Suzanne Barclay - Knight's Rebellion

“Forgive my forwardness,” Ranulf said stiffly, frowning at her gloved hands.

Alys sighed. “’Tis I who should beg pardon, my lord, and thank you for not peppering me with rude questions about my gloves. The truth is, my skin is very sensitive.”

“Ah. You are wise to protect your delicate self from the elements. And to wear such a modest costume for traveling.” He cast an approving eye over her gray gown and matching cloak.

Made from wool of the cheaper sort, the garment was devoid of fancy trim and cut full to resemble the serviceable robes worn by the nuns. She would be living among them for several months and wanted to dress as they did. Also, she hoped to further some of her experiments with herbal cures. Though her mother had insisted she bring along a few velvets and silks…just in case…Alys had packed her simplest things for this trip.

“I want to thank you again for escorting me,” Alys said. “Especially since I know you must be anxious to return home and begin gathering evidence against your dreadful brother.”

“Not at all. Not at all.” He smiled that eager-puppy smile that had won over her parents when he’d proposed escorting her to the abbey. “I would climb the highest mountain, ford a raging river, to see you safe.”

Alys sighed. Merciful heavens, but his devotion and courtliness were annoying. For several reasons, she’d be glad to reach Newstead and bid her courtier farewell.

“Are you tired, my lady? Should I call a halt?”

“Nay.” Alys straightened in the saddle. She’d not delay the journey even for an instant. “I am fine.”

Lord Ranulf smiled like an indulgent auntie. “You have only to say if you are weary, and we will rest. Or I could take you up before me so you might—”

“Perish the thought!” Alys exclaimed.

Ranulf blinked, his smile faltering for the first time all day. “I assure you I meant no impropriety. I had hoped you looked upon me as a friend anxious to help you.”

What could she say? How could she explain that she’d sell her soul for but one embrace, one hug that wasn’t fraught with tension and apprehension? Alas, it was not to be. “You are a friend,” she said gently. “Had you not offered your help, I’d not be making the journey to Newstead till my. father’s leg was healed or one of my brothers free of responsibility.”

“They value you greatly.” Ranulf smiled and again edged his palfrey so close his mailed leg brushed her skirts. “I would gladly be more to you than a temporary guardian.”

Alys fought the urge to retreat. “What do you mean?”

“I should speak with your lord father first, I know, but we left so quickly there wasn’t time. I’d have you to wife.”

“You what?” she cried.

“I’d wed with you.”

“Oh.” Drat. “I—I am conscious of the honor you do me,” Alys stammered. “But it is not possible.”

He stiffened. “I grant an earl’s daughter could look higher, but I’ve two castles and am engaged in a venture that will yield me wealth beyond your wildest dreams.”

“It isn’t a matter of property or money.”

“Your father said you had the choosing.” He sounded faintly appalled. “Yet you’ve not found a man to your liking.” He grinned. “Till now. We deal well together, I think.”

“I am sorry, Lord Ranulf, but it is impossible.”

His smile developed a hard edge, and his eyes turned cold. “You would change your mind…in time.”

Not in a hundred years. Alys bit her tongue to keep the words back. “We will not have time. We part in a few—”

“I realized that. Which is why I decided we’d detour to visit my castle at Eastham.”

“What?” Alys’s heart raced. “You are kidnapping me?”

“Never!” he exclaimed. “Only giving you a chance to see what kind of life I can offer you.”

“But—” Alys was torn between fear and outrage.

“Milord.” Clive and another man pounded toward them from their places at the head of the column. “Egbert reports there are abandoned wagons up ahead.”

“Why trouble me to report some farmers have deserted their goods?” Ranulf snapped. “Can you not see I am busy?”

“But I think they are your wagons,” said Egbert, a chunky man with a wicked scar across his forehead. “The ones sent to London to fetch the winter supplies.”

“What? Was there evidence of foul play?” Ranulf’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the forest up ahead. “This is far from his usual range, but it may be Gowain.”

Egbert shuddered. “There was no one about. Not the guards sent from Eastham or the wagon drivers.”

“That makes no sense,” Clive muttered. “If Gowain, or some other bandits, had waylaid them, why leave the goods behind?”

“Because they heard us coming and took flight,” Ranulf replied. “Or…” His eyes widened suddenly. “Or they are still—”

A bloodcurdling cry cut off his words. Men sprang from behind the trees and rushed onto the road. They were roughly dressed in tattered tunics and hide boots, some mounted on shaggy horses, the rest afoot. Their weapons glinted in the dimness of the tiny glade. At their head rode a mail-clad warrior, his long black hair flowing from beneath his helmet, his sword aloft.

“Bastard!” Ranulf roared. Drawing his sword, he spurred forward, crying, “Take them. A hundred silver marks to the man who kills the bastard!”

Ranulf’s men surged after him, a great screaming tide of mail and muscle. The two groups met with enough force to shake the ground, then dissolved into knots of men striking at each other with blade and ax and mace. The clash of steel on steel, the shouts of the warriors and the shrieks of the wounded rang off the trees till they filled the air.

Left behind, Alys sat transfixed, her fists clenched so tight her bones ached. She’d seen the men of her family practice on the tiltyard and attended several court tourneys, but never had she imagined real war would be so horrible. She held her breath, watching as Ranulf and his opponent exchanged blows in the center of the chaos.

The focus of the fighting shifted like a restless tide, surging back and forth across the road and into the verge of the forest. Men began to drop from view now, outlaw and soldier alike slipping from sight beneath the dreadful thrust of shimmering steel to the flailing mass of hooves below.

The healer in Alys cried out to aid them. Instinct urged her to flee while she could. If Ranulf won, he’d press his claim for her hand. If the outlaws won, she might be in worse trouble. Either way, she was in grave danger.

Just then, a man crawled out of the fighting. Blood covered the side of his tunic. He held one arm against his body. When he was halfway to her, his strength gave out, and he collapsed in a heap.

Heedless of her own safety, Alys slipped from her mount and moved toward him. Kneeling beside him, she touched his shoulder with her gloved hand. “Let me see where—”

He rolled over, a stained knife clutched in one gory hand.

Alys gasped and jerked back as the blade sliced the air just shy of her ribs. “Hold! I’d tend your wound.”

His pain-filled eyes widened, then softened. “Sister?”

Alys debated for only an instant. If it helped him to trust her, she’d lie and claim to be the nun she obviously resembled. “Aye. I’m Sister Alys. Let me see…”

He flopped onto his back, eyes shut. “I’m done fer, I fear, Sister. If ye could give me the last rites.”

“Let me see.” She parted the bloody rent in his tunic and winced at the long, jagged gash. “It’ll want stitching.” She looked at the mass of fighting men. They surged over the roadway and into the forest, careless of anything in their path in their quest to kill. “We have to get away from here.”