Sharon Schulze (11 page)

This journey had sent him on a different path than that he’d followed for a long time—the one he’d followed since the journey he’d made to l’Eau Clair from his home in Wales so many years ago.

After that hellish journey he’d first set his feet on the road to knighthood, to self-respect, to overcoming his weaknesses and becoming strong in both body and mind.

He’d do well to return to the course he’d taken up so long ago.

If he paid heed to his own advice, followed the way he’d laid out for himself, he knew he would not go astray.

Why was it, then, that the notion of living the life he’d made for himself made him feel hollow and alone?

P
reparations took longer than Padrig had expected to get everyone ready to travel, mounted and on the road. Still, they managed to set out before midday.

He hoped ’twould be an uneventful journey, but given all they had working against them before they even left, the likelihood of that seemed extremely low.

The logistics of getting everyone situated had been nightmarish. Trying to fit two grown men on a packhorse, with a saddle made for one, was difficult. When one of those men could barely hold himself upright, or had an arm or leg immobilized in a crude splint, it was damned near impossible.

Marie remained insensible throughout the entire ordeal of settling her in the saddle with Jock. Her body limp, her bruised head lolling against Jock’s shoulder, Padrig could not help but wonder how much worse the poor woman’s condition would be by the time they arrived at Winterbrooke Manor.

If she survived the trip at all.

Lady Alys woke shortly before they left, in a better
state than before she’d nodded off, thankfully. Her speech sounded normal once again, and it seemed she’d rested better with her arm back in its proper position, bound so she couldn’t move it.

She was unusually quiet, and gave them no argument over their arrangements for her. She simply nodded, and let Rafe lead her to her mare.

Her pleasure when she saw Arian and assured herself of the mare’s well-being brightened her face for a moment, the lone spark of joy she showed as they gathered their tattered group in the clearing.

They appeared a sorry lot, battered and bruised, their injuries ruthlessly revealed in the harsh light of day.

Yet despite their wretched circumstances, several of his men somehow found the spirit to tease each other and make light of their situation,

However, the sight of the canvas-wrapped body tied onto one of the packhorses—Owen, the man who’d been crushed in the initial fury of the storm—only added to the weary looks worn by all. Before they set out, they paused to pray for Owen’s soul—and for their own safe arrival at the haven of Winterbrooke Manor.

Rafe rode Lady Alys’s mare, with Lady Alys in the saddle before him. The horse’s lameness had eased overnight, leading Padrig to believe ’twas not so serious as to keep her from carrying them both.

Alys held herself upright, not depending on Rafe for support. How long she could keep that up, he’d no idea. From what he’d learned about Alys in the past day or so, he wouldn’t be surprised if she managed it for the whole trip.

God knew, she was stubborn enough!

Padrig ended up on foot at the end of the procession,
leading his gelding. The man who rode the horse could remain in the saddle only if they lashed him to it, with his broken leg stretched out in a makeshift cradle of sticks lined with spare clothing. There was no way for anyone else to sit atop the horse. Since the man was in too much pain to control the beast, it made sense for someone to guide him.

They couldn’t move any faster than a walk anyway, so it made little difference to Padrig whether he rode or not.

Besides, he was so tired, most likely the only way he would be able to stay awake was to keep moving.

With one last glance at the vast devastation surrounding them, Padrig gave the order to head out, and they were finally on their way.

Alys wriggled in the saddle, trying without much success to restore sensation to her numb backside and legs. Arian’s slow, rhythmic stride worked its temptation on her weary body, enticing her to give in to the lure of sleep. It took nigh all her resources not to nod off, to instead remain upright, to not surrender to the urge to slump back against Rafe’s body and accept the support he offered.

If Padrig were seated behind her, she’d be much more likely to change her mind. About accepting his support, at any rate.

Nay, she’d have already done so if it were Padrig riding with her, she acknowledged, whether she’d needed any help or not.

She’d have made use of any excuse to touch him, to be in his arms again.

Despite her sheer exhaustion, she had little desire to give in to sleep just yet—and its potential for a nightmarish revisit of last night’s terror.

Especially while perched up on horseback. She had enough bruises and pains as it was, without courting still more.

Blinking against the sun’s glare, Alys shifted her attention from her body’s complaints to her surroundings, hoping they’d serve to stimulate her senses. The day was glorious: warm and sunny, a gentle breeze carrying the birdsong and scents of the forest.

If not for the utter destruction everywhere she looked, and the constant aching of her injuries, ’twould have been a most lovely day.

She and Rafe rode near the front of their ragged column, evidently to take advantage of the fact that she might possibly recognize some landmark, or to note if something about the terrain looked familiar.

In truth, they’d met such devastation along every bit of the way, she could have been on a path she followed every day, and not known it.

Feeling herself begin the slide downward into despair, she shifted her attention instead to the man who sat behind her, guiding her mare and doing his best to protect her from overhanging branches, marauding insects and any other of the myriad hazards of the trail.

That he’d done so in silence she found rather endearing, for she believed that for Rafe, talking was a function of life as much as breathing.

She’d been caught unawares when Rafe, not Padrig, had climbed up behind her after Rafe had settled her into the saddle. She’d felt less surprised a moment later, once she’d seen Padrig take up the reins of his mount, already burdened with one of the injured men, to lead the animal. Horses were in short supply. Someone had to walk, and she couldn’t imagine Padrig ask
ing one of his men to do something he was unwilling to do himself.

In her estimation, ’twas one of the things that made him a good leader.

Of course, since Padrig had taken the mount he led to the rear of their ragtag band, evidently to keep watch over everything, she seldom caught a glimpse of him. A few times the road had passed through a somewhat clear field…and she’d taken advantage of those opportunities to look her fill.

The easy way he moved, with his long-legged stride carrying him along at a steady pace, ensnared her as thoroughly as when she’d watched him bathe. Clothed or naked, Padrig captured her attention.

Rafe nudged her gently on the shoulder, jolting her back from her reverie. She was extremely grateful he could not know what thoughts he’d interrupted.

“How are you faring, milady? Do you need anything? Something to drink, or to stop for a moment?”

She shifted slightly in her seat so she could look back at him. “Nay, I thank you.” She glanced ahead at their motley band as they slowly wended their way along the winding road, more of a nearly impassable path, actually, heavily bestrewn with debris from the storm. “If they can keep up, so can I.”

Rafe shook his head, his dark eyes alight with what looked to be amusement. “They’re seasoned soldiers, milady, well used to surviving all manner of injuries and dangerous situations.”

She deliberately avoided the inference that she was neither of those things. “You cannot convince me you are faced with circumstances this extreme every day.”

“Not of late, ’tis true—but there have been many
times when we’ve had to deal with such things, and times yet to come when we shall again. ’Tis a soldier’s life, milady,” he said simply. “Ask Sir Padrig, or any of these men, what dangers they’ve confronted in Lord Rannulf’s service. I vow any one of us could tell you stories the likes of which a gentle lady such as yourself could never imagine.”

“Truly?” His words sparked Alys’s curiosity and excited her imagination. Such an opportunity!

Yet one she could not really take advantage of, at least not at the moment.

“Fighting is not all pomp and glory. You might have watched our work on the practice field, but that exercise is simply training to prepare us for battle. It bears little resemblance to what we truly contend with every day. Soldiering isn’t about pretty tournaments or fancy shows of swordplay,” he added forcefully. “It’s about doing whatever we must to stay alive and fight another day.”

“There must be some who have journeyed far from the Marches.”

“Aye. In this troop alone, we’ve men who have served in Ireland and Wales, as well as here in England. Back at l’Eau Clair there are even a few battle-hardened ancients who traveled to the Holy Land with King Richard, and two who served under the earl of Pembroke back before Lady Gillian was born.”

Those men she’d already met. Their accounts of the Crusades, of journeying Outremer to the hellishly hot lands of Saladin—or in the case of the two who’d been with Pembroke, of fighting and tourneys across France and Normandy—were among the first narratives she’d set down after her arrival at l’Eau Clair.

As one of the younger generation of fighters under Lord Rannulf’s command, Rafe represented a new source she could draw upon.

She silently cursed her inability to use her right hand, to make note of what Rafe might say, should she convince him to disclose anything she could use for her chronicles.

“I’ve heard some of their stories,” she told him, greatly understating the case. “Some sounded more fantasy than fact.”

“There are a few fellows who embellish a wee bit, ’tis true, but I vow there’s more of the truth in their tales than you would imagine. They lived in different times than now, times when ideals like honor and duty had meaning. These days—barring a few exceptions such as Lord Rannulf—you’d be hard-pressed to find many honorable men. There are plenty of ’em among Lord Rannulf’s family and friends, and those he commands, but that’s not the usual way of it anymore,” he added, his voice tinged with bitterness.

What—or who—had caused Rafe to be so mistrustful? She could not mistake the strength of his reaction, for tension was evident in his voice, his face. It nigh vibrated from his body as he sat behind her.

Even as she wondered, a change came over him. He’d been leaning slightly toward her during their low-voiced conversation, but now he straightened. His posture relaxed, and his mouth curled into a smile. “’Twas the greatest honor of my life when Lord Rannulf brought me here, into his service.”

A frisson of excitement passed through her, sending her pulse racing and heightening her curiosity.

He seemed a man who liked to talk, someone who
could be depended upon to make even a simple tale exciting.

And from what she sensed, he’d many a story to tell.

If she could only manage to remember what he told her until she was able to wield a pen once again, ’twas possible she might gain a great deal of information to add substance to her work.

She sought to stifle her eagerness. Doubtless he’d believe her a most bloodthirsty maid as it was, once she began to ask him for more details.

It would be best, she decided, if she could ease into her questioning, so he would not notice the depth of her interest.

She realized as well that she could use this as an opportunity to learn more about Padrig. Rafe seemed to know a great deal about his commander. He certainly hadn’t appeared shy this morn about sharing what he knew.

Rafe himself had given her the perfect opening to begin her questioning. He wished to talk.

And she certainly wanted to hear what he had to say.

“Whom had you served before?” she asked. “It was not at l’Eau Clair, then?”

“I suppose you could say I’ve always been in the FitzCliffords’ service, for I was born at Birkland, a small property in Nottinghamshire owned by Lord Rannulf’s father. I was employed there in one way or another since I was a small lad. Eventually I became a man-at-arms, part of the garrison charged to defend the place. By then, the man who held Birkland for Lord Rannulf was Sir Richard Belleville.” He made a disparaging sound. “Though Belleville may be of noble birth, in truth he’s naught but a lying, thieving knave.”

“What did he do?” Alys asked impatiently. “Why do you hate him so much?” She wriggled round so she could see Rafe’s face more fully. “How did you come to leave Birkland and travel to l’Eau Clair?”

“By the saints, but you’re a curious maid!” He watched her for a short time, his scrutiny polite, but obviously intent upon measuring her in some manner.

Finally his lips quirked up in a faint smile and he shook his head. Perhaps he wasn’t sure what to make of her. Mayhap she’d not been so easy to read as he’d anticipated she’d be.

Good! It gave her an odd sense of satisfaction to take people by surprise, to keep them wondering precisely who she was, and what she might do.

Though in truth, she wasn’t certain she surprised anyone all that often.

“Do you always ask so many questions?” he asked.

She took a moment to compose herself, so she’d not let her eagerness show. “’Tis but a pleasant way to pass the time,” she told him in an even voice. “On a journey such as this where we cannot travel very swiftly, conversation serves to speed the way—or to make it seem so, at any rate.”

She peered up at his expression from beneath her lashes, trying to judge whether he believed her. ’Twas hard to tell. “Don’t you find it so?” she added sweetly.

He sent her a stern glance that looked odd upon his usually jovial countenance. “Do
you
find using such womanly tricks to befuddle a man to be effective, milady?” He held up his arm to keep a branch from knocking against her. “I’m assuming that’s your reason for doing it. Or perhaps I’m wrong, and you’ve another reason entirely?” he asked, his tone provocative, his eyebrows raised in inquiry.

Whatever did he mean? Did he believe she’d been
flirting
with him?

A tide of mortification rose to heat her face. In spite of the discomfort, she forced herself to meet Rafe’s considering gaze.

She’d never thought of her actions in that way. She didn’t set out to “befuddle”—nor to entice, she thought indignantly. ’Twas more an attempt to distract the other person from discovering her true purpose, to put him at ease while still achieving her own goals.