Margaret Moore - [Maiden & Her Knight 03] (18 page)

“Because they are ruthless, like Berserkers. But risk their lives for one woman? None of them will want to die for that, unless they are very well paid.” Still holding the tiller in his powerful hands, Ingar regarded Alexander gravely. “
You
would die for that woman.”

Alexander told himself to ignore Ingar’s words. “The lady is going back to her husband. I want the ransom, not her.”

Ingar turned his attention to the rocks guarding the entrance of the bay, now looming closer. “If you say so. But if the money is not enough to satisfy you, I offer you a place in my crew. We sail far to the south as well as to the north, and there are plenty of beautiful women between here and there.”

Maybe there were, but it was not Lady Allis’s beauty alone he admired. It had sparked his desire, yet what he felt for her now was far more than physical craving, although that burned strong, too. It was her spirit, her refusal to yield, even her defiance of his advice, that made him admire her.

They said no more as Ingar concentrated on getting past the rocks. As the ship rounded the farthest one and shot into the calmer waters of the bay, he shouted another order. His soaking men leapt to their feet to lower the sail, and then the mast.

Despite Ingar’s confidence, Alexander heaved a sigh of relief that they had arrived safely. Through the commotion on deck, he spotted Denis waiting on the wharf. The Gascon was hard to miss, and not because his cloak was snapping behind him like a pennant.

“Your friend looks like a flea on the back of a burning dog,” Ingar noted as he aimed his vessel toward the wharf. He gave Alexander a speculative look. “Or as if he’s missed a lover.”

Alexander was too concerned with Denis’s agitated state to take any notice of the implication. “Something has happened. Can you dock any faster?”

“Be patient, Norman.”

Alexander was in no mood to be patient. He strode toward the bow, shoving out of the way any Norseman who interfered with his progress. They muttered and grumbled, but he paid no heed to them.

Maybe Denis had been unable to protect Lady Allis. Maybe she had enraged Osburn or Heinrich so much that they had killed her. Maybe she had escaped. Maybe she had indeed sprouted wings like an angel and flown away. He could believe almost anything where that lady was concerned, and despite his stake in returning her for ransom, he would rather she had escaped than be hurt or raped or killed.

His gaze swept the shore and the ruined castle beyond. The Norse encampment looked as he had left it, save that there was no smoke from any fire. The heads of sentries moved above the battlements without haste or alarm. All was as he might have expected, except for Denis’s excitement.

The instant the vessel drew up beside the wharf, Alexander jumped over the side. “What’s amiss?” he demanded as Denis hurried toward him.

“I thought you would never get back!” Denis cried as he grabbed hold of Alexander’s arm to drag him toward the shore.

Alexander shook him off. He didn’t need any physical coercion to make haste; Denis’s manner was quite enough. “Is she dead?” he asked as he strode toward the beach.

If she was, whoever had done it was as good as in his grave, including Osburn, despite his powerful father.

“Not yet,” Denis replied, panting as he trotted beside Alexander across the slippery pebbles.

Thank God
. The relief took the ferocity from the worst of his rage, until the other import of Denis’s response hit him. “What do you mean,
not yet?
”

“Osburn has imprisoned her in the northeast tower, in a dungeon there. A dank, cold place, Kiera says.”

“I
will
kill him,” Alexander muttered. What Osburn had done sounded like a slow death.

Denis grabbed his arm. “Stop a moment, Alexander!”

Alexander whirled on him. “Why?”

“Because you do not know what happened, and until you do, it would not be wise to go off in such a temper.”

Alexander put his fists on his hips. “What happened?”

“She killed Heinrich.”

Dumbfounded, Alexander’s hands fell limply to his side as he stared at Denis.
“What?”

“She hit him on the head with a stone when he was—”

Alexander’s ire returned tenfold. “Trying to rape her?” He pivoted on his heel to continue on his way. “By God, it’s good she did!”

Denis ran in front of him and put his hands on Alexander’s chest to make him stop again. He stared hard into his friend’s furious face. “He was fighting
me
, Alexander. He had done no harm to her.”

Alexander stared.

“
Oui
, I know—a woman defending me. It is nearly enough to make a man ashamed, and I could have taken him eventually if she had not interfered. But she did.”

God save him, she had done more than
interfere
. To think any woman would take it upon herself to attack a Brabancon. “What exactly happened, Denis?” Alexander asked, a little calmer now.

“He accosted her, so I challenged him. We were fighting and he wounded me.”

“Wounded?”

Denis nodded and pointed to his arm. “Not too bad, and Kiera did a good job of bandaging it.”

He didn’t want to hear about Kiera. “Go on.”

“Then Lady Allis came up behind Heinrich and hit him with a rock. Whether she meant to kill him or not, she did. Osburn had her thrown in that dungeon, without food and only enough water to keep her alive. That was three days ago. She has been there ever since, untouched but surely suffering.”

As furious as this news made him, there were more reactions than Osburn’s to be considered. “And Heinrich’s men?”

That query brought the ghost of a smile to Denis’s face. “It seems there is not much love or loyalty among the Brabancons. They only cared about who would take his place as their leader.”

Rain began to fall, huge drops that splattered on the pebbles at their feet. Without another word, Alexander started again for the fortress.

“What of Sir Connor?” Denis asked breathlessly as he hurried along behind him. “Will he pay?”

“Yes.”

“What did he do when he saw who had brought him the ransom demand?”

“Very little.”

“It does not sound as satisfying as you had hoped,” Denis murmured as they came near the postern gate where two Brabancons stood on guard.

Alexander didn’t answer.

The two guards at the postern gate moved out to meet him. Both were as rough-looking as any other Brabancon. One of them had only one eye, with a terrible scar where the other ought to have been. The other, younger and leaner, looked as if he hadn’t washed since childhood.

Alexander halted in front of them. “Let us pass.”

“So you’re back, eh?” the one-eyed man said with the accent of a Scot. His gaze flicked to Denis.

“Let … us … pass,” Alexander repeated very slowly and deliberately.

The younger one came to stand beside his companion. He watched Alexander warily, but the one-eyed man stood his ground. “Maybe I will and maybe I won’t.”

Quick as a fox, Alexander knocked the younger one to the ground. In the next moment, he had the other up against the wall, his forearm across his neck.

Alexander glanced over his shoulder and was pleased to see Denis holding the younger one down with a knee on his chest, his dagger at the man’s throat.

Alexander returned his attention to the man in front of him. “You should have let us pass,” he growled, pressing his arm against the man’s wide neck.

When he let him go, the man scowled and rubbed his throat.

Denis straightened. “You men will have to learn that it is best not to enrage my friend,” he said with a satisfied grin as he sheathed his dagger. “He has a very savage temper.”

Then he realized Alexander had gone ahead without him.

By the time Denis caught up to him, Alexander was already halfway to the northeast tower. Another guard was at the entrance. A ring with two heavy iron keys hung from his belt.

Expecting trouble, Alexander drew his sword.

The guard’s expression betrayed only mild curiosity.

“Open it,” Alexander ordered, his grip tightening on the hilt of his weapon as his blood sang with the urge to strike this man—any man—who was responsible for Lady Allis’s imprisonment in that dungeon.

“On whose orders?”

“Mine.”

The man looked from Alexander’s face to his hand on the hilt of his sword and quickly opened the door. He took a torch out of a rusting sconce. He kindled it, then led the way down into the dank, fetid darkness. Water dripped down the walls as they made their way down the slick stairs.

Osburn had put Lady Allis in this hellhole? Alexander’s anger surged and burned hotter than any rage he had ever felt in his life. If Osburn had suddenly appeared before him on the stairs, he would have squeezed the life out of him with his bare hands.

They reached the lowest level, where they all had to slouch or risk hitting their heads on the ceiling, even Denis. There was one door, of surprisingly stout oak.

After the guard unlocked it, Alexander snatched the torch and kicked the door open. He entered—and found a dirty, disheveled lady with a stool raised in her trembling hand, ready to bring it down on his head.

Leaning back against the wall as if her legs had lost the strength to support her, her eyes widened, and she slowly lowered the stool.

She was pale, her full lips cracked from thirst, and he hoped the gleaming of her eyes was only from her usual spirit, and not the sign of disease.

Dismay overwhelmed his rage. Before he did another thing, he must remove her from this place and see that she was tended to. He reached out to take the stool from her. “Denis!”

His hand over his mouth and nose in a futile attempt to block the stench, his friend stuck his head in the chamber.
“Oui?”

“Take this torch.” Alexander shoved it at him, almost setting the Frenchman alight in the process.

Her eyes closed. Rushing forward, he caught her in his arms and lifted her up before she fell to the ground.

She had fainted. For the first time during all this, she had swooned.

Paying no attention to anyone else, he carried her out the door and up the steps. She was light in his arms, and as he went out into the courtyard, he studied her dirty face. She looked as if she slumbered peacefully, safe and secure in his embrace.

Oh, God, what he would not give to have it so! For a week. A day. An hour.

But she must hate him because of what he had done. And she was married to another, the destroyer of his future.

The old anger and injured pride did not rise up as he thought of Sir Connor. Now he felt only shame and remorse. If injustice had been done, he had chosen the wrong means to reparation, and this valiant woman had suffered for that mistake.

As he held her in his arms, it was not the title or the castle or even a father’s love that he envied Sir Connor.

It was his wife.

He kicked open the door to the hall and saw Osburn sprawled in his chair before the hearth. Then ire returned, bright and hot and strong as he strode into the building. The serving wenches and Brabancons stared and whispered, yet none made any move to intervene or stop him.

Osburn lurched to his feet, paying no heed to the wineskin that fell off his lap, or the wine spilling out and staining the rushes red as blood. “You’re … you’ve … what did Connor say?”

“He’ll pay.”

Osburn tried to focus on Alexander’s burden.

“What are you doing? I gave orders that she was to stay—”

“To hell with your orders, Osburn.”

Kiera came around the screen and gasped.

“Bring food and wine and hot water to her chamber,” Alexander commanded, ignoring Osburn.

Kiera glanced at her drunken lover, then hurried to the kitchen to obey. Osburn fell back in his chair and, with a hint of wisdom, said no more as Alexander continued to the tower.

He took the steps two at a time, and when he reached her chamber door, he shoved it open with his shoulder.

He was surprised that this room was furnished in a manner suitable for a noble lady, as it was supposed to be. In this, at least, Lord Oswald had kept his word.

Alexander was at the bed in three strides, and he gently laid her upon it. He spotted a basin on the table. Relieved to find clean water in it, he looked for a cloth, but saw none. He went to the chest and threw it open.

Nothing suitable to bathe her face.

He removed his cloak, then took out his dagger and used it to rip off a part of it. He threw the rest of the damp garment over the chest, then fetched the basin. Sitting beside her on the bed, he put one leg around the basin, so that it rested in the crook of his knee.

With swift, deft movements that came from much practice, he wet the cloth, wrung it out and began to wipe her face.

He began with her dry, cracked lips. Her lovely lips, that he had kissed. That Sir Connor had kissed often and while making love to her because as her husband, he had that right.