Anita Mills (5 page)

“ ’Tis sacrilege!” Brother Amyas protested.

She swung around, fixing him with those strange, cold eyes again. “God gives me leave to tend to mine own soul, I think.” Looking down at him, she added, “I’d have the longest robe that can be found. Still, if ’tis too short ‘twill not be noted whilst I ride.”

“Nay, but—”

“I leave you and the reverend mother one hundred silver marks for your kindness.”

He gaped at the amount, then capitulated also, knowing further argument would only cost him the money. “Aye.” As a slow smile of triumph curved her mouth, he nodded. “Aye,” he repeated grudgingly. “ ’Twill be as you ask, lady. No doubt Lord Geoffrey does not raid this far, and it can be hoped the others will respect the veil.”

“Rannulf?”

The captain exhaled heavily, grumbling, “ ’Twould be more fitting to dress you as a monk, but aye—I choose Hugh. His horse has speed, and I’d not tarry on the road.”

“So be it then. I will see the Reverend Mother myself.”

Once again the stiff silk of her skirts brushed over the cold floor purposefully. The two men watched her leave with relief, for it was disquieting to see a mere woman carry herself so.

“She has not the meekness nor the piety required of her sex,” the abbot observed sourly. “How can such a one be daughter to Guy of Rivaux?”

“There are those who think her a changeling,” Rannulf de Coucy answered slowly, reflecting that he faced a miserable journey to Harlowe. “Count Reyner was said to call her ‘God’s mistake.’ ”

Amyas shook his head. “Nay, but He makes no mistakes, my lord.” Then, considering Elizabeth again, Amyas sighed. “ ’Tis a pity, is it not? God makes her beautiful, yet her tongue chases her beauty from a man’s thoughts. ’Tis a wonder that Lord Ivo did not beat meekness into her.”

“He dared not. Three castles and five thousand marks of silver went to Eury for her dowry. Even Reyner feared to harm her lest Count Guy should demand any of it back.” The captain’s mouth twisted wryly. “And in the end he lost it, for she proved barren.”

“Nay, a royal princess is not worth so much,” the abbot protested. “Surely—”

“Count Guy values his daughters as though they were sons—and this daughter he loves most of all. I know: he charged me to protect her with my life.” Rannulf stared at the doorway as though he looked into his future, then shook his head. “And as grievous as I find the task, I will.”

The sun rose higher in the sky, lifting the early mist with it. The morning, while still chill, was bright after days of sleet and rain, easing Elizabeth’s strained temper somewhat. Even the coarse woolen habit she wore did not weigh on her spirits, for she expected to reach Harlowe within two days’ ride. She’d see her grandmother again, and together they’d mourn Earl Roger.

A lump formed in her throat as she remembered the tall, straight grandsire of her childhood. Aye, but he’d been as powerful a lord as her father, having once bested Robert of Belesme himself in single combat. ‘Twas little wonder that the bards still sang of them, Earl Roger and Count Guy, for they’d been the only two men to face Belesme and live to tell the tale—or so ‘twas said. It seemed strange that her grandsire had done it, for he had always appeared a much gentler man than Guy. What had her father said of him? That his gentleness hid a fierce heart. That there’d been none other he’d have accompanied to take Belesme, none other he’d trusted half so well, and together they’d brought Count Robert low.

And now her father faced another, more desperate war, for this time if he lost he lost everything. Yet he’d dared to renew his fealty to Henry’s daughter, to the Empress everyone said had an arrogance to match her own. Forcing her thoughts from her fears, she wondered if Mathilda too found her temper a sword and buckler against those who thought a woman weak? By all accounts Geoffrey of Anjou was an unsatisfactory husband to the woman who’d once been Holy Roman Empress. Nay, but he could not be as unsatisfactory as Ivo of Eury, she reasoned.

She sympathized with Mathilda greatly, seeing herself in what she’d heard of Henry’s daughter. For had not the Empress also been returned childless to her father’s house? The difference had been the welcome: Guy was kinder than the king had been, for he’d let Elizabeth stay, while King Henry had wed his widowed heiress to a quarrelsome boy, putting policy above her wishes. The union was indisputably an unhappy one, for the Empress had left her young husband more than once, each time being sent back until she’d borne three sons to Anjou.

Well, that would not happen to Elizabeth. She was going to Harlowe, where she would show a worth of a different sort. She would prove her value to her father by holding the greatest of all his possessions for his heirs. And hopefully he would give no further thought to a second marriage for her.

“God’s blood, lady!”

Brought up short from her reverie by the panic in Hugh of Liseux’s voice, she looked up to see a column of armed men bearing down on them. And by the looks of it her habit was no protection at all, for their leader charged them, his mace swinging on its stout chain.

“Sweet Jesu, but we are attacked!” Rannulf shouted at her while drawing his sword. “Flee for your life!”

She needed no second warning. Spurring violently, she wheeled to run for the safety of the forest. The frightened animal reared, then bolted toward the trees, jarring her bones brutally. But she held her seat, outdistancing a cursing pursuer.

For a time it looked as though she and her two men would escape, but then archers, their bodies unhampered by the weight of mail, broke away and sped after them, loosing their bows. One arrow glanced off Rannulf de Coucy’s shoulder, but another struck his horse, unseating him. Elizabeth saw him fall, jerked her reins to turn, and circled back for her captain, ready to take him up. Disentangling himself, he waved and shouted for her to run.

“Save yourself, lady!”

“Nay!” she yelled. “Ride with me!”

But before she could reach the fallen man, one of the mesnie bore down on him with upraised battle-axe, and Rannulf had only time to lift his shield over his face.

Hugh of Liseux, who’d seen her turn back, wheeled also, leaning to grab for her reins. “There’s no time!” he shouted at her. “Leave him!”

“Nay!”

Before he could stop her, she tore the mace handle from the loop behind his saddle and swung it. For a moment he thought she meant to strike him, and he dropped her reins. Using her knees, she urged her horse toward one of the attackers, shouting he was a coward. Swinging the heavy spiked ball as she’d seen her brother do in practice, she landed a glancing blow to his helmet. He reeled but kept his seat.

Rannulf crouched, his sword braced, then as he was charged again he plunged his blade into the destrier’s unprotected chest. The animal screamed in terror, then fell, crushing his master beneath him. Rannulf scrambled toward her, grasping for her outstretched hand.

“Up! There’s no time! God’s bones, Rannulf, but you tarry overlong!” Elizabeth leaned toward him, trying to balance herself as he swung his body up. An arrow pierced his mail, lodging in it. He tried to dodge an axe-wielding knight and he lost his grip, slipping from her hand and rolling free of the horses as they were surrounded.

Not ready to die tamely, she wielded the mace menacingly and sidestepped her horse to keep her attackers at bay, shouting as she evaded them, “Miscreants! Bastards all! How dare you attack a bride of Christ? Knaves! Thieves!” Landing a blow that unseated one who sought to disarm her, she taunted, “Who else tempts hell this day? Afore God, but you shall be punished!”

Hugh of Liseux, who’d seen Rannulf fall, knew she would be taken, and in that moment decided to ride on. At best, he might discover someone to aid her; at worst, she would have to wait for Eleanor of Nantes to ransom her. He prayed she had the good sense to declare her birth ere they made, sport of her, for it did not appear that her veil would aid her now. If anything saved her, it would have to be Count Guy’s gold.

The small mesnie rode northward at a good pace toward Wycklow, the first of Lord Giles’ keeps this side of the Scottish border. And, despite the fact that this once they’d come into England in peace, there was an uneasiness amongst the men, an uncertainty whether Stephen’s safe conduct would aid them if they should be discovered. Nay, but too many of the English would rather see Giles of Moray’s head on a pike than his presence in the king’s council.

To a man, his borderers had favored ignoring King Stephen’s call to pay homage for the lands Moray had taken and held in England. But he’d gone, traveling through enemy lands, taking with him a small, unimpressive escort, hoping that Stephen’s price for recognition would not be high. Like King David of Scotland, Giles would hold his English lands legitimately if he could.

But the result had been a mixed one, for Stephen had not been fooled by his pretense of poverty. After all, did not the Lord of Dunashie also hold the keeps of Kilburnie, Wraybourn, and Blackleith, not to mention lesser manors, of King David? While he confirmed Giles’ lordship, the English king had asked a levy of thirty archers, fifty armed foot soldiers, and twenty mounted knights in service—half as much as Giles owed David for the greater lands he’d won in Cumbria and Lothian.

And now he had two liege lords certain to quarrel with each other over the disputed English succession. Aye, for already King David appeared ready to support his niece the Empress against Stephen the Usurper.

It was a bad business as far as the borderers were concerned, for they had little taste for fighting side by side with the English. And the sentiment was mutual, for in the north, there were those who’d far rather see Giles of Moray’s head gaping above a gate than consider him an ally.

But Moray kept his own counsel, leading his disguised escort to London to kneel at Stephen’s feet, saying only that Christ had ordered the rendering unto Caesar that which was Caesar’s. It made no sense to Willie, for why must they grovel for what they’d already taken? Sometimes there was no understanding his young lord. Did he somehow think that a king’s kiss gave him what his birth had not? Did he think the English baronage would accept him as an equal among them? A Scot born of a border brigand and his stolen high-born wife? Nay, but they would not.

Willie was the first to see Hugh of Liseux. “By the beard of God!” he exclaimed, raising his bow and taking aim at the rider racing toward them. “The fool comes straightway to us!”

“Nay!” Giles barked. “Stay your hand! Dead English pay no ransom!”

Reluctantly, his man eased the gut off the nock of the bolt, releasing the quarrel harmlessly into the hand that held the horn-ended bow. “Och, and I thought I had me one,” he complained mournfully. “I could’ve taken him ere he reached yon rock.”

A ripple of agreement passed down the line behind them. It had been too long since they’d enjoyed the sport of war, and many were restless. But Giles signaled a halt to the column, reined in, and waited. Behind him, Willie and the others rested their hands on their weapons, ready to take their prisoner. Someone amongst them voiced the hope it was a rich Englishman. Something ought to make the journey worthwhile.

Still intent on escaping from the ambush, and fearing pursuit, Hugh was unaware of the other mounted mesnie awaiting him. It wasn’t until he saw the sun reflected off the dozen or more old-fashioned pot helmets that he realized his error. His eyes took in the assortment of tattered tunics and mended mail that marked them for mercenaries at best and outlaws at worst, and he wheeled to flee from this new danger. A giant, his red hair streaming from beneath his helm like a Viking, spurred after his already tired mount, catching him ere he crested the hill again. The others followed, and Hugh knew he could not outdistance them.

Uttering a quick prayer, he, dodged the big man and made for the one he hoped was the leader, shouting breathlessly, “God aid us, messires! We are beset! They ravish a bride of Christ!” He came to a halt before the tall one whose mail appeared more polished than the others, and his flesh crawled as he looked into black eyes as cold as his mistress’s. Those eyes narrowed briefly.

“Where?”

“No more than half a league back, my lord!” Hugh gasped.

“And you fled, leaving a helpless nun?” One black eyebrow rose behind the steel, and there was a hint of sarcasm in the voice.

For a moment Hugh’s temper flared at the contempt he perceived. “We were but two men and one woman against thieves, my lord—I rode to seek relief for the others.” Then he mastered himself, and dared again to meet those cold eyes. “Your aid, sir knight, I beg in the name of God and Saint Agnes.”

Ordinarily, Giles of Moray would have been more inclined to take his prisoner, but even for him it was no light matter to abandon a religious. “Who allows a sister to travel in these times?” he demanded. “ ’Tis folly.”

Aware that the other man watched him intently, suspiciously, Hugh shook his head. “ ’Twas thought her habit protected her.”

“How many attack?”

“Twenty—no more than that surely.”

Turning to the giant who’d returned to his side, Giles’ mouth curved into a faint, wry smile. “What say you, Willie? Is saving a bride of Christ fair penance for your sins today?”

“Aye,” the red-haired man answered, grinning. “I’d nae mind sporting wi’ the bastards, I’d nae.” And as he spoke he reached for the axe that hung from his saddle, fingering it lovingly. “Peace wearies me. Aye, I’d nae see a holy lady harmed,” he added piously as an afterthought.

“Aye then,” his lord murmured as a shout of approval went up behind him. “You will ride in front,” he told Hugh. “I’d not be taken by treachery. And if ’tis a ruse, you will be the first to fall.”

Looking once again to the knight’s face, then back to the plain buckler he carried, Hugh nodded. As if the man read his thoughts, even the faint smile faded. “In England, mine enemies are many,” he said abruptly. “Lead the way, else we are too late.”

It was not until they were joined in a bone-jarring pace that Hugh recognized the strange way he’d pronounced “Willie,” for although he spoke as a Norman, he’d said “Wullie.” Once before when Hugh had come with Count Guy into England he’d heard such speech—from a marauding Scot. And he wondered if he delivered Elizabeth of Rivaux from one danger to another.