to it. The mark must be red and the man’s assumption was clear. Lucy looked at the floor, caring nothing that she had in one instant branded Sir Roger as the basest of husbands.

‘We’re going up anyway. You first.’

Almost in tears and unable to think of another way of preventing them, Lucy led them up the stairs. The men followed close behind her. She would be unable to warn Sir Roger, even if he had been in a position to defend himself. She stopped in the doorway. The oil in the lamp had burned almost to nothing and the room was in near darkness. Lucy hoped it would be enough to prevent the men recognising the occupant.

Sir Roger was lying where she had left him, the blanket tucked high beneath his chin and covering the arrow. He was unmoving and appeared asleep with his head lolling towards the window, though Lucy suspected he was unconscious. His right arm had dropped down the side of the bed and his left was tangled in his dark curls that spread across the pillow. Just in case he was conscious and pretending to be asleep, she spoke loudly, filling her voice with fear that she did not have to act.

‘See, my husband is sleeping. Please, kind sirs, don’t wake him. It will be the worse for me if you do.’

The smaller man sniffed deeply.

‘Sleeping? I think not.’

Lucy’s legs threatened to give way, but instead of pulling a sword and running them both through, the man gave a guffaw of laughter.

‘I can smell the wine on him from this far away!’

Drunk. Of course! Why had she not thought of that? The blanket was sodden with wine, as was the occupant. Lucy slipped across the room and knelt by the bed, blocking Sir Roger from view. She gathered the empty bottles in her arms. Bowing her head over them as if ashamed at least gave her the opportunity to collect her thoughts. It was possible this might just work.

‘You could be tricking us.’ The giant sounded less certain now he was confronted with the scene before him. ‘How do I know this is your husband?’

Lucy raised her head imploringly.

‘Who else would he be? Please, leave us alone,’ she begged. ‘I cannot bear the shame if this becomes known. My husband is a good man, but he cannot help himself.’

She began to cry in earnest, the tears falling freely down her face as her fear and exhaustion threatened to overwhelm her. As she wept she leaned slightly forward, knowing that it would give the men a perfect view of her full breasts and hoping that would draw their attention from examining Sir Roger too closely.

‘Lucy?’ Sir Roger mumbled, lifting his left arm. He attempted to fumble for her, but merely succeeded in clouting her across the shoulder. It did not hurt, but Lucy sensed the opportunity for further proof of his abuse and gave a small cry.

‘Just bring me my wine like the sweet, obedient dove you are. I need warming,’ Sir Roger crooned. His voice was thick with the effects of the painkilling draught. She looked round at him. Shadows played over his face giving him a demonic—and hopefully unrecognisable—demeanour. A lustful grin spread across his lips, making his face glow with life despite the sweat beading on his forehead and the pallor of his flesh. ‘Sweet one, my dove. I’ll never hurt you.’

His words sent her stomach tumbling, until she recalled he had most likely said something similar to seduce Katherine Harpur into bed. Lucy clambered to her feet, deciding a change of tone was needed. Still standing in front of Sir Roger, she wiped her hands violently across her eyes and stared coldly at the two intruders.

‘Are you satisfied?’ she asked angrily. ‘You see I am harbouring no rogues here. Is it enough I must parade my shame before strangers, or would you further question my integrity?’

The giant nodded slowly.

‘I still don’t like this,’ muttered his companion. ‘What is your husband called, mistress?’

Lucy opened her mouth. She could not call him Roger and reveal his identity, but an alternate name had not occurred to her. It would be too cruel for the deception to be uncovered when it was so close to success.

‘Henry,’ Roger slurred from behind her. ‘Leave my woman be!’

He dropped his head back and began to snore. Before she could wonder how Sir Roger had pulled the name from the air, or if his shout had been a coincidence or intentional, Robbie gave a shrill wail of alarm. He had been slumbering in his cradle, but for the second time in the night his home had been invaded and his sleep interrupted by strangers.

Nailed to the spot, Lucy watched her son clamber from his bed. Red-faced but half-asleep, he tottered across the wooden floorboards towards the bed. Pulling at his dark hair with his podgy fists, he looked around with unfocused eyes then, in a manner that Lucy would ever be grateful for, he did what he always did when he half-awoke in the night.

He tumbled on to the bed, tugging at the blanket until there was space to climb beneath and pulled himself up beside Sir Roger. The two men in the doorway looked at the bed where two dark heads now lay. Seeing her salvation Lucy exclaimed, ‘See! My son knows his father!’

That might have been the end of the matter in any case, but at that moment there was a commotion from outside. A voice shouted. Then another answered. The sound of hooves—two sets—grew louder as they neared the inn and diminished as they went past. Lucy had forgotten Thomas in her desperation to prevent the men discovering Sir Roger’s identity, but he had clearly been active while she had been engaged upstairs. He must have led the horses on foot along the road before mounting to give the impression they were riding past.

The two men lunged for the stairs in unison. Lucy raced after them, close on their heels, and slipped her way between them. For a moment the three bodies stuck at the top of the narrow stairs. She succeeded in tangling their feet between hers and wedging the giant back into the door frame, delaying them all reaching the bottom of the stairs. The door was closed and by the time they pulled it open and ran outside, the two horses were the size of Robbie’s toy cow, climbing the hill towards Mattonfield. Both horses were close together and heavily laden. One rider appeared oddly hunched over until Lucy spotted that the old sacking she had wrapped around the small apple tree had been removed. Thomas had cunningly contrived to give the impression there were two riders.