Lady At Arms (13 page)

She turned sorrowful eyes upon him, whispered, “But sometimes they fail.”

Who had failed her? Feeling a need to comfort her, he asked “Who? Was it Gilbert?”

Her eyes widened, then that mask of indifference dropped into place. “I am ready to climb down.”

Ranulf was not ready, but he extended his hand.

She scooted along the limb, placed her fingers in his, and allowed him to draw her against him.

He tilted her face up. “What am I to do with you, Lizanne?”

“Let me go home.”

He shook his head. “I cannot. ‘Tis done.”

A smile of bitter proportions curved her lips, and when he lowered his head and set his mouth upon hers, she did not resist. He kept the kiss light and brief, and when it was over, she buried her face against his neck.

Gilbert Balmaine swept the long table clear with one stroke of the arm. Pitchers of ale, platters of viands, and tankards flew across the room. Those within range either ducked or fled in search of cover.

Bellowing curses he had forbidden his sister, Gilbert swung around to face the captain of the guard and the steward where they stood before the assembly of knights at the edge of the hall.

Resentfully aware that his limp was more pronounced than usual, he strode across the rush-covered floor. When he reached the two men, he hauled them up by the fronts of their tunics. “I will have both your necks if ill befalls my sister!” The blast of his breath stirred their hair. “Best you pray to your God for her safe return.”

He thrust them aside and set off on a new tangent, scattering his knights as he went. A sideboard burdened with pastries went crashing to the floor, and a bench toppled beneath a well-placed kick.

In search of further means of venting his anger, Gilbert swung around. And stilled.

Shock hung from the faces of those in the hall. They were unaccustomed to seeing their lord alive with emotion, especially an emotion that gripped him so violently he had not a care for the fear he was surely striking in their breasts. They knew him as a just and honorable lord, albeit one who was more often sullen. But he had good reason for that, the humorous and enthusiastic young man he had been prior to inheriting the barony long gone—just as the innocent, light-hearted Lizanne was gone.

The events that had led to the changes in brother and sister, though vague in detail, were common knowledge among most of the castle folk, but never spoken of. It was forbidden.

Gilbert drew a deep breath and returned to tower over the men who had earned his wrath. “Who is this black-hearted knight who holds my sister?”

Robert Coulter stood taller. “He called himself Wardieu. Baron Ranulf Wardieu, my lord.”

Gilbert considered the name and found it recently familiar. He remembered the large, fair-headed man who had sat at the king’s table more than a fortnight earlier. The White Knight, the ladies had whimsically named him.

Not one for women’s prattle or gossip, he had turned his attention elsewhere, but it had been impossible to ignore the speculation the man raised among those at court. Still, Gilbert had gleaned little from the snatches of conversation he had been privy to. He knew only that Wardieu held vast lands to the north—Chesne—and he was said to be a formidable adversary.

A group of younger ladies had twittered over the recent death of the man’s wife and unashamedly vied for his attention. However, the man had not seemed to notice.

Gilbert clenched his hands at his sides and tried to make sense of the events that had led to the taking of Lizanne. Why had Wardieu carried her away? What could have possessed him to undertake such an action? His sister might be beyond lovely, but her belligerent disposition was easily recognized, and most men found it far outweighed her looks.

“My lord?” Ian, the steward, apologetically broke into his thoughts. “Samuel knows more. ‘Twas he who tended the man when Lady Lizanne held him prisoner.”

Gilbert jerked. “Prisoner? My sister held Wardieu prisoner? A baron?” At the stewart’s nod, Gilbert shouted. “Bring Samuel to me!”

“I am here, my lord.” The huge bald man skirted a group of knights and came to stand before him.

Gilbert knew the man well. He and his wife were favorites of Lizanne’s. “Samuel,” he said, fighting to regain control of himself, “I would speak with you in private.” At the man’s nod, he looked again to Ian. “Send for Mellie,” he ordered, then motioned for the others to clear the hall.

The horse-weary knights withdrew, taking with them the captain of the guard and the few servants skulking about.

Rubbing his aching right leg, Gilbert crossed to the raised dais and dropped heavily into his high-backed chair. He lifted his good leg, pressed his booted foot against the edge of the table, and tilted the chair onto its two back legs.

Samuel lowered onto the bench alongside him.

“Tell me everything,” Gilbert commanded.

The man began his narrative, commencing with the return of Lizanne from Lord Langdon’s castle and her giving of the unconscious prisoner into his care.

Halfway through the telling, Mellie crept into the hall and approached the raised dais.

Gilbert, leaning precariously toward Samuel, his chair on the verge of overturning, acknowledged her by jabbing his finger at the bench upon which the bald man was perched.

She sank down on the edge and, clasping her hands in her lap, bowed her head and stared at her nibbled nails.

“She did what?” Gilbert roared, his outcry so startling Mellie that she slipped off the bench.

“Aye,” Samuel said as the maid regained her seat. “She faced ‘em alone and loosed her arrow on the man.”

“Did she wound the miscreant?”

“Nay, though had she meant to, I do not doubt she would have. As you know, her aim…”

Gilbert waved the man to silence. “So she went willingly, without breach of the castle walls?”

Samuel nodded, his bare pate gleaming in the midday light that streamed through the upper windows. “She had no choice, milord. We were greatly outnumbered, and the knight claimed he had taken you captive.”

“Deceitful villain! I—” Gilbert halted his words as a thought that had been niggling at the back of his mind sprang forward. “Curse King Henry!” Well he remembered the monarch’s seemingly innocent inquiry into his sister’s whereabouts.

With a resounding crash, Gilbert returned his chair to its four legs. Leaning forward, he turned his hands into fists. He had told the king of Lizanne’s stay with her cousin at Landgon Castle. Henry had smiled, then he had said he would find a worthy man to take her in hand. Was Wardieu the one Henry had in mind?

One delay after another had been thrown into Gilbert’s path over the next fortnight until, finally, he and his retainers had been allowed to return to Penforke. At the time, Gilbert had seen it as a coincidental nuisance. Now he thought it more likely he had been the victim of delay by design—the king’s.

“He is behind this,” Gilbert said. “But how did my sister take Wardieu prisoner? And why?”

The knight was a man of immense proportions, after all. How had she managed to fell him? Most importantly, why would his man-hating sister go to such lengths?

“Milord?” Mellie said softly.

Gilbert looked at her. “What know you of this?”

“‘Twas I who lured the baron into the trap.”

“You?” He sat straighter. “Why?”

“I did it at my mistress’s bidding,” she wailed and looked away.

“Make sense, girl!”

Bottom lip trembling, the young maid looked back at Gilbert. “Lady Lizanne did not tell me her reason, milord, but she had me lure the man down a darkened corridor at Lord Langdon’s castle. He was near upon me when she sprang out of the shadows and dealt him a terrible blow.”

“Single-handedly?” Gilbert knew well his sister’s abilities, but he could not reconcile the size and apparent strength of Wardieu with that of hers.

“Aye.” Mellie bobbed her head. “He was well sated with drink, milord. Though he tried to fight, milady was too quick for him and knocked him unconscious with a second blow. ‘Twas like a great oak he fell.”

Gilbert imagined the scene and could not help but smile. What had possessed Lizanne? “How did she deliver him to Penforke without alerting Lord Langdon? Surely he was suspicious?”

“We hid him in one of the wagons and left before dawn the following morn. He was not missed at that time, milord.”

“And he did not awaken? ‘Tis a day and a half’s journey to Penforke.”

A mischievous twinkle entered the maid’s eyes. “Each time he stirred, I but waved one of me mistress’s potions beneath his nose and”—she snapped her fingers—“he went right back to sleepin’.”

Gilbert groaned and tugged at his new growth of beard. “Did Lady Lizanne reveal what cause she had for abducting the knight?”

Mellie shook her head. “All’s she said was he had greatly wronged your family, and she intended to punish him for his sins.”

It sounded like her, but what had Wardieu done to warrant his abduction? Was it possible he had tried to tread where no other men dared? Mayhap tried to steal a kiss from Lizanne? Or worse? He growled low and said, “How many days does this Wardieu have on us?”

“He rode north three days ago, milord,” Samuel answered.

Three days? Was he returning to Chesne?

Suddenly exhausted, Gilbert ground the heels of his palms against his eyes. He would need to allow his men to rest before giving chase, but give chase he would. The thought of failing Lizanne a second time burned like molten steel.

“We are done,” he said and heaved his body out of the chair. He strode across the hall and mounted the stairs. Inside his solar, he ignored the discomfort of a belly that gnawed with hunger and began to pace.

“Why, Lizanne?” He lengthened his stride until his leg protested, shooting pain up his hip. Grimacing, he threw himself into a heavily worn chair. As he massaged his impaired limb, he considered his sister’s abduction from Penforke.

Never had he known Robert Coulter to back down from a challenge. The man had, after all, held his esteemed position as captain of the guard for nigh on twenty years. He had served Gilbert’s father well during the time of King Stephen’s reign when conflicts between neighboring barons had been commonplace events. And yet he had allowed Lizanne to surrender herself without putting up a token resistance. Had he gone soft in the intervening years of relative peace? It 
was 
possible Penforke could have held out long enough for Gilbert to return and do battle with the miscreant. Why had none gainsaid her?

Because you allowed her too much rein
.

It was true. He had indulged nearly every whim she put to him, even to the point of instructing her in arms. Though the castle folk frowned and shook their heads, none dared question their lord. Perhaps someone should have.

Gilbert closed his eyes. There would be changes when he brought his little sister home. For too long they had allowed their futures to be governed by the forces of past aggressions. It was time they both assumed their rightful roles at Penforke. What had happened four years past—

Struck by remembrance of that grisly night when his blood had spilled, he opened his eyes wide in an attempt to turn back the memories. And would have succeeded if not for a sense of impending discovery that bade him revisit every detail of his failure.

A full score strong, the brigands had swept down on the camp, their blades already seasoned with the blood of slain guards. Gilbert and his men had awakened and reached for their swords, but even as they gained their feet, weapons rose and fell against them.

All around, Gilbert heard the cries of his men as they fought, their shouts of agony as they fell. He had tasted blood that sprayed the air and flecked his clothing, but had not paused in his fight to defeat those who would see him put down.

Blade sheathed in blood, the first who had challenged him dead at his feet, he had turned his attention to the two advancing on him. Rage was his ally, lending him the strength to match blows as they simultaneously fell upon him.

Refusing to surrender ground to the assailants, he had forced them back. However, the satisfaction felt at burying his sword in the flesh of the smaller man’s neck was short-lived. The other’s blade sliced through Gilbert’s chausses, flaying open skin and muscle and driving him to his knees.

Though the pain was excruciating, his need to protect Lizanne was stronger. He struggled to his feet and swung his sword high to deflect a blow intended for his neck. However, torn by escalating pain and weakened by the loss of blood, he was unable to stand again and was forced to fight from the ground.

As he defended himself, he caught a glimpse of another swiftly approaching—pale hair that slashed light across the night. However, he had not had time to fix his gaze on this new adversary, for his assailant was upon him.

Though his thrusts grew labored and his vision dimmed, his warrior’s mind rebelled against his body’s weakening and bade him continue to seek the other’s steel. He did so almost blindly, his other senses guiding his arm.

Once again, his sword made contact, though he could not say with what. Then he felt a white-hot pain explode within his chest. He collapsed, still gripping his sword. As consciousness fell away and a dark hand urged him to explore the depths of a void theretofore unknown, he heard a scream that cleaved his soul.

Lizanne!

He struggled to rise above the darkness, but it was stronger than his mangled body. Even as he was dragged under, he clung to a single thread of life—that he had promises to keep.

Gilbert groaned and sat forward in the chair, his knuckles white where he gripped the padded arms.

The pieces fit. Although he had caught only a glimpse of the man who had led the attack on their camp, Lizanne had been adamant about his appearance. Could it be? Such colorless hair was not common.

He shook his head. Why would a landed nobleman disguise himself as a common villain? It was preposterous, but he could think of no other explanation for Lizanne’s actions. Had she not vowed to one day unleash vengeance upon the one who had mortally wronged her family?