Margaret Moore - [Maiden & Her Knight 03] (2 page)

Alexander gripped the hilt of the sword beneath his cloak, for in truth, he was not calm; he was more tense than he had ever been in his life, with one memorable exception, for much depended on what happened this day. However, he did not want Denis to know how uneasy he was. “I could come up with another plan.”

The Gascon put his hand over his heart and assumed the look of a martyr about to be led to his tortured end. “
Non!
I will go with you, though it means my death.”

“You won’t die,” Alexander replied dryly. “If I have cause to believe we will fail today, we will leave and try another tactic.”

When or what he did not know, but one way or another, he wouldn’t leave this land without the wife of Sir Connor.

“However, Denis, since you are so concerned, I’ll slouch—a little.”

They both fell silent at the sound of jingling and clanging from the road. Looking through the trees, they spied a man driving a cart with pots and other iron items hanging outside it, moving toward the village. The tinker was a short, stocky fellow who looked half asleep.

They watched him drive by, then Denis squatted on his haunches, a position he was able to assume for a long time. Just looking at him made Alexander’s knees ache.

“Did you not say that you are the image of your father?” Denis asked, even more worried than before, it seemed. “If the likeness is pronounced, the villagers might guess who you are, and then they will wonder why you have come, and they might inform this Sir Connor—”

“Denis, why else do you think I am wearing this cursed hood?” Alexander growled, his friend’s Cassandra-like croaking increasing his tension. “I know the risks of what we’re about to do, and I’ve considered the things that could go wrong. Now either be quiet or go back to the horses.”

Denis didn’t speak for the next several moments, the quiet proving more disconcerting than Denis’s fearful warnings. “Give me the sack,” Alexander said at last, breaking the silence.

Denis rose and handed over the large cloth bag he had tucked through his belt. Usually such sacks were used to carry fleeces for measuring after they were cut from sheep and rolled. “You think she will fit in this?” he asked as he returned to sitting on his haunches.

“She should, unless she weighs over two hundred pounds. That’s how much a wool sack like this will hold,” Alexander replied, sticking the sack through his belt at the back. He had his sword hanging on his left; on his right, a rag with which to gag the lady and some lengths of rope to bind her; and now the sack. He felt like the tinker’s cart.

Denis laughed softly, and as always when he laughed, his brown eyes became narrow slits in his face and dimples appeared in his cheeks, making him look like a mischievous boy. “I am sure she does not weigh that much.”

“She’d better not, for I have a long way to carry her.”

Finally a group of people approached the curve—a family bound for market, by the look of them. A thin, grizzled farmer and his plump wife with a basket over her arm led the way. Behind them came a young woman who had to be the woman’s daughter, they were so alike. Any man who courted her would know exactly how she would look in twenty years. She, too, carried a basket, which she occasionally swung at a lad walking beside her. They were having some kind of argument, but not loud enough to attract their parents’ notice.

He could see another wagon bearing a load of hay about half a mile back and behind that, what seemed to be another family. Soon enough, they could saunter out onto the road without attracting undue notice and join the general crowd going to the village.

He waited until the second family passed by. “Now,” he whispered, and they slipped out of the trees and strolled along the rutted road as if they had been there all the time.

Soon they were in the bustling marketplace of Bellevoire, which was an even more sizable and prosperous town than Alexander had expected. Several of the buildings were stone, like the castle; others were half timbered and plastered with lime, making a sharp contrast between the exposed wood and the rest of the structure. Several had more than one story, too, later additions that hinted at increased revenue for the owners. In many of these, the bottom level had large windows with shutters that became stalls when the shutters were removed. Along with the permanent buildings around the green, which also included a large establishment that had to be a tavern and a smithy, there were several wagons serving as temporary stalls. In and around these, well-fed peasants wandered, the women with reed baskets in their hands for their purchases. Children chased each other, and dogs nosed interesting bits of refuse.

Keeping his head lowered and his shoulders rounded as Denis had suggested, Alexander peered out from beneath his hood. Pretending to be interested in the merchandise on display in the stalls or wagons, he was really surveying the merchants.

He also noted several soldiers among the crowd, no doubt from the castle. As he and Denis paused a moment beneath the overhang of one of the two-storied buildings, he contemplated leaving until he realized that the soldiers seemed no more watchful than the gossiping women clustered around the well.

Sir Connor must feel very secure.

That thought renewed his purpose, and Alexander gestured for Denis to follow him. They left the shadow of the overhang and wandered about the green.

Finally he saw a peddler who would suit his purpose. The man’s goods were set up in the perfect place, in front of an alley between two of the taller buildings. On a small trestle table in front of his covered cart were ribbons and the sorts of little baubles women liked to purchase. The man himself looked on edge, and his red, bulbous nose told Alexander that not only was he a man who drank much, and often, but he was also very thirsty already although it was not even close to midday.

Alexander went on a little way, then halted near the entrance to the tavern and out of the way of the people walking by.

“The ribbon peddler is the man we want,” he murmured as Denis joined him. He nodded ever so slightly at the merchant they had passed. He reached into his thin purse and pulled out three silver coins. “Get him as much wine as this will buy, Denis.”

His countenance serious and sure, Denis nodded. “
Oui, mon ami
. He will be able to make merry for some time with this.”

“That’s just what I am counting on,” Alexander said as he gave his friend the money.

In the lord’s chamber in the southern tower of Bellevoire, Lady Isabelle’s brow knit with concern as she sat upon a delicately carved chair and regarded her sister Allis, who was still abed. Feminine articles were scattered upon a dressing table nearby, while a pair of scuffed black boots lay beside a battered wooden chest bossed with brass studs. A gray woolen tunic had been hastily tossed over it. A colorful tapestry of bright red, greens and blues depicting a Christmas feast covered the north wall.

The morning sunlight came in through the high, narrow windows that faced south. It lit their faces, alike enough to pronounce that they were related, although Lady Allis was considered the more beautiful. Isabelle, it was said, was pretty and vivacious but lacked the cool poise of her older sister. It was generally accepted that this was why there were, as yet, no serious suitors for the younger sister of the wife of Sir Connor of Bellevoire.

“Are you certain you don’t want me to stay with you?” Isabelle asked, her hands folded on her lap as she leaned forward intently. “It is no trouble.”

Under a satin coverlet of green as pale as the first leaves of spring, Allis leaned back against a bevy of goosedown pillows. Her hair, a thick mass of blond lighter in color than Isabelle’s, tumbled about her shoulders and over her white silken shift. Her eyes were clear and her color good, for she was not ill.

She was with child at last, after three years of marriage.

“I’ll be fine in a little while,” Allis assured her. “It is nothing more than morning sickness.”

Isabelle smiled, then folded back the long, silk-lined cuffs of her berry red samite gown, trying not to show that she was still worried in spite of Allis’s confidence. After all this time, she wanted everything to go well. She knew Allis did, too, of course, but it was different when one merely looked on.

“You are as bad as Connor, you know,” Allis said, her eyes shining with love as she spoke of her husband in a way that made Isabelle want to sigh.

“He fusses over me far too much,” Allis continued, a look on her face that was annoyed and yet pleased, too. “Although he agrees that it is too soon to announce my state, people are going to suspect the reason why if he keeps acting as he does.”

Isabelle rose from the chair, picked up her brother-in-law’s tunic from on top of the chest and began to fold it. “He can’t help fussing. He loves you.”

Allis drew her knees up and wrapped her arms about them. “As I love him. I know he’s anxious because it has taken so long, but I tell you, my secret will not be a secret for long the way he’s carrying on. And if anything were to happen, his disappointment would be enough to bear without everyone in the village and castle offering me their condolences.”

Feeling guilty for sharing her fears even a little, Isabelle opened the lid of the bossed chest and laid the folded tunic inside. Her long, thick braid, with its end encased in a bronze tip, fell over her shoulder, and she deftly tossed it back as she faced Allis again. “What should I tell people if they ask where you are this morning? They will miss you in the market.”

“Just say I am a little unwell. Something I ate, perhaps. You’ll think of something. You always do. Besides, somebody I trust must go with Connor. I’ve asked him to get me a blue ribbon to go with my new gown, and you know you can’t really leave such things to a man.”

Isabelle regarded her sister with apparent gravity, her hands clasped like a dutiful servant. “Is there anything else you’d like me to order your husband to buy for you?” she inquired.

Allis grinned, for she knew full well that Isabelle’s manner and question were not meant to be taken seriously. “Well, since you ask, perhaps one to go with my green gown with the round neckline, too, if they are reasonably priced.” She tilted her head and mused a moment, likewise seemingly serious. “You know, this is a very good idea. The merchants might think they could cheat a man, but you can simply put on that innocent face and get a far better price.”

“What, this face?” Isabelle asked, widening her eyes, raising the corners of her lips in what was almost a jester’s grin and fluttering her lashes as if she had a piece of dirt in her eye.

“Exactly,” Allis confirmed with a nod of her head. “If you look at them like that, they’ll probably
give
you the ribbons.”

Isabelle straightened a few of the items on the dressing table, putting away a brooch in its sandalwood box, moving a candleholder further back. “I will gladly go alone,” she offered as she glanced at her sister. “Then Connor could stay with you.”

Allis shook her head. “It will only take a few moments from his day and it’s good for the people to see their overlord in such a casual way. It makes them more likely to come to him with their troubles, and prevents strife.”

“You’re sure?” This time, Isabelle was serious as she faced her sister.

“Very.” Allis smiled with that secret wistfulness that tugged at Isabelle’s heart and made her yearn for a love of her own. “I want everyone to be as happy as I am.”

“I fear that is impossible,” Isabelle replied with a laugh. Her tone, however, was a little strained as she tried to shake off the sudden sense of despondency that thinking of love and marriage always brought. Her suitors had been lackluster at best. There had been the unfortunate Percival, who had cared for her far more than she had for him before he died. Sir Auberan de Beaumartre had also harbored a passion she had not reciprocated, and the foolish young man had gotten involved in a conspiracy against King Richard that had resulted in his banishment.

Isabelle had admired Connor’s good looks and deep, melodious Welsh voice. Yet as she had come to understand the deep feelings her sister had for the once-impoverished Welshman, she had also realized that he did not stir any similar depth of emotion in her. He was handsome and worthy of admiration, but he did not inspire passion.

In her heart of hearts, she knew that was what she was really waiting for: a man who could rouse her passion as well as her admiration.

“You will fall in love one day, Isabelle,” Allis assured her.

“Well, if no suitable potential groom appears, I shall simply travel from town to town with my innocent face,” she said, clasping her hands together like a fervent penitent. Batting her lashes, she finished in an anxious simper, “Is there anybody here in want of a wife?”

Her eyes sparkling with merriment, Allis waggled her finger. “They might say yes, and then where would you be?”

“Betrothed,” Isabelle answered with a curtsey, moving her skirt with a graceful air as she bent her knees. She straightened, and the folds of the gown fell back in place. “However, since I do not wish to be
merely
betrothed, I am content to wait.”

Which was true. She would rather be alone than miserably wed.

“Good! I want my sister to be as happily married as I am, and that means you must not settle for just anyone.”

Isabelle tucked her hands into her cuffs as if she were a novice in a nunnery and bowed. “Amen,” she intoned.