Anita Mills (38 page)

“We can engage them outside,” Bevis offered, following him. “We are more than they.”

“And risk losing her?” his lord fairly howled. “Without her, I cannot ensnare Guy!”

“Then treat with the Butcher,” the captain suggested reasonably. “Later, we can defeat him.”

“Sweet Jesu, but—” Reyner stopped, then walked again to the wall. “How many do you count?” he asked abruptly.

“No more than thirty. We have twice the number here.”

The older man eyed his man with veiled dislike. Since he’d spoken with Elizabeth, her words echoed in his ears.
Did Bevis tell you the tale? Did Bevis tell you the tale?
Nay, but why had she asked that?
And you would believe him?
she’d wondered, as though there were more to it than he knew. His pale golden eyes raked over the captain, noting the slender comeliness that had eluded him before. Had it been Bevis who’d led his son astray? Nay, it could not be. The man before him could wield lance and sword with skill. Aye, and his lady had borne him a son. Named Ivo. There was no denying that he and Ivo had been much together. If it could even be thought … if it could be believed at all … he’d see Bevis of Lyons dead for it.

But not now, not with Rivaux coming, not with Giles of Moray at the gate. Later, he would discover what had passed between Bevis and his son. His gaze went again to the road beyond, and he cursed profanely.

Unaware of the change in his lord’s opinion of him, Bevis argued, “We have but to offer to share Rivaux’s lands with him.”

“I have already said as much to no avail. The whoreson bastard told me if I would have Rivaux, I’d have to take him myself.”

“ ’Twas before we held his lady—’twas before we held his brother.”

“Aye—I’d nigh forgotten the brother. How fares he?”

“In time, he will mend. For now, he can scarce stand unaided.”

It went against Reyner’s sense of his own worth to have to treat with anyone. If he chose to ally himself ’twas one thing, but if he was forced to ’twas another. An idea, unless it came from him, was less than worthless. And the Butcher’s denial of what he’d offered still stung. Nonetheless he’d not tarry, to be caught like a game bird by the Hawk of Rivaux. Finally, he nodded.

“Aye, send for the priest that he may write him.”

“And who’s to read it to him?”

“He lived in Henry Beauclerc’s household,” was the terse reply. “Nine years, he said.”

“Better preparation for a priest than a butcher,” Bevis snorted. Nonetheless, he went down to seek Wycklow’s chaplain.

Above him, Reyner watched. Aye, if Bevis had been more than companion in arms to Ivo, he’d pay for it. Like the others, he’d die slowly for what he’d made of Eury’s son. For if ’twas true, the captain had used Reyner to gain the advantage over his rivals for the boy’s affections. Nay, but the more he thought on it, the more inclined Reyner was to believe in the perfidy of Bevis of Lyons.

Reyner’s disgust of everything was not improved by the arrival of the priest. In keeping with the meanness of the place, the fellow did not appear able to do more than recite his prayers by rote.

“Can you write?” Reyner demanded.

“The
Pater Noster
in Latin,” he answered proudly.

“All of it?” Bevis sneered.

“The first several lines.”

Furious, the count cuffed the chaplain, sending him sprawling on the wall. “ ’Tis useless to me!” he shouted.

“The she-witch writes,” Bevis reminded him.

“Aye, and who’s to know what she’d say? I’d sooner trust a viper. Nay, you will send a man who has learned his message. I’d have him tell the Scots Butcher that if he joins us, he may have the Celesin.”

“Lord Richard’s keep?”

“Aye. I’d once thought to offer Harlowe, but on seeing this he cannot but be grateful for less. But it matters not what we offer, for I mean not to give any of it.”

“I’d thought to ask for Celesin,” Bevis admitted.

Reyner’s nearly yellow eyes flicked over him. “Nay, I’d give you more than that for the service you did Ivo,” he answered. “I’d give you what you deserve for that.”

“And the Butcher—what give we him?”

“Guy of Rivaux’s Doomslayer in his back. But for now, we are in need of haste. I’d not meet Rivaux here.”

The Doomslayer. Even now, the reminder of the sword Count Guy had carried against Belesme sent a chill down Bevis’ spine. It was no light thing to go against Rivaux, no light thing at all, and when all was said, he was not certain he would not be damned for it. Like many, he too felt that God’s grace shone on Elizabeth’s father.

“Think you he will come for his daughter?” he asked for nigh the hundredth time. “Mayhap he is still with Gloucester. Mayhap Stephen’s spies are mistaken.”

“Nay, he will come. He has an uncommon love for the daughters his countess bore him. He will come,” Reyner repeated definitely. “And I will take him.”

Giles listened carefully to the fellow before him as Reyner of Eury’s message was repeated. “My lord welcomes you, saying if you will swear to aid him against Count Guy, he will give you Celesin.”

“The last time ’twas Harlowe,” Giles retorted. “And if I am welcomed, how is it that I am kept from mine own keep?”

Remembering what his lord had had him rehearse, the messenger tried to explain. “Nay, but he’d have you swear on a piece of the True Cross first, and he’d have you wait without to attack Count Guy when he comes.”

“The True Cross!” Giles snorted contemptuously. “Jesu, but ’tis blasphemy he would ask—an oath on holy relic to kill my wife’s father!”

“He would have me remind you that there is the quarrel between you and Rivaux, and he says he would let you profit of it.”

Giles’ temper snapped. “Tell him I do not treat with dogs.”

“Nay, the only dogs here are the Scots,” the messenger retorted. “I’d not speak such to Eury.”

“Nay?” One of Giles’ eyebrows shot up, then he turned to Hob. “Give me your dagger, I pray you. I will send my message myself.”

“Do ye send his ear or his knuckle?” Favoring the man of Eury with his empty grin, Hob tossed Giles his knife. “Meself, I’d send his head back to his master.”

The fellow went white. “Nay, you do not dare!”

For answer, Giles advanced on him. “Both, I think—all three mayhap.” He reached out as the man backed away, and his hand caught a handful of hair. Pulling Reyner’s messenger back to face him, he raised the dagger to the ear, nicking it. “Which one would you keep?” he asked softly.

The man felt the warm trickle of his own blood as it coursed down his neck. “Merciful Jesu—nay! I am but the servant of Eury!”

“Or mayhap the tongue,” Giles continued, considering it. “ ’Twould cure his insolence. Which is it, do you think, Gib?”

“The ear.” Lang Gib moved to watch. “Nay, the other one, I think, for ’tis uglier. Or mayhap both that the holes will match.”

“If ye wouldna slay him, which ye ought, if ’twere me ye asked, I’d take the knuckle on his best hand,” Hob declared. “A man without fingers canna earn his bread.”

“Nay, if he would speak of holy relics, let him go back to Count Reyner as John the Baptist,” another Scot suggested. “I’d send but his head.” His eyes met the messenger’s. “Did ye nae know Lord Giles is descended of the Picts of Galloway? The ones as spits babes on their pikes?”

Every tale of the horror inflicted by the Scots flooded the poor fellow’s mind, and for a moment Giles feared he meant to swoon. “Mayhap the ears,” he decided.

“Sweet Jesu—nay! Nay!” The man’s plea rose to a shriek as he felt the knife prick deeper.

“How many men has Eury behind the walls?”

“I know not. Aiyyyyyeeeeeeee!” The trickle flowed freely now, dripping onto his dirty woolen tunic. “In the name of God, I beg you spare mine ear!”

“How many?” Giles repeated.

“More than fifty.”

“How many more?”

“I know not. For the love of Mary, I pray that you will not—” The wet warmth was sticky where it touched his neck. “Sixty mayhap.”

“Mounted?”

“Nay. Some are archers.” The fellow tried to twist his head, but Giles held him by the hair. “Oh, Sweet Jesu, but he will kill me if I tell.”

“How many of my men fell within?”

“I know not. One my lord hanged for his insolence.”

“Where does Reyner go from here?” Giles asked tersely.

“To King Stephen.”

“Where? He does not take her to Dorchester, I think.”

“I know not,” was again the sullen reply. As soon as he said it the fellow knew ’twas a mistake, for he felt the knife slit through his flesh, and he fainted.

“Och, but the men of Eury are women,” Hob declared in disgust. “Ye did but take a slice from the top.”

“Revive him.”

Reyner’s messenger regained consciousness, only to discover Giles of Moray’s merciless eyes still on him, and he cringed. “Nay, no more, I pray you,” he begged.

“Where?”

“H-Halford—he sends to Stephen from there.” For an awful moment he thought he was doomed, that the man before him would slit his throat, but then the Scot palmed the dagger and proffered it to the one who’d given it.

“Send him back.”

“Do you give Eury his answer, my lord?” Hob asked.

“Aye. Tell him I have asked Guy of Rivaux to come for his daughter. Tell him I do not betray the bond of blood between us.”

“Ye hear that, ye filth of Eury?” the toothless one demanded. “Can ye remember it to Count Reyner?” To emphasize the point, he tickled the hapless fellow’s chin with the sharp tip of the blade.

“A-Aye.”

“Tell him that if either Elizabeth of Rivaux or William of Dunashie is harmed, his life is forfeit. Unless he sends them out now, I will hold him here for Count Guy. I may not have the men to retake Wycklow, but I can see that Reyner of Eury does not leave it alive,” Giles promised grimly. “Tell him that I would see that my wife is unharmed, else he will discover how it is that I am called Butcher.”

As Hob backed away to let him rise, the messenger felt gingerly of his ear and was gratified to discover that he still had it. He nodded. “I will tell him. I swear it.”

Boundless in his fury, Reyner pulled Elizabeth from the pallet, shouting, “The whoreson whelp dares to answer with an arrogance above your own! So he would see you, would he? Well, afore God, he shall!”

She came awake trying to defend herself as he tore at her clothes, and she thought he meant to ravish her. Not to be taken tamely, she raked his face with her nails, gouging for his eyes. He howled, then delivered a backhanded blow with one hand as he still held her with the other.

“Witch! Devil’s spawn!” Over his shoulder, he ordered Bevis, “Take the clothes from her! Let the bastard see she is whole!” As he said it, he shoved her roughly toward his captain. “Aye, and I’d have a mastiff’s collar for the bitch—and a stout chain.”

“Nay, but—”

“D’you dare gainsay me?” Reyner demanded furiously. “Would you join her on the wall? God’s bones, but if you have not the stomach for it, I’d have you hold her! Art more of a woman than Ivo!”

His last words hung between them across a gap of sudden silence, and the color drained from Bevis of Lyons’ face. For an awful moment he thought to be sick, for the import was not lost on him: Reyner knew.

“Nay, I—” he protested weakly.

“Do you hold her or not?” his lord demanded coldly.

“Aye.” Bevis’ hand closed painfully on Elizabeth’s arm, jerking her in front of him.

“And now, witch, we shall see how you are made,” Reyner growled, reaching for the chain girdle at her waist. It fell to the rushes below.

She wrenched her arm suddenly, breaking away, and ran for the door. The older man’s face darkened dangerously as Bevis started after her.

“If you would live, you’ll catch her!”

But she was already on the narrow, winding stairs. In desperation Eury’s captain flung himself after her, and together they stumbled and fell against the rough stone walls of the tower. Tears of pain welled in her eyes.

“He will kill you also,” she panted, pulling away.

“There is no help for it,” he gasped, catching her arm again.

“Go to Giles—go to my husband,” she said low. “Tell him—” She looked up to where the count came down the steps above them, and she fell silent.

“I’d thought to spare you, daughter,” Reyner said nastily, “but you would not have it. Now all will see Rivaux’s proud daughter.” This time, when his fingers found the neck of her gown, he pulled it so roughly that the fabric tore. When she struggled, Bevis held her arms tightly. Cursing that the silk was too closely woven, Reyner drew his dagger and cut the seam.

“Move, and I will carve you like a doe,” he warned.

“Sweet Mary, but—”

The gown gave way, exposing the white undershift beneath. As Elizabeth closed her eyes to hide her humiliation, she felt the knife blade slice through the linen to touch her bare skin. She swallowed visibly, knowing that Reyner looked on her.

“Holy Jesu,” Bevis muttered.

“Hold her.” Reyner moved away, bellowing, “A bitch’s collar and a stout chain!”

“Tell my lord to send for my brother,” she whispered. “Tell him to send to Harlowe. Richard is there.”

“Lady, I—”

“Else Reyner will kill us both.”

“I have no sign,” he protested low. “Nay, but I’d not be believed. And he will kill me ere I can leave.”

She swallowed again. “Tell him there is no shame in loving him. He will know it for a sign.” For the briefest moment, she opened her eyes and looked downward to where his arm circled her naked belly. Then she gambled. “Ivo would not wish me to die like this, Bevis. And Reyner will take your life slowly.”

“Aye.”

The Count of Eury, accompanied by two others, returned with collar and chain in hand. Elizabeth ran her tongue over suddenly parched lips. “Nay.”

“Nay? But the Butcher would see you, daughter. He would see you are whole, and I’d not deny him.” As he spoke, she felt his hands circle her neck, fastening the studded collar. And then the cold weight of the chain fell over her bare back.

“Art mad, Reyner.”

“Nay, I do but show him the Devil bitch he wed.” Turning to Bevis, he ordered, “Take her up and chain her to the top of the wall that he may see her. She will stay there until he withdraws.” His eyes traveled over her body, taking in her firm breasts and her still flat belly. “ ’Tis to be hoped that he is not a fool, Elizabeth, for if he attacks, I will drop you over the side.” He stepped back. “ ’Tis fitting, is it not, Bevis?”