Margaret Moore - [Maiden & Her Knight 03] (17 page)

Isabelle simply couldn’t bear another moment in that horrible hall, where she was the object of the Brabancons’ lustful glances, Osburn’s drunken rants and the serving wenches snickers and snide looks. She was even weary of Denis’s perpetually cheerful banter.

She was determined to go out this morning, and without Denis trailing after her like a faithful dog. She would have to be careful, and she didn’t expect to get far, but she was going to do it.

She waited until Denis was talking to Kiera and those Brabancons who were still in the hall were either arguing with each other, or teasing the hounds, or flirting with the serving wenches. Then she slipped out.

To find plenty of other Brabancons loitering in the courtyard.

That could not be helped, and since she didn’t really want to raise anyone’s suspicions, it was probably just as well, she thought as she wandered toward the ruined chapel.

Ever since Alexander had departed, she had been afraid of what he would discover at Bellevoire. Allis and Connor would be delighted to hear she was safe, of course, and they would surely agree to pay any ransom Alexander DeFrouchette demanded, but what about when he returned, knowing he had abducted the wrong woman? She could envision his terrible wrath, and even though she didn’t believe he would physically hurt her, she didn’t want to be here to find out. Therefore, she must escape tonight. She
would
escape tonight.

She raised her head and looked at the wall walk nearest the tower. Yes, if she stayed in the shadows, it would be difficult for the sentries to see her from the opposite—

Somebody tapped her on the shoulder. She twisted, ready to tell Denis that she was just getting a breath of fresh air.

Heinrich grabbed her shoulders and backed her against the rough stone wall of the chapel, blocking her with his bulky body.

This close, he looked even uglier, and crueler, and his disgusting stench made her want to retch. She tried to sidestep him, but he got in front of her again.

Isabelle hid her fear behind her dignity. “Let me go.”

Heinrich’s lips curved up in a disgusting leer, and his eyes gleamed like a fevered wolf. “What, you prefer that scrawny little Frenchman’s company to that of a real man?”

“My
preference
has nothing to do with it. He has been following me since DeFrouchette left, taking his master’s place.”

“Until now. Your guardian is gone, so now it is my turn to enjoy your company.”

Denis appeared behind Heinrich.

The sight of him did little to lessen her fear. Heinrich outweighed him by eight stone at least, and the Brabancons were notoriously fierce, rough fighters. It was said they would even use their teeth.

“You are not to touch her, or Alexander will make you regret it,” Denis declared.

Heinrich stepped away from Isabelle to face Denis. She saw her chance and started to sidle along the wall away from them.

Heinrich chuckled, a low, horrible sound like a troll laughing. “You may be DeFrouchette’s slave, but I am not, and I fear no man. I have decided this woman should learn her place.”

Even as he shrugged, Denis’s hand went to the handle of the dagger shoved through his belt. “If you want to be a fool and risk my friend’s anger, so be it. I do not think Osburn will be pleased if you accost this lady, either.”

Heinrich’s bushy brows lowered. “You think he can stop me any better than you can? Do you think you or any man can keep me from what I want?”

“I think you would not be wise to upset the son of the man who hired you.”

“I’m not afraid of Oswald, either.”

“Perhaps not, but you would risk not being paid for a woman? Or have I heard wrong, and you have been paid all you are owed by Lord Oswald?” When Heinrich didn’t answer, Denis grinned. “I think not. There are plenty of women, many more than there are rich men who can afford your price, I’m sure, so should you not think twice about upsetting a rich man?”

“You may be right, Gascon.”

Then Heinrich’s face contorted with anger and he lunged forward. He grabbed Denis’s tunic by the collar. The garment twisted about Denis’s throat and lifted his arms so that he couldn’t get hold of his dagger. “Or maybe you are enjoying the lady’s favors and do not want to share.”

Isabelle stopped creeping away.

A swift glance showed that all eyes were on Heinrich and Denis. With no clear thought for what she was doing, she ran forward and took hold of the hilt of Heinrich’s sword with both hands. As he felt her close by and twisted to see what was happening, she managed to draw the heavy weapon from its scabbard, grunting with the effort.

“Stop!” she cried as she lifted the dull gray blade and put the tip against Heinrich’s spine.

In a single motion, Heinrich let go and spun around, knocking the sword from her hand with a blow as another man would swat away a fly. It skittered across the cobblestones to rest near another Brabancon’s booted foot. The man reached down to grab it while Heinrich closed on her, his teeth bared with anger like the beast he was.

Gulping for air, Denis pulled out his dagger. “Leave her alone, or I shall kill you!” he cried, rushing the German.

He tried to strike, but the man was quick, despite his size. Heinrich whirled around and shouted to the Brabancon holding his sword. The man tossed it to him, and he deftly caught it. The hulking mercenary and lithe Gascon began circling, each watching the other without so much as a blink.

Osburn and Kiera appeared at the entrance to the hall, drawn by the commotion. From that vantage point, Osburn saw the two men, but he made no move to stop their fight, while Kiera turned away and hurried back inside.

They were not the only spectators. Some of the Brabancons laughed, clearly expecting Denis to lose.

Isabelle feared that, too, and the thought sickened her as much as Heinrich’s stench. She searched for something—anything—to use as a weapon. She would rip up a cobblestone if she had to.

She spotted a large stone that had fallen from the wall of the chapel and sidled toward it, being careful not to draw any attention away from the combatants and praying to God to watch over Denis until she could help him.

Heinrich charged, swinging his blade in a mighty blow—that missed, for the agile Gascon jumped nimbly out the way. Then he ran past the bigger man, lashing out with his dagger.

Bellowing with rage, Heinrich looked at the tear in his sleeve and the growing patch of blood. “Now you
will
die, you maggot!”

Isabelle bent down and grabbed the rock. Tension fairly hummed along her limbs as she waited for her chance.

With another bellow like an enraged bull, Heinrich raised his sword and swung at Denis. Denis cried out, blood staining his tunic from the wound on his arm. The Brabancons grew silent, watching with the bloodlust of carrion creatures waiting for the end.

There was no more time to waste. Isabelle sprinted forward and struck the back of Heinrich’s head with all her might. The man groaned and staggered forward, then collapsed facedown on the cobblestones, blood oozing from the back of his head.

As Isabelle stood panting and the rock fell from her hand, Osburn shoved his way through the Brabancons. He nudged Heinrich with his foot, then used his toe to roll him over. He bent down to get a closer look at the man’s staring eyes. “God’s blood,” he muttered with disbelief. “She’s killed him.”

I
ngar’s ship rose and fell as it skimmed across the ocean. Alexander, standing at its stern, gripped the gunwale to steady himself. The wind-whipped sea churned and frothed, and the sail billowed taut, straining the single line of rigging. Clouds scudded across the gray sky as swiftly as a hawk diving for its prey.

Yet neither the wind nor the seething sea, nor the apparently imminent storm, dampened the spirits of the Norsemen. It was as if they relished the terrible weather, and Ingar especially fairly reveled in it.

When Alexander had returned to the ship, Ingar had been disappointed that he had not been followed, muttering something about his men needing a good fight before they grew as rusty as old rivets. That might explain his fiendish delight in the stormy weather.

Or perhaps he appreciated the speed the wind gave his vessel more than the danger, or saw this as an opportunity to demonstrate his skill. His men seemed relieved not to have to row, and it was obvious they had no fear that the wind would tear the sail asunder, as he did. He also feared that the shallow drafted vessel would be capsized by a wave.

Ingar laughed, shouted something, and then deliberately steered the ship so that it was broadsided by another wave. His men got soaked and they cursed, shook their fists and raged, but there was no real anger or malice in it. They seemed to be enjoying the tilting of the ship as much as Ingar, while Alexander felt like he was in a cart driven by a madman and pulled by a runaway horse.

“Is this some kind of Norse game?” Alexander cried above the wind.

“What, is a great big Norman like you afraid of a little salt water?” Ingar shouted in reply. A wide grin slashed his face, which was glistening with droplets from the spray. “This is nothing. We have sailed through worse a hundred times, and Olaf needed a bath. By Woden’s beard, this is what we live for—a fine wind and a fast ship! Give me this rather than staying on shore, waiting for some spoiled nobleman to decide to sail.”

Alexander squinted at him through the spray. “His father pays you well to wait and be at his command, does he not?”

“He has to, to make us waste the summer months on land and not on voyages of trade.”

Pillage and plunder
, Alexander silently amended as he wrapped his cloak around himself, although it was as damp with spray as Ingar’s face.

Once more Ingar heeled the ship, and Alexander had to grab the gunwale to keep from going over the side. When he shot the Norseman a filthy look, Ingar threw back his head and laughed as he leaned on the tiller.

Enough was enough.

Alexander let go of the vessel’s side and made his way across the heaving deck toward Ingar. Once there, he stood with his feet planted, an arm’s length from the gunwale so that he would not be tempted to grab hold and show his fear. “Are you so bored you are trying to drown me for your amusement?”

“I am not trying to drown you,” Ingar objected as he leaned on the tiller and soaked half his crew. “My men need waking up. So long on land has left them sleepy.”

“Then it is for them you steer this vessel like a madman, and not to send me over the side to a watery grave?”

Ingar grinned. “Man to man, would you blame me if I did? Then I could have that woman for myself.”

“Osburn won’t sell her to you,” Alexander replied with far more confidence than he felt. In truth, there was very little he would put past that spoiled, greedy drunkard.

“You don’t think so? By Thor’s hammer, you are a poor judge of men if you think not.”

“His father would be angry.”

“For enough gold, that one would risk a father’s rage, and I would give him plenty for her.” Again, Ingar steered toward a wave. Again his men shouted and cursed and laughed, the one who must be Olaf shaking his fist at Ingar.

“He’s too afraid of his father.”

“And I tell you, you don’t know men, my friend. He will take the money and flee, for it would be enough to free him from his father forever. He is like a spoiled dog who will not hesitate to bite his master’s hand if he thinks he will be able to run away afterward. If it were between him and me, that woman would already be mine.”

“It is not. As I have told you, she is not for sale.”

Ingar grinned. “Out of respect for you, I have not made another offer, nor will I.”

Respect. That was something Alexander had craved his whole life, and now, apparently, he had it—from a Norse brigand who wouldn’t hesitate to buy an abducted woman.

Ingar pointed, and Alexander made out landfall on the horizon. “We are nearly there.”

Alexander had never been so happy to see distant hills in his life.

Keeping his gaze on the horizon, Ingar said, “If you wanted to take her, that fool Osburn couldn’t stop you, or his Brabancons, either. You’re too good a fighter, and those Brabancons are not.”

Alexander didn’t mask his surprise at this observation. “They are the scourge of Europe.”