Lord of Vengeance (15 page)

“Ye ever done this before in yer life, girl?” Agnes asked without looking up from her work.

“Nay,” Raina admitted.

Agnes let out an impatient-sounding sigh. “Well, 'ere.” She shoved a chunk of soap in Raina's direction. “Swipe this over the dirtier parts then rub the cloth between yer fists, like this.” She demonstrated with vigor and waited for Raina to do the same.

Raina sighed heavily, then did the same, passing Agnes on her way back down the bank. The old woman flashed her a nearly toothless grin and began to whistle, clearly enjoying her superior role. The clanking of weapons in the bailey provided a strange accompaniment to Agnes's cheery tune, the sound amplifying and echoing off the crumbling curtain wall that hid the soldiers from view. Raina dropped the clean tunic on a patch of grass and bent to retrieve another to wash. It was then that the realization dawned on her.

If the curtain wall hid the bailey from her view, it also shielded her from Rutledge's watchful eye.

Clutching the tunic to her breast, she peered cautiously at the wall-walk. Only one guard stood sentry near the gate and he looked to be preoccupied with the goings-on in the bailey. Raina's heart began to beat a hopeful tattoo in her breast.

Or did he rather think she'd not have the nerve? Perhaps he felt Agnes's presence was assurance enough. Raina cast a wary glance over her shoulder and grinned.

Agnes, so engrossed in her washing and her song, would likely not miss her until she was deep into the woods. And with Agnes's stubby legs and burdensome girth, she would never be able to catch her even if she did set off in pursuit. Thank the Saints, but it appeared she might yet be free!

Raina tossed the tunic to the ground and made to dash for the cover of the woods.

“Milady, I would not.”

The adolescent male voice halted her in her tracks. Shoulders slumping in defeat, she turned to face Rutledge's squire. He looked at her almost apologetically from atop his grazing palfrey. Agnes's whistling had since stopped and she now stood in the water up to her thighs, her hands on her hips and a murderous scowl on her face.

Raina's mind worked quickly to form a reasonable explanation for her behavior. “I--I was only seeking a moment of privacy, my lord.” She smiled warmly on the blushing squire.

“Let 'er tell it to Lord Gunnar, lad,” Agnes called from the pond. “'E'll give 'er a moment of privacy, I warrant.”

The squire frowned pensively, pursing his lips. “Mayhap she's right,” he said at last. “Milord sent me here to guard you. He should be made aware of your attempt to escape--”

“Escape?” Raina feigned surprise at his accusation. She stepped closer to him, lowering her voice to a suitably embarrassed whisper. “I assure you, my lord squire, I meant only to relieve myself. I beg you spare me--and indeed, yourself--any further humiliation and do not make mention of this misunderstanding to your lord.”

By this time, Agnes had lumbered up the bank to where they stood, her skirt soaked and dripping water in a steady stream where it splashed on her wide, ham-like feet. “Ye'll get a terrific floggin' fer this, wench,” she said with a malicious, eager little grin.

Raina looked pleadingly at the squire, whose own expression told her that Agnes was likely correct in her assumption.

“She says she sought only to relieve herself, Agnes,” the squire said. “I see no need to alert milord of that.” He had clearly attempted to sound manly and authoritative, which made it all the more endearing to Raina when his voice cracked.

“Is that so?” Agnes challenged. “Why then, don't keep 'er waitin', Alaric! Go, and see to it she does 'er business so she can get back to 'er work.”

The squire looked from Agnes to Raina, then back to Agnes again. His mouth opened and closed, but it was Agnes who broke the silence.

“Oh, never ye mind,” she huffed, “I'll take 'er meself. A glimpse of 'er bare backside'd likely render ye witless anyway.” She seized Raina by the elbow as if to haul her bodily into the thicket.

“Nay, wait,” Raina cried. “I no longer feel the need to go.”

Agnes snickered. “Can ye credit that, Alaric? Comin' up on 'er like ye did, ye must 'ave scared the urge right out of the poor thing.”

Raina looked to the squire. “Please, I'd rather finish my work and be done with it.” He bit his lip thoughtfully, then nodded his agreement.

“I still says she needs a taste of the lash,” Agnes muttered, then stormed back down into the water, leaving Raina standing beside the squire's mount.

“Not a word to him?” Raina pleaded. The squire broke her gaze and looked down at his hands, seemingly unable to confirm what might amount to a betrayal of his lord's trust. Raina reached up and touched his hand lightly. “I won't forget your kindness, Alaric.”

That said, she bent to retrieve another tunic from the pile and joined Agnes in the pond. Several times she ventured a curious look over her shoulder and found the squire watching her intently from his position at the crest of the bank. She smiled at him on one occasion and his cheeks flamed nearly the color of his hair before he looked away.

For the remainder of the morning, Raina made a point of smiling at him often and attempting to engage him in conversation each time she made the trek back up from the water. Not only did his pleasant nature make the time pass more quickly, but it also took her mind away from her hands, which had begun to show their abuse after she had washed the first couple of tunics. She still had a mound of things to wash, and had deliberately put off touching Rutledge's braies to the last. She longed to take a rest, but Agnes told her their time for rest would come when their work was done.

At last she could take the standing no longer, and did indeed need to relieve herself. She went to Alaric with her request. He looked dubious.

“You may stand watch yourself or send Agnes after me.” She wiped her forearm across her sweaty brow. “'Tis a minor humiliation amid the rest, I assure you.”

Alaric exhaled a heavy sigh. “I'll not beleaguer your delicate sensibilities any further, milady. As you have given me your word, I warrant a few moments of privacy could do no harm.”

“Thank you,” she whispered and stepped through the brush.

Raina had to admire Alaric's chivalry and wondered how he managed to acquire it serving a lord as brash and bullying as his. Rutledge, the blackguard, likely would have taken great pleasure in degrading her further. She thanked the saints that he had sent his squire in his place this morn.

Finding a likely enough spot a few yards into the thicket, Raina lifted her skirts and hunkered down. She had no idea how tired her legs were until she tried to squat and nearly toppled over. She broke her fall, but in so doing, thrust her hands into a patch of nettles. An instant, itchy rash bloomed on her palm and wrists, made all the worse by the raw condition of her skin.

She scratched at the fine, nearly invisible hairs now lodged in her skin and swore an oath under her breath as the white bumps began to rise. Nettles! Next to impossible to remove, they were even harder to endure. She wiped her hands in her skirts, moaning when the friction only worsened the itch.

Alaric's voice called out to her. “Milady? Are you ill?”

She couldn't answer. Her hands throbbed and she just wanted to be home, away from this place. Damn Rutledge. If not for his edict, her hands would not be raw, and she would not be picking nettles from them. He was fast becoming the very bane of her existence. Would that she could give him a taste of his own medicine. If only she could find a means of causing him even the smallest measure of the discomfort he was causing her. What joy she would find in his pain, what sweet satisfaction!

“Milady, if you do not answer, you leave me no choice but to seek you out!” Alaric's panicky voice was soon joined by Agnes's grim prediction.

“I shudder to think what Lord Gunnar'll do if ye've let 'er get away, lad.”

Raina suddenly stopped scratching her palm and looked over her shoulder to the generous patch of nettles where the germ of an idea took root.

Discomfort he prescribed, then discomfort would he get.

An untamed smile grew wide on her face, and she nearly burst out laughing with satisfaction as she quickly collected a good number of the leafy stems and concealed them within the folds of her skirts.

By the time Alaric and Agnes had crashed through the bracken, Raina was standing up and brushing herself off, her expression serenely innocent.

“I said I'd be along in a moment,” she declared as she sailed past them.

Chapter 10

“I think I am in love.”

The solemn statement hung in the air for an overlong moment before the knights gathered around the trestle table burst into laughter. Alaric looked up from his cup of ale and frowned.

“Again so soon, lad? Or dare we think you should love the same girl for more than one week at a time?”

“'Tis not like that,” he said, shaking his head. “This time I am certain.” The men laughed harder; someone beside him patted his head as if he were a pup.

“Poor Alaric, his lance goes stiff an' he credits he's in love! Pray, someone teach him the difference!”

“Odette could teach him,” one man supplied. “She's schooled her share of lovelorn virgins.”

“Laugh all you like, you grizzled sots,” Alaric charged. “You'll be choking on your gibes when you see that I am telling the truth.”

Burc sliced his hand through the air to calm the laughter and lowered his voice to mocking seriousness. “Tell us, lad, who is the misfortunate wench this week?”

“She's no wench, you great bag of ill wind. She's a lady. The most beautiful lady I've ever laid eyes on.”

Burc stroked his jaw. “Ah, and where is it ye spied this...woman of such legendary beauty?”

Alaric stared into his mug for a long moment, then casting a furtive glance over each shoulder, he leaned in and whispered, “She is here, in this keep...the lady, Raina.”

Burc's face split into a wide grin and he let out a guffaw. “Saints' blue bloody balls!” he barked. “That wench is no lady. Why, 'twouldn't surprise me in the least if she were not already Rutledge's whore--”

Alaric drew his dagger and lunged across the table at the big knight. “Withdraw that comment, Burc, or feel my blade rent your gullet where you sit.”

The other men stilled but Burc remained unaffected, even chuckling, despite Alaric's grave tone. “Bloody Christ! Methinks ye are in love, lad. Only a stricken fool would be so willing to toss his life away in the name of a wench's virtue.”

Alaric moved closer. “Withdraw the comment, you fat ugly bastard!”

* * *

Gunnar entered the hall and immediately spied his squire atop the table, his blade at Burc's throat.

“What the devil is going on here?” he bellowed.

“Seems your squire fancies himself in love with your hostage,” Burc supplied, casually sweeping Alaric's blade away from him with the back of his hand. “I was advising him of the folly of the notion.”

“Indeed. Alaric, a word if you please.” As Gunnar crossed the hall to the dais, Alaric resheathed his dagger and made to follow. Gunnar pulled aside an x-chair and motioned for Alaric to sit beside him on the dais. “I would hear your explanation of the foolery I just witnessed.”

“'Twas much as Burc said, milord. He made a comment about a lady that I could not allow to go unchallenged.”

“My prisoner.”

“Aye, milord, Lady Raina. He said she was a--that she was your--” He flushed, his gaze dropping to his chewed-off fingernails. “I could not abide his maligning her.”

“And that was how you chose to handle it?”

Alaric looked up at him in confusion. “Milord, have you yourself not said that no man has the right to disparage a lady's honor? That 'tis a man's duty to protect a lady and her reputation?”

Gunnar exhaled and ran a hand over his face in frustration. He should have known his words would come back on his squire's lips to haunt him. He looked into Alaric's expectant gaze. “I...might have said something to that effect at one time or another.”

“Aye, that you have, milord. You may think I don't listen to your advice, but I do.” Alaric sat up straighter on the stool and brought his fist to his chest. “I take it to heart.”

“So it would seem,” Gunnar mused.

“Besides,” Alaric continued, “Burc is a pox on the arse of mankind. 'Twould have been a favor to us all if I had split him wide open.”

“You would have likely gotten yourself killed, lad. Burc is a pox, I'll grant you that, but he is also one of my most skilled men and I can ill afford to lose him now. He was likely needling you, merely trying to goad you into tangling with him.”

“Would you not have done the same thing as I, milord?”

Gunnar chuckled despite himself, slapping Alaric heartily on the shoulder. “Aye, I warrant I would have at that. But tell me, what interest have you in my prisoner?”

His squire's cheeks flushed crimson. “I...” He straightened his shoulders, running a finger around the collar of his tunic. “I...I fear I love her, milord.” He met Gunnar's gaze, the youth's expression very grave.