Lady At Arms (27 page)

Knowing Ranulf would try to stop her, she stayed to the far left as she guided Roland’s mount through the long grass toward Gilbert. As she drew nearly level with her husband, she worked a hand through her hair and released its long braid. It was calculated, for when Gilbert saw the black tresses, he would know it was she.

A moment later, Ranulf bellowed, “Nay!” and she knew he had seen her.

She looked to him, saw him change direction and urge his destrier to a full gallop to intercept her, while behind his men rode rapidly across the glade.

“Faster!” Lizanne urged her mount, arcing inward as Ranulf gained on her, all too aware her precipitous course was drawing them dangerously close to the castle’s walls and that soon they would be in range of arrows.

She returned her gaze to Gilbert and uttered a cry at the realization Ranulf would reach her first, her brother yet too far off and Roland’s horse no match for her husband’s beast.

Still, she pushed onward, determined that, if nothing else, she would delay them long enough to speak to Gilbert and explain before the two men she loved were locked in mortal combat.

As Ranulf neared, she altered her course to gain extra time, jerking the reins and guiding the horse back to the left, toward the moat. The move gained her only seconds, for suddenly Ranulf was alongside her, his arm tearing her from atop her mount.

She shrieked as he dragged her across his leg and onto the fore of his saddle. Her tailbone struck the pommel, but she had little time to dwell on the pain before the air around them was displaced with a shrill whistle.

Ranulf’s body was flung backward, sending them both flying through the air with his arm clamped around her. It was he who took the brunt of the fall to the damp-softened ground, his breath that slammed out of him and rushed past her ear.

It took Lizanne several moments to regain her bearings, and when she did, she twisted around in Ranulf’s hold. Though he did not completely release her, she was able to slide off and kneel beside him.

Ignoring the sound of approaching riders, she swept her gaze from his pain-stiffened face to the feathered shaft protruding from the links of his hauberk. Just below his right shoulder, blood seeped through the chain mail and spread outward.

“Ranulf!” She cupped his face between her hands.

His lids lifted. “Lizanne.” He shifted his gaze to the shaft, then back to her. “Why?”

Tears flooding her eyes, she swallowed. “I did not want this. I wanted only to speak to Gilbert, to explain. You would not allow me to.”

His eyes flicked past her and she followed his gaze to where Gilbert was fast approaching, then beyond to where Ranulf’s men rode to his defense.

With a groan, Ranulf sat up, pushed Lizanne away, and snapped the arrow to a point just above its entrance.

Lizanne reached to him, but he pushed her away again. “Ranulf,” she pleaded, “we must needs tend your wound. You will lose too much blood if it is not seen to.”

Another arrow sliced the air as he straightened and reached for his sword. It missed him by inches, cleaving the ground to his left.

“Nay!” Lizanne scrambled upright and launched herself in front of him as he awkwardly used his left hand to draw his sword.

Knowing Gilbert’s men would not fire upon him with her in their path, she tightly wrapped her arms around her husband’s waist and clasped her hands together at his back. Through her bliaut and chemise, she felt his life’s blood soak through to her skin.

“Get back!” Ranulf growled, trying to shake her free. “I do not need your woman’s skirts to shield me.”

She met his angry gaze. “I would not have you die for me. Pray, do not do this!”

Momentarily rising above rage, Ranulf searched her lovely, fearful face, and it struck him that she could run from him now. But she did not.

“I care for you,” she whispered. “Do not ask me to explain. I just do.”

“Lizanne!” Balmaine called. “Move away from him!”

Ranulf looked to the man who reined in and leaped to the ground. Sword in hand, Balmaine advanced on them. He was tall and broad, a hitch in his gait that Ranulf could use to his advantage just as his opponent would use the advantage of the arrow wound.

Ranulf returned his gaze to the woman he would risk all to have. “I was wrong,” he said. “You
are
worth dying for, Lizanne Wardieu.” He bent his head, brushed his mouth across hers, then thrust her so forcefully away that her hands broke free from his waist.

Before she could recover, he swung his heavy sword up. And scowled, though pain was less responsible for his expression than the ungraceful movement. The familiar weapon felt unfamiliar and awkward in his left hand.

The barrage of arrows from atop the castle’s walls kept Ranulf’s men at bay as the two opponents advanced on one another. But just as they drew near enough to assume stances to set their blades against one other, Lizanne ran past Ranulf and threw herself in her brother’s arms.

God’s blood, this woman of mine!

However, neither would Balmaine allow her to thwart him, for he gave her but a brief hug before firmly setting her away and continuing toward the man from whom he intended to draw blood.

“Gilbert!” Lizanne grabbed hold of his sword arm. “Stop this now. Ranulf has done no wrong.”

Her words had the desired effect, halting her brother who looked down at her, a puzzled expression transforming the determined set of his face.

“Is this not the man who tried to defile you?” he demanded.

She shook her head. “It is not.”

Her brother’s head snapped back as if he had been struck. “What? Look at him!” He pointed his sword at where Ranulf had halted. “Does he not have the pale hair you described? Is he not the same breadth and height you spoke of?”

She inclined her head, then looked over her shoulder at the man she had wed. “But it cannot have been him.”

Her words rocked Ranulf. Did she truly, finally believe him?

Balmaine’s gaze sped between his sister and the man she defended, and Ranulf almost felt sorry for him as he surely struggled to reconcile his belief in Ranulf’s guilt with his sister’s unexpected behavior.

And then Lizanne dealt another blow. “He is my husband, Gilbert.”

Her brother took a step back, and the breath that exited his mouth was so harsh Ranulf thought his men behind him must have heard it. “You have wed this…” He locked eyes with Ranulf. “…cur?”

“I am Ranulf’s wife.”

He swung his gaze to her. “You were forced into marriage?”

She hesitated. “The king wished it so—”

“The king! So for this he delayed my departure from court.”

“I was given a choice,” she hastily added. “And I chose Ranulf.” She drew a deep breath, placed herself squarely before her brother, and lifted her chin. “And I choose to stay with him, Gilbert. I will not be returning to Penforke.”

Her brother looked past her.

Battling weakness from the loss of blood, feeling sharp, tearing pain radiate outward from just below his shoulder, Ranulf held his gaze.

“Answer me this, Wardieu,” Balmaine said. “Did you or did you not lead a raid against an encampment near Penforke four years past, and in doing so, slaughter nearly all?”

“I did not.” Sword growing heavier, Ranulf gripped the hilt tighter.

“Has my sister not accused you of this deed?”

“She has.”

The man’s fists clenched and color rose.

“Can you not see he is hurt, Gilbert?” Lizanne entreated. “Have a care and let us take him within where I may tend his wound.”

Her brother was slow to respond, and Ranulf guessed the man was measuring his opponent’s state, likely aware it was only a matter of time before the last of Ranulf’s strength abandoned him. But, finally, he said, “We must needs speak further on this, and he is no good to me dead—yet. Mount up, Baron Wardieu.”

Ranulf was torn between outright refusal and his need to stem the blood that now stained nearly the entire front of his hauberk. He looked to Lizanne who had turned to him with a tremulous smile, then lowered his sword and signaled his men to ride forward.

“Nay!” Balmaine barked. “Only you.”

Ranulf narrowed his eyes upon him, his surge of anger bringing with it a renewal of strength. “’Tis my home,” he snarled, “and I will take with me whom I wish.”

“Then I cannot allow you within.” Balmaine planted his legs apart.

It was Lizanne who decided the matter. She ran past Ranulf and, a few moments later, led his destrier forward. “I will not go without my husband,” she said. “Surely there can be no harm in allowing him an escort?”

Balmaine was not pleased, but he grudgingly nodded. “He may choose two.”

“A dozen,” Ranulf countered.

Balmaine shook his head. “Six.”

Ranulf signaled for Walter to ride forward. Then, returning his sword to its scabbard, he awkwardly mounted the destrier and reached a hand to his wife.

“Lizanne,” Balmaine called, “you shall ride with me.”

“I will not.” She slid her hand into Ranulf’s.

Balmaine’s jaw bulged, but he turned and, shortly, mounted his own horse.

Inside the inner bailey, the small party was greeted by Balmaine’s men who quickly relieved Ranulf’s escort of their weapons. From among the gathering, a small, fair-headed woman emerged.

“Ranulf!” his mother, Lady Zara, hastened forward. Halting alongside the destrier, she reached up and gripped her son’s thigh. Her eyes widened as she took in his blood-soaked hauberk, so intent upon it that she did not seem to notice the woman seated before him.

“Mother.” He laid a hand upon her smaller one. “You are well?”

“Of course. But you… What has happened?”

“A flesh wound,” he assured her, though he knew it went deeper than that.

“We must needs get him inside,” Lizanne said. “He has lost much blood.”

Lady Zara shifted her gaze to the other woman and blinked as if surprised to see her there. And then her eyes narrowed, and Ranulf knew she had guessed this was the one responsible for all the trouble.

“Get you down from there!” his mother demanded. “I will see to him myself.”

Lizanne stiffened. “’Tis I who will tend him, for I am a healer—and his wife.”

Lady Zara stumbled back a step.

Fortunately, Walter was quick to gain her side. Leaning down from the saddle, he laid a hand upon her shoulder. “Come, Lady Zara, ’twill be explained later. First we must see to your son’s well-being.”

Walter and Geoff assisted in Ranulf’s dismount. Though still conscious, increasing weakness forced him to accept the succor offered.

It was Lady Zara who led the way through the donjon to the lord’s solar. Once Ranulf’s men lowered him to the bed, Lizanne pushed her way past them and tossed orders across her shoulder as she leaned over Ranulf to examine his wound.

When his mother started to protest, it was Walter who again quieted her and pulled her aside.

“I will also need a cauterizing iron once the shaft is removed,” Lizanne said, voice exceedingly calm in view of the task that lay before her. “And set a fire.”

“You are truly a dangerous woman to associate with,” Ranulf murmured as he peered at her between the narrow slits of his lids. “Methinks I may yet die for you.”

She smiled weakly. “Not this time, Husband.”

He tried to return the smile, then closed his eyes and sank into a deep, painless sleep.

“Where is your son?” Philip demanded of the woman whose hard work in the service of the Charwycks had aged her far beyond her forty and some years.

Unnerved by his sudden appearance, Mary cowered against the rickety table upon which she had been kneading dough when the baron’s son had flung open the door and entered her small cottage. Though it had been many years since last she had been so near him, she still held no liking for him. After all, he was to blame for her son’s wild, sometimes vicious disposition. Too many years of Darth’s impressionable youth had been spent in the company of Philip Charwyck.

And now that Philip had been given control of his family’s estates, though his father yet lived, life at Medland had become very difficult for its people. The past two years had seen much hunger and sickness among the common folk. Fields that should have been producing abundant food for the winter lay fallow. Only those who had been given plots of land by the baron—the villeins—had enough to eat and with which to barter. But even they despaired, for Philip Charwyck was not averse to taking from his people that which his neglect failed to provide for his household. The old baron’s son had no conscience.

“M-my son is in the fields, milord.” She clutched the skirt of her apron to her ample bosom.

Scowling, Philip stepped closer until he stood over her. “Then fetch him.”

She flew out the door, scattering coarsely ground flour from her hands as she went.

Philip turned to watch her lumbering flight toward the fields. When she disappeared from sight, he propped himself against the table and pinched off a large piece of the pasty dough. He popped it in his mouth, then another pinch. He was a good ways through the dough before the mismatched duo appeared in the doorway.

Entering ahead of his mother was the large man called Darth, his dirty pale hair pulled back and secured at the nape of his thick, corded neck.

“Milord, ye wished to speak to me?” he asked as he moved to stand in the middle of the small room that immediately shrank around him.

Philip wiped his hands and strode across the short space. He put his face near the other man’s and inspected the weathered features that spoke of years of heavy toil in sun and wind, then gripped Darth’s chin and turned his head to the right, then the left. Confirming what he had already guessed, he issued a short bark of laughter and stepped back.

“Well, Baron Wardieu,” he enunciated the name, “what do you in the fields working like a serf?”

It was Mary, Darth’s mother, who first responded to his query—giving a small cry before collapsing to the floor in an unsightly heap.

Immediately, her son was beside her. “Mother!”

She moaned and blinked her eyes open and shut again.