Lady At Arms (12 page)

“Is that an order?” she asked, once more her old self.

Firmly, he set her away from him. “But a suggestion.”

“Good.” She retrieved the blanket that had fallen to her feet, tossed it over a shoulder, and crossed to the tray of food.

As she stood with her back to him, picking at the morsels, he changed into the clean garments. Then he joined her in breaking his fast.

A short while later, Geoff returned and handed a bundle to his lord. After the young man had removed the tray and departed, Ranulf strode to where Lizanne had retreated to her pallet and extended the bundle. “Your clothes.”

She frowned at the folded bliaut, chemise, and slippers. “I much prefer tunic and chausses. Those are far too cumbersome.” She flicked her fingers at the garments but did not take them.

“A fact I am well aware of,” he said, “and one I find convenient where you are concerned.”

She scowled.

He dropped the bundle beside her. “If you are not properly clothed when I return, I will dress you myself.”

Following his departure, Lizanne wasted the first few minutes vacillating between defiance and grudging capitulation. In the end, she threw off the blanket and hurriedly pulled the chemise and bliaut over her head. She was struggling with the laces when Wardieu returned.

Wordlessly, he pushed aside her hands and pulled and knotted the laces. Then he stood back and perused her top to bottom.

Lizanne lifted her chin. “Do I meet with your approval?”

He shook his head. “Hardly.”

As she held in words better kept behind her lips, he went to his chest and tossed back the lid. Shortly, he pressed a comb and small mirror into her hands. “See to your grooming. You are a mess.”

She lifted the mirror before her face. “I see nothing amiss.” It was a lie, for her appearance was staggeringly shoddy. As usual, that accursed hair!

“Do it,” he ordered. “We depart within the hour.” Then he was gone again.

Ignoring his command, Lizanne waited for sufficient time to pass to ensure his absence, then crossed to the tent opening and poked her head out.

Leaning against a tree across the way was Wardieu’s squire, Geoff. He smiled thinly, then nodded at the men-at-arms positioned on either side of the tent.

She retreated from the opening. With naught to do but pace, her mind slipped to the place she had gone when she had run from the tent and found herself in the midst of Wardieu’s men. When they had looked upon her in her meager garments, their eyes had not been feral, unlike the brigands’ eyes of four years past, but she had been drawn back to that terrible state of helplessness—of being a woman at the mercy of men. Most disturbing, though, was how desperately grateful she had been to the one who had pulled her back inside the tent, a man she should fear above all.

With a growl of frustration, Lizanne retrieved the comb and began yanking it through her hair.

An hour later, Lizanne found herself seated before Wardieu on his destrier.

Although curious as to their northern destination, she maintained a rebellious silence despite her captor’s comments as they passed through the changing countryside.

Fortunately, the ride was less rigorous than that of the day before. Unfortunately, it was a strain to hold herself apart from Wardieu. When they paused at a stream to water their horses at noon, her muscles were crying for ease. Grudgingly, she allowed Wardieu to assist in her dismount and grimaced as her body creaked when he set her to the ground.

“You are a stubborn woman, Lizanne Balmaine,” he said and turned and stalked away.

Kneading the muscles of her shoulders, she looked around. To her left and right stood the two men who had guarded the tent entrance that morning, their eyes trained on her. Squire Geoff also watched as he fed oats to his horse.

Once again, Lizanne felt the weight of regret over having worked deception upon the young man on the night past. Doubtless, he had suffered terrible humiliation. Most assuredly, none disliked her more than he.

She sighed, turned aside, and came face-to-face with Sir Walter.

Mouth grimly set, much as it had been when he had been forced to carry her upon his horse the day before, he thrust a skin of water at her. No greeting. No acknowledgment. Just this—and grudgingly given.

Lizanne could not help but be offended. “Am I to take it you would lower yourself to offer me a drink?”
 

His face darkened.

“‘Tis a kindness I would not expect, Sir Walter.”

His nostrils flared. “I assure you, it is not out of kindness I offer, my lady.”

She blinked. Though she had resorted to sarcasm in hopes of forcing him to speak, thereby establishing some control over their encounter, she had not expected him to be so blunt. It seemed the tolerant dislike he had shown her on the day past had turned to animosity, surely the result of her escape attempt.

I was wrong. Here is one who has even less of a care for me than Squire Geoff.

She accepted the skin, took a swallow of cool, sweet water, and returned her gaze to the knight who looked upon her as if she, not his lord, shouldered all the evil in the world. “You do not like me.”

His jaw shifted. “I bear no affection for vipers, my lady.”

She was taken aback, not only at being likened to a viper, but by the vehemence with which he did so. Struggling to suppress the outward expression of her hurt, she stared at the man who was older than Wardieu by at least a dozen years, his dark hair threaded through with silver. Though his face was marked by the ravages of a childhood illness, he was attractive, his piercing blue eyes like chips of ice beneath dark eyebrows. Very much like Gilbert’s eyes.

She took another swallow of water and returned the skin to him. “Methinks you mistake fear for dislike, Sir Knight.”

His brow lowered. “Fear?”

“Aye. It seems to me men are frightened by what they do not understand. And you certainly do not understand me. But then, misplaced loyalty does cast shadows upon one’s good judgment.”

A flush creeping up the man’s face, he turned on his heel and stalked away.

Telling herself she did not regret the words she had spoken in response to his insult, Lizanne heaved a sigh, strolled to the stream, and squatted at the edge.

She considered her rippled reflection, then pushed back the long sleeves of her bliaut and dipped her hands in the water. After the long, hot ride, it was wonderfully refreshing. She scooped up handfuls of water and splashed it on her face. Even as she gasped at its cold bite, she reached for more and carried it to her neck, unmindful that she also wet the bodice of her gown.

She sighed, lifted her skirt, and patted her face dry on the material.

“What did you say to Sir Walter?”

She startled so violently she nearly toppled into the stream. Thinking that, for such a large man, Wardieu moved with incredible stealth, she peered over her shoulder. “Naught of import. We simply agreed to dislike each other.”

His lids narrowed. “I will not have you causing strife among my men. Henceforth, you will refrain from speaking to them.”

“I have done nothing wrong.”

“Have you not? I have seen how you treat your inferiors, and I warn you, if you think to treat my men the same, you will see how very intolerant I can be.”

Lizanne searched backward for an occasion when he might have witnessed her dealings with servants. There was only one. Though she rebelled against explaining her unseemly behavior, she could not help herself. “You speak of the servant at Lord Langdon’s castle.”

“I do.”

“I would have you know that miserable woman slapped my maid.”

He held up a hand. “I will not argue with you.”

Resentment gripping her, she scooped up another handful of water and slung it at him.

Ranulf sidestepped, avoiding most of the spray, then caught her arm and pulled her to her feet. “More and more,” he said, “I wonder whether you are woman or child.”

She gasped, and he let her wrench free. Then she put that chin of hers into the air.

Albeit tempted to give her the slight push that would land her in the stream, Ranulf turned away. “Follow me.” After the requisite hesitation, he heard her footsteps.

He led her to a secluded area away from the others and pointed to a grove of trees. “You may relieve yourself there.”

Her eyebrows rose. “How thoughtful of you.”

“Do not try my patience,” he warned and turned his back on her. As her footsteps receded, he focused on his squire. It was obvious his pride had suffered a grievous blow and Lizanne would not easily dupe him a second time. So what task might be set him that would allow him to redeem himself?

When several minutes passed without Lizanne’s reappearance, Ranulf grew uneasy. He turned and scanned the area for a glimpse of her green garment, then silently cursed. He had not thought how easy it would be for her to blend in with the surrounding vegetation wearing that color.

“Lizanne! Do not dawdle!”

Receiving no answer, he momentarily closed his eyes. Had he once more underestimated her?

 He called again, and again she did not answer. He strode forward, then broke into a run.

“Lizanne!” he bellowed when he came to the place he had last seen her and still there was no sign of her.

He stilled. Though she made no sound to alert him to her whereabouts, he instinctively raised his head, squinted against the sun’s glare, and scanned the trees. And there she was, perched on a limb midway up an ancient oak.

How had she managed to climb so high, especially hampered by skirts? She was like a boy, a contentious, uncontrollable little boy constantly getting into trouble.

He strode to the base of the tree.

“You are not very quick, are you?” she said, jolting him with a mischievous grin. “Had I known you would take so long, mayhap I would have tried to escape after all.” Her legs dangled amid her skirts, offering a tantalizing glimpse of firm calves and fine-boned ankles.

“What do you up there?” he demanded, unsettled that she had placed herself in danger.

“’Tis a lovely view.” She swept a hand before her. “Why, I can see—”

“Come down.”

She looked back at him. “I like it here. Mayhap you should come up.”

To Lizanne’s surprise, he unbelted his sword and began to scale the gnarly tree. Watching him, she could not help but admire the ease with which he accomplished the feat. Even without her burdensome garments, she could not have made the climb appear so effortless.

Shortly, he heaved himself onto the branch upon which she was balanced partway down its length. She watched as he assessed the situation and was not surprised when he reached for her rather than venture out on a limb that would likely snap beneath his added weight. “Give me your hand. I will help you down.”

Lizanne frowned. “You are not angry?”

“Nay. You hoped to make me so?”

“I did.”

“For what reason?”

She opened her mouth but, for once, regretted the words before they were spoken. To say she had climbed a tree to make it appear she had attempted escape for his having questioned whether she was a woman or a child would only prove he had good reason to do so. And he would not be the first, for hardly a fortnight passed without her brother grumbling over something she had done that did not “reflect well” on one her age. As much as it hurt to admit it, Ranulf Wardieu’s observation was well-founded.

“Why?” he asked again.

She glanced at the hand he offered. “I fear it would reflect poorly on me were I to share my reason for trying to vex you.”

“Lizanne,” he said softly, “you do sometimes act like a child.”

And he was too perceptive. Though she did not want to look at him for what she might find in his eyes, she gave him her gaze.

“You are impulsive,” he said. “You think first with your anger and seem not to consider the consequences of your actions.”

As when she had abducted him. But she was hardly going to discuss her regrets with the man responsible for setting the story in motion. Though she longed to tell him there were also consequences to his actions, she lifted her face to the sky. “It was a miserable ride.”

After a long moment, he said, “You made it so. If you relax, ‘twill be more comfortable.”

“Of even greater comfort would be a horse of my own.” She turned her head so quickly that she teetered on the branch.

He drew a sharp breath. “We will speak of this when we are on the ground. Now take my hand.”

She glanced at it. “As I got myself up here, I will get myself down.”

“You will break your neck is what you will do!”

“Would you care?” She had not meant to ask it, and yet it had passed her lips as if in need of an answer.

At his protracted silence, she said, “I have been climbing trees, shooting bows, and engaging in swordplay for years. I do not need to be rescued.”

To her surprise, Wardieu lowered his hand and eased back against the tree trunk. When he spoke, his tone was gentle. “Tell me of your childhood, Lizanne.”

She frowned. “Now?”

He shrugged. “Unless you are ready to climb down.”

She mulled his request. Deciding there was no harm in the telling, she said, “Though you may not believe it, I was brought up to be a proper lady. At one time, I could even sew a fine stitch.” She grimaced. For the first time since she had set aside that womanly skill, she felt a pang of loss.

“Still, I was always interested in those things considered the privilege of men.” She nearly smiled. “Once I even challenged Gilbert to a duel—my stick against his sword. He was not amused.”

Ranulf was intrigued. One question after another came to mind, but he remained silent for fear she would not continue.

“When I was fifteen, shortly after my father’s death…” Her voice caught and he heard her swallow. “Gilbert finally relented and began secretly instructing me in arms.”

Wondering what kind of man would allow himself to be coerced into something so dishonorable, Ranulf asked, “Why?”

She stared at her hands. “So that I might defend myself.”

Ranulf shook his head. “That is the responsibility of men, Lizanne.”