Anita Mills (7 page)

“Nay?” This time, when the eyebrow lifted, the black eyes betrayed a hint of amusement. “We are twelve armed men and you are but two knights and one woman. I’d not tell me what you will or will not do,
gentle
sister.”

She did not fail to note the irony as he emphasized the word gentle. “Nay,” she maintained stubbornly, “the Countess Eleanor might mistake the matter and think we came not in peace.”

“How are you called, sister?” he asked suddenly.

“Elizabeth.” Then, knowing that ’twas not a common name, she added, “For the mother of John the Baptist.”

“It does not suit you.”

“Alas, but when one christens a babe, one cannot know that,” she answered sweetly. “My temper has little to do with the name.”

“Sister Elizabeth,” he continued with the pained patience usually reserved for a child, “I seldom am moved to do much good in this world. Were I you, I should merely accept my escort.” He smoothed his hair with his roughened palms, then bent to retrieve his helmet. “Did they never teach you in the convent that obedience serves best?”

For a moment, his arrogance left her speechless. Nay, but the sons of counts would not address her thus, and yet this lowly Scot spoke as her master. She would have liked to put him in his place, but dared not. As she watched, her face mirroring her chagrin, he jammed his helm on his head and walked away.

“Wait.”

He swung around impatiently. “God’s bones, madame, but I have not the time to tarry whilst you argue. ’Tis a long ride to Harlowe, and even longer beyond for me. Tell your men to mount.”

“Mine is not the only ill temper here,” she snapped. Then, as he took a step toward her, she decided conciliation was the better choice just then. “I’d know who you are ere I ride,” she finished lamely. “ ‘Butcher’ does not suffice.”

One corner of his mouth turned upward in a semblance of a smile. “I am christened Giles.”

“Sir Giles? Art a knight?”

“Aye.”

“From where?” she persisted.

“I was born at Moray.”

The place name was not unknown, even in Normandy, for had not Scotland’s king claimed lineage there? Her gaze took in his worn tunic. “But you are not of the earl’s family, I think.”

“But distantly,” he answered brusquely, angered again by the expression in her eyes. “I am not claimed as kinsman there.”

“Your pardon—’twas not my meaning.”

“Aye, ’twas, but no matter. My fortunes depend not on your goodwill, Sister Elizabeth.”

He did not speak again to her until they were mounted and riding the ancient road. Lost in her own thoughts, she was jarred to hear him say, “ ’Tis a pity there was none to wed you, for you would have borne fierce sons for your lord.”

The last thing she would have of a tattered knight was his pity. “Nay, you mistake the matter,” she answered coldly. “If I have taken the veil, ’twas not for my temper nor for lack of a dowry. I was widowed.”

“And you eased your grief on your knees? Did you not discover that the veil does not warm cold bones?”

“It is enough that it saves me from another husband,” she retorted, spurring her horse ahead of his. “And I thank God for the deliverance.”

She was a proud, beautiful woman, unlike any he’d met before. He watched her thoughtfully, daring to admire her openly, and again it angered him that someone like her would rather wed Christ than man. He glanced down to where his scarred hands held the reins, seeing the flattened links of his hauberk where it met his wrists beneath the plain woolen overtunic. Well, she could not entirely be blamed for thinking he was of no worth, he supposed. She could not know he held thousands of hides of blood-soaked land on either side of the border. Then he wondered why she’d wanted him to know the choice to remain unwed was her own. And his anger faded to amusement. She was, underneath that coarse habit, yet a woman after all.

She sat with unwonted stiffness, her face set, angered with herself that she’d bothered to exchange words with a man such as Giles of Moray. It had been unworthy of her to justify herself to him. He was, she supposed, but a bastard born to a woman in the earl’s keep.

It was as though he knew her thoughts, for he spoke again behind her. “My patrimony is Dunashie, Elizabeth—all else I have, I have taken.”

“Not enough, ’twould seem,” she muttered.

“Aye, but I am not done. When the war comes, I mean to profit.”

Neither Giles of Moray nor his men spoke much as they rode, leaving Elizabeth to the company of Rannulf and Hugh, each of whom mistrusted their escort. The big Scot seemed, they whispered, little better than the mercenaries he’d routed, and they wondered if perhaps his willingness to accompany her to Harlowe was less a matter of piety than of opportunity. After all, no keep was invulnerable even to a small band once inside. And if he should discover he now had Guy of Rivaux’s daughter in his grasp … well, he might use that to gain entry.

“Nay, he suspects nothing,” she hissed back, her eyes intent on the borderer, who rode ahead of them.

“Still, I would he went not to Harlowe,” Rannulf muttered low. “ ’Twould have been better had we returned to St. Agnes. I mislike the man.”

“Aye,” Hugh agreed. “We are like to be murdered when we sleep. If King Henry’s peace meant little to the Scots, Stephen’s means naught at all.”

“The Scots are thieves all, my lady—’tis as a contest between them to see who can rob and pillage the most. Nay, but ‘twould have been better to have returned for the rest of your escort.”

“I have not the time to waste,” she snapped in exasperation, for ’twas at least the tenth time he’d said the same. “God’s bones, Sir Captain, but how long do you think Stephen will give us when ’tis known my father does not renew his oath? How long do you think ’twill be before he is at Harlowe’s gates?”

“And so you would lead these thieves there. Holy Jesu, but I cannot like it, lady—at best he is Stephen’s man also, for did he not come from London?” Hugh protested.

“With but twelve men, he is not like to do much harm at Harlowe. You are like old women—you fear too much.”

They fell silent and stared morosely at Giles of Moray. Hugh shifted his weight uneasily in his saddle, then sighed. He’d have done better to have followed Lord Richard into battle—at least then he’d have known what to expect.

As Elizabeth watched him, the Scot removed his helm yet again and let the wind whip his black hair. From the back he looked much like Richard, save that instead of fur-lined velvet, rough brown wool covered his broad, strong shoulders. Aye, he had the look of a fighting man, the build of one skilled in war.

Idly, she wondered how it was that one like that had not risen further. Had he served her father he’d have led more than eleven men by now, for Guy valued those who wielded axe and sword well. Aye, more than one had risen in favor simply by virtue of bravery, prowess, and loyalty. And the man before her possessed at least two of the three.

Jesu, but she’d not forget how he had stood over her, his broadsword supported by both hands. And it was a good, well-kept weapon, which showed that he knew his business well. Rather than the thong-wrapped hilt common amongst men-at-arms, his had been covered with circling gold wire. And the pommel was pewter banded in gold. It was a weapon worthy of one far better than he. She had not a doubt he’d taken it from someone else, probably in a border raid.

Had he not been a Scot, probably one attached to a lesser lord, she would have considered offering him service at Harlowe, that he might rise in her father’s favor. But from all she’d ever heard the Scots were a savage, despised lot, overgiven to violence and pillage, who lived more on booty than barter.

But he was of Moray, and she’d heard of that. Had not a Scottish king been earl there? And was the family not of Norman descent, from the de Maurais? Or was it the de Moravias? But he was not of them, he’d said. He’d merely chanced to be born there. Or had he? He carried himself with far more arrogance than the man-at-arms he was. Mayhap he was bastard-born and had been left to rise on his own. Mayhap ’twas the source of his bitterness.

Sweet Mary, but how could he stand to ride bareheaded on such a day? The sun had withdrawn behind clouds, and the wind that flapped their cloaks was sharp and full of unshed rain, suddenly making it seem quite cold. She shivered beneath her habit and plain mantle, thinking that were she a nun she’d complain of what they were given.

Suddenly the Scot called a halt, stopping to confer with the giant he kept at his side. Then he wheeled his horse, riding back down the column toward them.

“I like not the looks of the road ahead,” he explained tersely. “We wait until Willie returns.”

Elizabeth rose in her stirrups, straining to look into the damp, misty air. “I see nothing, my lord,” she protested impatiently. “Nay, I’d ride on.”

A grim smile twisted his mouth as his black eyes met hers. “But you have not the ordering of us, Sister Elizabeth, and I’d not fight my way back to Dunashie else I must.”

As she watched curiously the huge man dismounted and, armed only with his short bow, slipped into the bare forest. “ ’Tis like sending a belled bear,” she said sourly. “You need someone smaller and darker.”

Moray’s gaze followed hers. “Nay, you mistake the matter—they’ll not see him. Despite his size, he moves like a cat after prey.”

Hugh snorted derisively, and one of the borderers edged his horse close, favoring him with a gaping, toothless grin. “I’d nae laugh at Wee Willie—else yer lights’ll be in yer lap. Willie,” he added significantly, “is skilled wi’ his dagger.”

“Wee Willie! God’s bones, but you jest,” Hugh retorted.

Elizabeth rubbed her arms beneath her cloak, prompting Moray to turn his attention back to her. “Art cold, sister?”

“Nay,” she lied, unwilling to show weakness.

“ ’Tis as well—I have not a blanket to spare you.”

It was as though he could not admit to kindness. She found his roughness both irritating and intriguing, particularly since most of her life, save during her marriage to Ivo, the men about her had been respectful and courteous to Rivaux’s daughter. This Giles, on the other hand, was arrogant far above his station.

“Do you truly believe we will suffer an attack?”

“I know not, but I have not lived six and twenty years by being a fool,” he answered, his eyes again on the road ahead. “They wait for something.”

“But why would they wait for you?”

The way she said it betrayed that she believed him utterly unimportant, and despite the fact that ’twas her intent, her words rankled. “ ’Tis England,” he answered shortly.

“And yet you have journeyed here.”

He squinted as though to make out some distant thing. “Aye.”

“What is it that you fear?” she asked, trying to see what he saw.

“Nothing.”

“And yet we stop to avoid that which you do not fear?”

“Aye.”

“God’s bones, but you are a surly lout,” she muttered. “ ’Tis a knight’s duty to learn to discourse pleasantly. Did none teach you beyond ‘aye’ and ‘nay’?”

“Aye.” He half turned in his saddle to look at her, and a faint smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “But I did not think you would wish to have speech with a lout such as I.”

“I’d hear more than you say,” she retorted. “I see nothing at all.”

“I see steel.” He edged his horse closer to hers and leaned until his mailed arm brushed against her cloak Lifting her hand and pointing so that she could follow his direction, he showed her. “Look you there.”

“ ’Tis but rocks.”

“Mayhap—or mud smeared on helmets to conceal them.” As he released her hand, his smile broadened. “Is there aught else you would know of this lout?”

“Nay … aye,” she conceded. “Why do you come into England if ’tis too dangerous to your skin? ’Tis many leagues to the border, I think.”

“I attended Stephen’s court.”

She raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “You?”

“When war comes, even a border lout is welcomed, madame. You behold twelve mounted men, do you not?”

“And he will pay you to bear arms for him.” Her eyes traveled again to his mended mail. “I hope you were promised better for your service.”

“I was.”

“And so you will fight against Henry’s daughter.”

“I fight for myself, sister. I care not who wears England’s crown.”

“How can you say such? Jesu, but there is the matter of right!” she protested.

“Right is battle-axe and broadsword, sister—no more and no less.”

“There were oaths given, fealty sworn. Surely—”

“And you think that makes a difference? Nay, but it does not, not when there are priests to absolve the oath-breakers,” he continued cynically. “Do not speak to me of oaths, sister, for they are nigh useless. ’Tis the sword rather than the word that rules.”

“But she is King Henry’s daughter!”

“ ’Tis naught to me. I had no love for him.”

“Then you have no honor!” she snapped angrily.

His eyes went hard and his mouth drew into a thin, bitter line. “Nay.”

“God’s pity on you if you believe that, sir.”

“Save God’s pity for those who need it, sister, and do not prate to me of that which you do not know.”

“Stephen is a usurper!” she spat angrily.

He shrugged. “ ’Tis treason you speak, but no matter.” His gaze dropped to where the heavy crucifix hung between her breasts. “If you will not bear babes as God intended, then practice your piety with your silence,” he recommended.

“Art a fool who will fall, sir,” she said stiffly.

“Do you pray for my soul if I do?” he retaliated.

“Nay, I pray for honorable men.”

“Alas, but you spare your knees then, for they are few.”

Abruptly, he spurred his horse, returning to the front of the column, leaving her to stare after him. “Insolent dolt!” she muttered.

Hugh, who’d drawn back during her speech with Moray, nudged his horse forward even with hers. “The landless are dangerous, my lady, for they covet that which they do not have. And so it must be with him. I’d not trust him.”

“Aye. I do not.”

They waited, the tension increasing as the time passed, with Moray’s few archers notching arrows to their bows and the others choosing weapons. Their leader sat still and silent, his eyes on the road ahead, his hand resting on the scarred handle of his battle-axe. Finally he said something to the toothless one, who in turn rode back to address Elizabeth.