Domning, Denise (33 page)

Rannulf turned to Ashby's messenger. "If you wish to proceed on to Graistan, there will be food and shelter for you there as well as aid for your horse. We'll not wait for you, if you intended to return to Ashby."

"I'll go on to Graistan, then, my lord," he called. But, the nobleman had already set spurs to his bay and called the troop forward. In no more than a moment's time, they'd left the man by himself on the roadbed.

They kept their pace swift until well after Compline. When they were but a few miles from Ashby, they slowed to rest their mounts, a fact no doubt appreciated by those they passed. It did not take many days without rain to dry mud into a choking dust.

With Midsummer now so near, the sun would not find its bed for hours yet. The long days gave the advantage to those industrious enough to work harder for themselves than for their masters. To the travelers on the road, it meant they could make those extra, few miles before darkness finally fell.

Rowena glanced up at Rannulf. He was concentrating on the road ahead. She followed his look to see two wains, one of which appeared to be missing a wheel. "What is it?"

He gave a short laugh. "Huh, I think I know the man." He set heels to his bay's sides. "Wren, you stay with the others. Walter, come with me."

Rowena watched him hold up his hand in greeting as those around the carts sheathed their swords. In a few moments, she and the rest of the men were near enough to hear. "My son warned me that the wheelwright had cheated me." There was no mistaking Graistan's most prominent cloth merchant's thin and reedy voice nor his bright garments. "Look at me, now, stuck here with my goods spilling out onto the ground. I was late beginning my journey, and the fair starts tomorrow." He held fisted hands to his brow in frustration.

"Have you sent to Eilington for a wheelwright? It lies just beyond that hill."

"Aye, my lord, but my man's been gone the better part of an hour now. I cannot afford to send another in case of thieves."

Lord Rannulf straightened. "Walter, go to Eilington to let the bailiff know what's afoot out here. Whilst you're there, look about for Peter's man and see to finding someone with the skill to mend this wain. If there is none, then perhaps the villagers might lend a wain if he lets them hold his as collateral. You, you, and you"—he pointed out the men he wanted—"bide your time here until Walter's return with either craftsman or cart. After your errand's done, you can rejoin us at Ashby."

"Thank you, my lord," the merchant said as his shoulders drooped in relief.

"What is good for my merchants is good for me, eh, Peter?" He smiled. "I want you to be able to afford the rent I charge you. I'm told you've enlarged that warehouse of yours, the one along the river."

The man's answering smile was not quite so broad, then he laughed. "You have me there, my lord," he replied.

"Good journey to you," Rannulf called as he turned his horse back along the road.

"And you, too, my lord. My lady." The man nodded to her as she passed.

Walter and his men had yet to rejoin them, when they climbed the final rise before reaching their destination. Below, ringed by a single line of stone wall, lay Ashby. To the north was the forest of oak and ash, from whence came its name, while to the south stood a village of a good seventy homes. Beyond the cottages lay the crazy patchwork pattern of their fields.

Fronted with ditches on two sides and defended by the river on the others, Ashby's walls encircled a surprisingly large bailey with orchard, mill, ovens, and garden all within it. In the very center sat a square, stone tower with manor house attached. Unlike the wattled dwellings in the village, this great house was built of timber on a stone foundation and was much bigger by length and girth than the cottages; but it still bore only a thatched roof. Its massive wooden doors were banded with iron and half shielded by a porch at the top of the stairs. At the eastern end of the building was a short ell that spoke of a private chamber.

With the serene lushness of summer gathered around it, Ashby was, as Gilliam had said, a beautiful place. The river glistened in the sun against emerald banks dotted with willows and wildflowers. The breeze made fields of gold and green ripple and wave. Sheep and geese grazed on the common lands. Whitewashed cottages stood out against their green gardens and the dark stone of the protective walls.

As they rode to the bridge that would take them across the river and onto Sir John's holdings, the locals caught sight of them. Those in the fields stopped their work to look, while those within town came rushing to their doors to see the strangers. Several ran for the castle, no doubt to warn their lord of this unexpected arrival.

A quiver of doubt shot through her. They really should have sent word to John that they were coming. It was rude to appear unannounced. She glanced at her husband. He wore an easy expression as he surveyed this place, and his confidence reassured her.

When the toll collector at the stone bridge that spanned the river recognized the name he was given, his eyes opened wide. With a hand, he motioned to his boy to dash into the keep with the news. "My lord, please, pass by," he offered, but did not immediately move out of their way.

At last, Rannulf leaned down slightly. "Do you need something else?" His harsh question made the man jump aside.

"Nay, nay." He laughed wanly. "Please pass by."

The path leading to Ashby's entrance turned directly off the road. The drawbridge, a long tongue of wood fastened by chain through the wall and attached to winches on the inside, was lowered over the water-filled ditch as it should be on a working day. But within the bailey, there was complete silence. No man stood on the walls; no servant walked from barn to house. Not even a dog sat enjoying the evening's sun on its back. The stable windows were shut and barred. Beneath its shielding porch, the hall door looked to be shut as well.

She glanced at Rannulf. His expression was now grim. When he returned her look, she could see the disbelief in his gaze. "We leave," he said harshly, and roweled his big bay around. Too late, the winches groaned in the gatehouse as the bridge lifted. They would not reach it in time.

"Dog," Sir John bellowed out as he threw the hall door open. Her husband lifted his shield in ingrained reaction even before the bowmen on the tower's roof stood and loosed their missiles. Rannulf leaned over to cover her as best he could. Although bolts bounced harmlessly from the long piece of metal, the surprise attack took five of their men, and her little mare screamed in pain.

Ashby's lord raced down the stairs, bared sword in hand. He wore his mail shirt hastily pulled atop his clothing. "Raper of women, killer of children! Die, like the dog you are."

Excited by the sudden fray and the smell of blood from her mount, Rannulf's bay struck out, crashing his gigantic hoof into the smaller horse's flank. Rowena leapt free as her crippled mare fell. She rolled away from the flailing hooves and scrambled to her feet to watch in horror.

"You used her," John raged, his blade rebounding off Rannulf's shield.

"You are mad," his lord shouted back. Men leapt away from him and his dangerous mount, two already cut and bleeding. "I never touched her."

Hands dragged Rowena back from the fighting. She had not the sense to resist her captor or even to turn to look at who it was. Incapable of sound or motion, she stood frozen in terror.

"Liar," Ashby roared, once again throwing himself at his lord. He managed to land a blow against the mounted man's thigh. Blood stained Rannulf's steel chausses. "Drag them down," he called to his men. "I will show you how I treat filth such as you."

One of their men screamed as he took a bolt in the neck. The attackers surrounded the smaller mounts of Graistan's soldiery. Rowena watched as Ashby's men dragged two more from their horses; she watched their few fall beneath flashing blades. She could not breathe. If they unhorsed Rannulf, he would die.

Again, his bay rose, striking out at those who surrounded him. It trampled one while Rannulf used his sword just as effectively. A man lost an arm, another his head. John threw himself forward, intent on pulling his lord down. Rannulf beat him back.

"Stop, Papa," Nicola screamed from behind Rowena. Her female voice could not thread its way between the cursing, shouting men. The clash of swords and cries of the wounded muffled any chance of that.

Taken in surprise, most of their men now lay dead or wounded. Their blood mingled with those few of Ashby's forces who'd fallen with them. Another volley of bolts flew. Sir John's men had the last of them from their horses. Now, only Lord Graistan on his massive steed remained.

"He is mine," John bellowed, and rushed forward, intent on killing the horse if he could not reach the man. Time slowed. The bay thrust forward in attack. Ashby's sword drove deep into its neck. As the beast jerked away from the pain, the heavy man was pulled upward, vulnerable for that instant. Rannulf leaned forward and swung his sword down in a great arc. He caught his vassal at the midsection with the full length of the blade's honed edge. The powerful blow lifted the man, snapping ribs and cutting through his mail.

Still screaming in pain, the horse rose again. Its movement freed Ashby from its master's blade. The wounded man dropped to the ground. But the archers above had seen their opportunity. Rannulf arched in pain when the bolts impacted with his shoulder, even though they could not penetrate his closely woven metal shirt. Unbalanced by the blows, he reeled in his saddle as his horse leapt forward, still striking out as its life ebbed. Then he fell to the bloody earth as the bay dropped to its knees beside him.

The sudden silence was awesome.

"Papa," Nicola screamed again, her hysterical cry now echoing eerily off the walls around them. She tore around Rowena to race to her father's side.

Rowena did not waste her breath in words as she sped across the space to Rannulf. He lay on his side, blood washing his face from where his head had hit the ground. With a trembling hand, she touched his throat and felt his heartbeat against her fingers. She turned him slightly to touch her mouth to his and felt his breath against her skin. He lived. Never had she known a greater relief.

"There are four more coming." Lady Ashby's voice carried from the hall porch to ring about the bailey. Rowena watched the fair woman in her pale and pretty gowns descend the hall stairs and come to stand over her new husband. "Fool," she continued in a low voice. "It was punishment, not murder, I sought. Now you've left me no choice but to finish what you started." She was completely unaffected by the carnage around her.

Rowena turned back to Rannulf. If her husband was to continue living, she'd have to keep this bitch from his throat. Since his method of warfare had failed, she would try it her way, for she was armed with weapons against which the woman had no defense. She leapt to her feet and pushed her way through the crowd of men who surrounded the fallen Lord Ashby.

Nicola was murmuring in a low and soothing tone to her father as she pulled up the tails of his mail shirt. "There, do not fret," she said as he groaned in pain when she moved him. "Hush, Papa, it is not as bad as it feels," she lied. "It is lucky you are so fat, or you'd have been sliced in twain. He's broken your ribs here, and this gash is deep, but you will heal."

But John had eyes only for his wife. "I know you bid me to stay my hand, but I could not bear to look upon him knowing what he'd done to you." His voice was a thready whisper.

Rowena's words startled them all. "And what had he done to her, Lord John? Tell me, for I dearly wish to know."

"One of you take her away and finish her," Lady Maeve snapped out.

"Nay," John countermanded, shaking his head at the men who laid hands on her. "I have saved you, too. You do not know what he has done, for he's hidden his true nature from us all," he said to his lady. "He raped and used my wife, and when she bore him children, he murdered them. He took"— he paused a long moment to catch his breath, then started again on a different tack—"he beat her and abused her."

"Would you like to hear a different version of this tale she's spun for you?" Rowena focused her entire attention on the only man who could now save her husband's life. "I would tell you of the men she's used, how she robbed our treasury—"

"Foul lies! And I thought only to protect you," Maeve cried in sweet outrage to her lady. "Why do you listen to her, love? I see now how she will betray me when I have only thought of her as my sister. Make her stop."

"Nay, I would hear what she has to say." John closed his eyes and swallowed, then slowly refocused his attention on Rowena.

"But, not now," his wife went on, her voice soothing and warm as she knelt down, staining her gown and hands with her husband's blood. "You are so hurt, I fear for your life. We will take you inside, and you can listen to her later." She pressed her lips to his forehead.

John ignored her. Instead, he asked of Rowena,

"He does not abuse you?"

"Nay," she said, and also knelt beside him. "But, you should not have to ask me that. You know him. Your wife has used you; she has twisted your affection for her to make you her weapon of revenge against Rannulf for some slight he did her. Can you not see how her tales have inflamed in you this unnatural hatred for your lord? See? She has no response to me."

"My lord," Maeve protested, but Rowena spoke on, her commanding voice overriding the other woman's words, finally forcing her into silence.

"Know I say the truth when I tell you he did not rape her. It was he who locked his doors to keep her from crawling into his bed. She bore him no babe. But even if she had, you must only think on Jordan to see the truth here. Would a man who so loves a serving wench's get, kill any other babe of his?"

Now she took his hand. "He loves you, John. He came today to see that all was well with you. When you left so suddenly from Graistan, he feared he had slighted you in some way." If they lived, she would confess and do her penance for the lies she told. "How could you let this woman pollute your vows to him? You have betrayed him without even giving him the chance to speak in his own defense."