Lady At Arms (4 page)

Lizanne pushed aside the bloodstained cloth on the child’s arm and leaned near to examine the injury.

Mellie bent down so no others might hear and whispered, “Lucy is tendin’ that other one’s wound, milady.”

Other one? Lizanne stretched out the child’s arm and gently wiped away the blood. The bite was not as bad as she had feared, but it would require stitches—

She snapped her chin around. “Other one, Mellie?”

The maid shrugged apologetically and nodded, confirming it was Wardieu whom Lucy tended.

Lizanne’s anger was short-lived as the healer in her pushed it aside. Evil though the man was, he had been wounded and it would be unseemly to leave him uncared for, even if she could not bring herself to see to his needs. After all, not even a vicious animal deserved to be left bleeding and in pain. Nay, her revenge would be carried our properly, Wardieu given the opportunity to defend his person.

She returned her attention to the child. “And what is your name, little one?” She pushed damp hair back from tear-swollen eyes.

The little girl’s bottom lip trembled. “A-Anna.”

“Anna,” Lizanne repeated, forcing out all thoughts of Wardieu in order to summon a genuine smile. “You are a brave girl.”

A smile tugged at Anna’s mouth. “I-I am?”

Lizanne reached for her medicinals. “Aye, you fought that mean old dog and won, did you not?”

Sniffling, Anna turned questioning eyes upon her mother. “Did I win, Mama?”

The woman met Lizanne’s gaze. Gratitude shining from her eyes, she smiled, then looked to her daughter. “You did.”

“Now,” Lizanne said as she unstoppered a bottle, “I wish you to tell me the whole story.”

Anna looked uncertainly from Lizanne to the bottle that wafted a pungent odor. “Will it hurt?”

Lizanne touched Anna’s cheek. “Mayhap a little, but you are brave, hmm?”

After a brief hesitation, Anna nodded.

It was not
merely the cold that awoke Lizanne with a jerk, but the nightmare. Although it visited her less often with each passing year, it had taken this most recent opportunity to return with a vengeance—frighteningly vivid in every detail.

She was huddled again in the window embrasure, having returned there after stitching little Anna’s arm. While she had plotted revenge, the afternoon and evening had slipped away and, eventually, she had fallen asleep.

Drawing a hand across her face, she was surprised to find it damp with tears. As she brushed them away, she looked out at the dark night and shivered when a cool breeze buffeted her face.

Though unwilling to admit her fear, she searched for and finally spotted the dark, shadowy figure that slowly traversed the parapet of the inner bailey’s wall. Disconcerted, she looked for more men-at-arms but saw none. In all likelihood, there were no others.

It was a relatively peaceful time under the reign of King Henry II, and Gilbert, having seen to his sister’s safety by placing her under the protection of Lord Langdon, had nearly divested the castle of its defenses, taking the bulk of his men with him to court. He had left behind only a minimum capable of offering a token resistance in the unlikely event the castle was set upon. Unfortunately, he had not anticipated the delays that had resulted in her return ahead of his own. And he most certainly could not have foreseen her recent venture. Thus, should Ranulf’s presence at Penforke be discovered and a campaign undertaken to free him, the defense of the castle was less than questionable. It was nearly nonexistent.

Shifting her cramped muscles, she grimaced at the chill that had settled in her limbs—more, in her right thumb. Having broken it when she had knocked Darth—rather, Ranulf Wardieu—senseless, it had never set properly and was wont to bother her from time to time.

She eased her feet to the floor and stuck out a hand to feel her way across the darkened room. Familiarity guided her, and she found her bed without mishap. She began to disrobe, but not until she stood in her thin shift did her woolly mind register that something was missing—the precious dagger given to her by Gilbert. She shook the last of the cobwebs from her mind and tried to remember what she had done with it.

Wardieu. She had used it against him, but what had become of it afterward? Surely, Samuel had put it aside for safekeeping. Still, she was bothered by its fate. Not only was it of sentimental value, but if it fell into Wardieu’s hands—

She pulled on a robe, crossed to the door, and stepped out into the dimly lit corridor. After retrieving a flickering torch from a wall sconce, she hastened down the corridor and descended the stone steps to the great hall.

Moving quietly so she would not awaken those sleeping on the rushes and benches, she crossed the room and hurried down a narrow passageway, then a long flight of stairs to the door of the main cell.

Although she had ordered that a guard be posted, there was no sign of one. Stamping down anger, she peered through the grate into the darkened room. The torches had long since expired, leaving the cell pitch-black.

She unbolted the door, opened it and, carrying the torch before her, stepped inside.

Her heart leaped when her gaze fell upon the still figure across the room. Not only was her captive fully clothed, but he sat on the earthen floor, chin resting on his chest where he slept. Though he remained manacled, his arms were comfortably suspended by chains mounted lower in the wall on either side of him.

“Curse you, Samuel!” she hissed, then strode to the tables and benches on the far side of the room. The light from the torch illuminating the bare surfaces, she soon resolved that Samuel must have taken the dagger with him.

Though reason told her she should leave, she crossed to her prisoner and looked from the pale crown of his head to his bandaged wrists to his left leg where the material of his russet chausses was torn open to reveal his bandaged wound.

Would he be forever constrained by an ungainly limp like that suffered by Gilbert? It would certainly be fitting.

Taking stock of her defenses and concluding the man was of less danger to her sitting, she knelt beside him and lowered the torch to better see his leg. The bandages were not bloody, nor were they damp to the touch as they might have been if the wound had begun to fester.

It was the handiwork of Lucy, Samuel’s wife. How had they had managed Wardieu? Even injured, he would be a worthy adversary. But then, Samuel was strong and had likely brought armed men with him for the task.

Determining the wound had not been deep and, now that it was properly cared for, would likely heal fine, she lifted her head. And looked into the blackest eyes.

Lurching backward, she lost hold of the torch. It dropped to the earthen floor and flickered uncertainly. As she scrambled to retrieve it, harsh laughter sounded around the cell. Heart pounding, she swept the torch high and was relieved when its flame sprang upward again.

Wardieu sat with his head back, a thin smile stretching his lips as his laughter subsided.

The silence that followed lengthened as he began an insulting perusal of her inappropriately clad figure. When his eyes finally returned to hers, she hated herself for the fear that raced limb to limb and, abruptly, turned away.

“Nay!” he bellowed.

Clutching the torch in one hand, the lapels of her robe in the other, she looked around.

“Come here!”

Why she should feel vulnerable—childish—before this man, she did not understand. After all, he was 
her 
prisoner.

“Surely, I can do you no harm.” He rattled his chains.

Lizanne lifted her chin and returned to stand over him. “Aye, my lord?”

“Sit.”

“I prefer to stand.”

He shrugged. “I have a boon to ask of you.”

“A boon?” Disbelief pitched her voice high.

“I would know the grounds for my imprisonment and where I am held.”

She considered him, then slowly lowered to her haunches. “Would it give you comfort, my lord?”

By the light of the torch that shone full upon his face, she saw his jaw shift and the muscles tighten. “Mere curiosity bids me ask,” he said, then added, “
my
lady.”

Lizanne stiffened. “Do not call me that!”

“My lady?” He arched an eyebrow. “’Tis but a polite form of address—respect for your station.”

“I am not your lady!”

“Indeed. You are not a lady at all, are you?”

His words cut more deeply than she would have thought possible. There were others who would agree with him—especially Gilbert’s knights who thought it unseemly for a woman to bear arms and clothe herself in men’s garments. It did not seem to matter that, more often than not, she dressed appropriately and acted as lady of the castle, a role for which she had been trained from an early age. They saw her only through the eyes of men threatened by her ability to protect herself.

“And I…” Wardieu continued, baring even, white teeth, “am not your lord. Yet.”

A cold hand closed over her heart. How was he able to arouse such misgivings? Had she not resigned herself to the task ahead? Was she not the one in control?

She stood and released the lapels of her robe. “I have a proposal for you. If you can best the opponent of my choice in a duel of swords, I shall set you free.”

His lids narrowed, but not so much that she could not see the ominous emotion rising in his eyes.

She steeled herself. “’Twill be a fight to the death.”

After a long moment, he said, “Who is this witless man who would die for you?”

“That need not concern you, Ranulf Wardieu. All you need know is that I have chosen a worthy opponent.”

“Witch!” he shouted, anger surfacing like a stab of lightning. “Do you truly believe you will escape retribution once I have killed this man who shall die needlessly for you?”

“I have faith in my choice. And even if I did not, ’tis not as if it will require the most proficient warrior to best one in your condition, for what good is skill without speed?” She looked at his bandaged leg. “A decided disadvantage, my lord.”

“His will be a bloody death! Then you and your family will suffer as well.”

There was a chance he would be the victor, but she had already considered that. “That is part of the bargain. The duel is to the death. If you are successful, there will be no further retaliation against my family.”

He slammed his body against the wall, once more testing his chains.

Lizanne observed his struggles but drew no pleasure from them. As difficult as it was to admit even to herself, she was frightened.

Ranulf hardly knew himself, for he was accustomed to being in control of his person—thinking first and well before acting—but this was no ordinary foe. This was a woman who had reduced him to a level no man had ever done. Thus, it was no easy thing to talk his emotions down from the violent ledge they had stepped out upon.

When he finally settled himself, he dropped his head back and pinned his gaze to his captor.

“So much anger,” she murmured.

He frowned. Her eyes were flat, as was her voice that lacked the sarcasm he would have expected. It was as if she had gone someplace else. Might she be mad? If so, it would certainly explain some things.

When she spoke again, her voice was softer yet. “I, too, know such anger. ’Tis the reason you are here.” She nodded as if to herself. “My family and I have suffered greatly for your crimes. Thus, we will have our revenge.”

“What are these crimes you put upon me?” Ranulf demanded. “What have I done to you, Lizanne Balmaine?”

She blinked and, for a moment, appeared confused. Then her mouth pressed into a tight line. “That is the bargain I strike with you. I will have your word on it. Now.”

He shook his head. “Neither will I be cheated of revenge, for it is more my due than yours.”

In the glare of torchlight, he saw color suffuse her face, her shoulders move with shallow breaths. “Give me your word,” she snapped, “else die the death of a coward on the morrow.”

He frowned. Though doubtful of her threat, he found himself reconsidering her challenge and wondered if what she proposed was simply a way out of the mistake she had made in imprisoning him.

Likely, for the woman who stood before him now was not the same one who had been so arrogantly confident earlier in the day. Indeed, it was possible she had even shed tears, for he had seen that her eyes were red and slightly swollen.

Deciding her proposal was not without merit, especially as he had no desire to remain chained in this cell a moment longer than necessary, he slid his gaze over her soft white neck and down her robe that revealed a glimpse of the undergarment beneath its hem. “Very well, I give you my word. Of course, it remains to be seen whether or not I keep it.” He smiled. “Though I am inclined to leave your family be, know that you may not be so fortunate.”

He expected her to protest, but she said, “’Tis enough. On the morrow, then.”

“On the morrow,
my
lady.”

Her nostrils flared, but she swung away and came as near to running from the cell as one could come without actually putting to flight.

When the door slammed shut and darkness once more descended, Ranulf considered the dagger that pressed against the backside of his thigh where he sat upon it, certain it was the reason the lady had ventured to the cell in the middle of the night.

After devouring the dinner Samuel had brought him earlier, he had succumbed to whatever had been added to his food or drink to render him impotent. Fortunately, it was an offense that served him well, for not only had his tunic been returned to him and his leg skillfully bandaged and curiously painless, but he was no longer chained upright. Seated upon the floor, he had been able to retrieve the dagger with his right foot and, with some difficulty, work it up beneath his left leg.

Of course, it was of no use to him now, but once he could bring it to hand…

Ranulf was awakened the next morning by Samuel’s ungainly clamor and the smell of food. He watched as the big man, two men-at-arms following, traversed the cell.

“You,” Samuel addressed the men, “light the torches.”