Lady At Arms (5 page)

With a murmur of assent, the men moved away.

“Yer awake bright and early,” Samuel greeted Ranulf as he lowered a tray to the floor. Straightening, he planted his hands on his hips and frowned as he peered into Ranulf’s face. “It does not appear ye slept well last night, an’ after all me trouble to make ye comfortable.”

“It was unkind of you to drug me.”

Samuel lifted a palm heavenward. “’Twas but a mild sleeping draught. Seeing as I had only me wife’s help, it was the easiest way to tend yer wound and clothe ye.”

“Surely, you are not frightened of me?”

The great man scowled. “Ain’t no man frightens big Samuel. ‘Twas me wife, Lucy, who insisted. Saw that bloody nose ye gave our lady and wouldna come down till ye were out fer certain.”

Ranulf made no attempt to suppress his smile. “Forsooth, I am grateful to you, Samuel—and your Lucy. My leg does not pain me as it did, and I am certainly more comfortable sitting than standing.”

Samuel’s chest puffed with pride. “Lucy’s good with medicines and herbs. Taught by the lady herself.”

“Lady Lizanne?” Ranulf could not keep disbelief from his voice.

“Aye. Fer all her wildness, that one has a gift fer healin’. Takes care of everyone, she does.”

Ranulf attempted to fit this odd bit of information among his other impressions of the woman. After a few moment’s deliberation, he lumped it with a growing number of oddities.

“Here now!” Samuel raised his voice and crossed the cell in a half-dozen strides. “Do I have to do it meself?” He took the torch from the men and quickly lit the others.

“Simpletons,” he grumbled when he returned to stand before Ranulf. “’Twill be a relief once Baron Balmaine returns. Gone to court and took his best men with him, he did. And now him delayed.” He heaved a sigh.

Ranulf pretended an interest in the food as he pondered Samuel’s words. The man was proving a good source of information. Perhaps he could learn more.

Samuel did not disappoint. “Highly improper, I say, to allow Lady Lizanne to come home to Penforke with all this disorder. And she only makes matters worse with all her lordin’.”

Penforke. Ranulf searched his knowledge of the southern lands in an attempt to determine his location. It was not far from Langdon’s castle.

Samuel leaned down and removed the manacle from Ranulf’s left wrist. “Knows she can get away with it, of course. Ain’t a one ceptin’ her brother that’ll tell her nay, and even he usually gives in to her. I ain’t ne’er understood it. Been that way since me Lucy and I came here.”

Ranulf accepted the warm, freshly baked bread Samuel shoved into his free hand.

“He knows better ‘n to leave her to her own devices. That one needs supervision, I tell ye. And look what she’s done bringin’ ye here. Can’t say as I like it. Nay, canna say as I do.”

Ranulf was tempted to insert his own comments on that subject but, fearful of alerting Samuel to his loose tongue, squashed the idea. He bit into the bread and glanced at the other men. Bent over a table, they were engaged in a game of dice.

Samuel loosed another sigh. “Have a taste o’ that brew. ‘Tis the best fer miles around.”

Ranulf lifted the pot of ale and took a deep swallow while he waited for Samuel to speak again.

He did not. Hearing a cry of triumph from across the cell, the bald man looked over his shoulder to the others, one of whom tossed his newly won wealth from one hand to the other. Samuel grunted, shot Ranulf an apologetic smile, and trotted off to join the game.

Ranulf was satisfied with what he had gleaned from the man’s grumblings, and now that he was forgotten, the need to secure the dagger was uppermost in his mind. Keeping his eyes on the three men, he retrieved it from beneath his leg, lifted the hem of his tunic, and slid the keen-edged weapon into the top of his chausses.

Attired in men’s garb, Lizanne sat atop her gray palfrey and peered through the trees bordering the meadow. On a baldric passing from her right shoulder to her hip hung a two-edged sword. In a scabbard attached to the saddle was a second.

Beneath her, the mare shifted restlessly, throwing its head to the right and straining against the reins Lizanne held in her gloved hands.

“Shh, Lady.” Lizanne leaned over the mare’s neck and stroked the favored spot between the pert ears. “’Twill not be long now.”

The mare was only recently saddle-broke, but she had a spirit and grace that had immediately caught Lizanne’s eye. In spite of Gilbert’s misgivings about the animal’s flighty temperament, he had gifted the horse to his sister for her eighteenth year that had come and gone a twelvemonth past.

Lizanne straightened and glanced at the sun’s position, wondering not for the first time if Samuel had misunderstood her instructions, perhaps intentionally.

But then she heard the thunder of hooves.

Three horsemen entered the meadow from its southernmost corner. At the fore rode Samuel, and pulling up the rear was the armed escort. Ranulf Wardieu rode between the two, a long mantle about his shoulders, short boots on his feet.

Lady whinnied in welcome. Thankfully, the noise went unnoticed, eclipsed by the beating of hooves. At its mistress’s command, the mare pranced backward and assumed a detached stance to await the next instruction.

Lizanne watched as the horses were reined in at the center of the meadow and held her breath while Samuel scanned the bordering wood.

He had made it clear he did not like the orders she had delivered at noon and had suggested they await her brother’s return before doing anything further. Lizanne had been adamant, instructing him to escort the prisoner to the meadow east of the castle and release him. With a suspicious gleam in his eyes, Samuel had agreed.

Shortly, Ranulf Wardieu dismounted with an ease that belied the injury he had suffered the day before. He tossed the reins to Samuel and said something that made the other man laugh. More words were exchanged, then a sack was handed down—provisions, no doubt.

Lizanne drew a sharp breath. Samuel had disregarded her orders again. It was small wonder he was not also providing the cur with a horse.

Lady must have felt her mistress’s mounting tension, for she tossed her head, and her great, soulful eyes rolled back. With whispered words of assurance, Lizanne soothed her while never taking her eyes from Ranulf Wardieu.

Pale hair lifting in the warm breeze of early summer where he stood in the long grass, he turned to watch his escort depart, but even when the riders disappeared and the pounding of hooves faded away, Lizanne did not move. Less than eager to finish what she had started, she gripped the mare’s silky mane and fought the panic that, if she did not beat it down, would send her back to the safety of the castle.

It was Lady who decided the matter, lunging from the cover of trees into the meadow.

Providence, Lizanne concluded. As she spurred the mare into a gallop, the hood of her short mantle slid off her head.

Ranulf turned and stared at the horse and rider, felt the ticklish vibrations of their approach through the thin soles of his borrowed boots. Though he tried to assess his opponent, the man was too distant, and the sun was at his back.

When the glint of steel caught his eye, he grimaced at the grisly task before him. A vision of the lady safe behind the walls of her castle while she sent another to his death only served to deepen his anger and resolve.

He did not want this man’s life. He would be satisfied only with avenging himself upon Lady Lizanne. And though he would keep his vow to hold her family blameless, he had determined to take her as she had taken him. If that meant doing battle with the brother, so be it.

Thus, it was with astonishment that he found himself staring up into the flushed countenance of that lady when she brought her horse to a halt before him. It was the first time he had seen her face without the cover of her unkempt hair, it now being confined to a thick braid, and he was pleased by the flawless oval above a slender throat.

“Welcome, Baron Wardieu. ’Tis a fine day for a duel.”

He inclined his head. “Forsooth, I did not expect you to attend this bloodletting. I must needs remember you are not a lady.”

Her jaw hardened. “I assure you, there is naught that would keep me from this.”

He looked at the weapons she carried, then past her. “Where is this man who would champion your ill-fated cause?”

“There is no man.”

Ranulf lifted an eyebrow. “You were unable to find a single man willing to die for you?”

She leaned forward and smiled faintly. “Alas, I fear I am so uncomely none would offer.”

Suspicion creeping in, Ranulf said, “What of our bargain?”

“It stands.”

“You think to hold me ‘til your brother finds his way home?” He shifted more of his weight onto his uninjured leg and took a step toward her. “I vow you will not return me to that vile cell.”

The mare snorted loudly and pranced sideways until the lady brought it under control.

“Nay,” she said, gaze unwavering, “your opponent is here before you now.”

It took Ranulf a moment to comprehend the incomprehensible, then he laughed. As preposterous as it was, a woman challenging an accomplished knight, her proposal did not surprise him—though it did amuse him—for it fit the conclusions he had wrestled with regarding her character.

Had she a death wish, then? Even if that spineless brother of hers had shown her how to swing a sword, it was inconceivable she would be proficient with such a heavy weapon. A sling, perhaps, and he mustn’t forget a dagger, but a sword?

He blinked back tears of mirth as she edged her horse nearer, indignation evident in her bearing.

“I find no humor in the situation,” she said. “Mayhap you would care to enlighten me, Baron Wardieu?”

“Doubtless, you would not appreciate my explanation, my lady.”

Her chin went up. “You think I will not make a worthy opponent?”

“With your nasty tongue, perhaps, but—”

“Then let us not prolong the suspense.” She removed the sword from its scabbard and tossed it to him.

Ranulf pulled it from the air and closed his hand around the cool metal hilt. He was taken aback as he held it aloft, for inasmuch as the weapon appeared perfectly honed on both edges, it was not the weighty sword to which he was accustomed. Indeed, it was so light that it felt awkward in his grasp.

“What is this? A child’s toy?” He twisted it side to side.

In one fluid motion, Lady Lizanne dismounted. “’Tis that which will determine whether you live or die, my lord.” Advancing on him, she drew her own sword, one identical to that which he held.

He lowered his sword’s point. “Think you I would fight a woman?”

“’Tis as we agreed.”

“I agreed to fight a man—”

“You agreed to fight the opponent of my choosing. I stand before you now ready to fulfill our bargain.”

“We have no such bargain.”

“Would you break your vow? Are you so dishonorable?”

Never had Ranulf’s honor been questioned. For King Henry and, when necessary, himself, he fought hard and well, and he carried the battle scars to attest to his valor. Still, her insult rankled.

“’Tis honor that compels me to decline,” he said.

“Honor?” She halted a few feet from him. “Methinks ‘tis your injury, coward. Surely you can still wield a sword?”

Feeling his jaw tighten, he acknowledged this woman was expert at stirring the depths of his anger. “Were you a man, you would be dead now.”

“Then imagine me a man.” She raised her sword.

The very notion was laughable. Even garbed as she was, Lady Lizanne was wholly woman.

“I fear I must decline.” He leaned on the sword. “’Twill make a fine walking stick, though.” He flexed the blade beneath his weight.

She took a step nearer. “You cannot decline!”

“Aye, and I do.”

“Then I will gut you like a pig!” She leaped forward.

Instinctively, Ranulf swept his sword up to meet hers. The strength behind her controlled swing surprised him. Had he not been prepared, her blow might well have landed across his neck.

Still, he was confident she presented no real threat. It would be easy enough to disarm her, but perhaps he would humor her a few minutes until she tired.

He smiled and, with a shove forward, pushed her sword off his.

She fell back a step and countered with a wide, arcing swing. A moment later, the point of her sword found its mark just shy of his right eye.

Ranulf clapped a hand to the thin tear that ran up into his hairline.

“Do not underestimate me!” she spat and resumed her attack.

Although he was more angry with himself than her, Ranulf’s tolerant disposition altered significantly. He had indeed underestimated her ability—and her conviction. It was ages since an opponent had landed him a blow, and to have a woman do so was an insult.

Castigating himself for his former nonchalance, he assumed a proper dueling stance and thrust his sword forward, easily knocking her next blow aside.

She recovered and, with an unladylike snarl, came at him again.

She was swift and accurate, taking full advantage of his disability, just as she had promised. Though she was well practiced and proficient with a sword, her chief advantage lay in the ease and grace with which she maneuvered. One moment she was fully to his right, the next she attacked from the left. Even so, with Ranulf’s body mass and years of experience, he easily deflected her blows, wearing her down beneath the forceful impacts with which he countered.

When she stumbled, he pressed the advantage and slashed his sword across her chest. It could have meant her death, but he was too precise for such an error. Instead, he cleanly opened her tunic and scored a thin, neat line across her collarbone.

She spared a brief glance downward before raising her sword and swinging near his midline.

Ignoring the protests of his injured leg, Ranulf sidestepped, then advanced on her. With deliberate acceleration, he drove her back, but still she fought, her tenacity sustaining her in the face of failing strength. Even when she labored for breath, now using both hands to guide her swings, she pressed onward.