Ransom My Heart (3 page)

H
ugo Fitzstephen might have spent the past decade in the Holy Land fighting for possession of Jerusalem, but that didn't mean that he himself was holy. Far from it. As ought to have been amply illustrated by the fact that he had bedded that innkeeper's wife, then refused to pay her husband recompense, as custom dictated, when the man “happened” to walk in upon the two of them.

Hugo had fled to the Crusades as the only recourse for the second son of an earl. His other option had been the monastery, which he steadfastly refused to enter, though it was his mother's fondest wish that he should seek oneness with the Lord. Hugo preferred seeking oneness with women, however, and he'd found plenty of them in the Kingdom of Jerusalem. The women of Acre, across the Jordan from Damascus, where Hugo had spent most of
the decade he'd been away from England, had a curious habit of shaving their most private areas, and that alone had been incentive enough for Hugo to stay on.

Of course, being captured in Acre by the Muslim army hadn't been part of the plan, and by the time his ransom had been paid by the Crown, Hugo was particularly disgusted with the so-called Holy Land, and with crusading in general. By then, he'd learned of the death of his elder brother, followed by the extremely strange death of their father, making Hugo the seventh Earl of Stephensgate. He decided that he might as well go home to enjoy his new title.

But so far, he hadn't had much of a chance. He'd not yet so much as glimpsed the green pastures of Shropshire, and already he was in trouble again. This time it wasn't Saracens that were pursuing him, but the husband of that particularly well-endowed blonde with whom he'd dallied in London. “Dallied” wasn't the husband's word for it, however, and he was demanding a small fortune for his “humiliation.” Hugo suspected this husband and wife worked as a team, she luring in wealthy knights, then her husband “discovering” them together and demanding recompense for his injured feelings. Well, Hugo was damned if he would give the man the satisfaction.

Now Hugo and his squire were being forced to take back roads and sheep trails to Stephensgate, avoiding the main roads for fear of being set upon by the innkeeper and his cronies. It wasn't that Hugo was afraid to fight; it was just that he'd had enough fighting in the past ten years to last him a lifetime, and wanted only to retire to his manor house and enjoy what he considered, in his twenty-fifth year, to be his old age.

Shunning inns and villages where the traitorous husband might happen upon them, Hugo and his squire slept out in the open air. Fortunately, except for the occasional thunderstorm, it was a mild
spring, and sleeping outdoors was preferable to Hugo than what most country hostelries had to offer, anyway. The cramped, dark quarters that one shared with one's mount, the stale brown bread and dank ale served for breakfast, the lice-infested bedding—no, give him a bale of sweet-smelling hay and his cloak, and he was most comfortable.

Of course, Peter, his squire, used to the comforts of London, where Hugo had acquired him upon learning of the demise of the comrade-at-arms who'd sired him, complained bitterly about this ill treatment, feeling that each night spent beneath the open sky was a personal affront. Used to the crowded and foggy streets of London, the boy was frightened of the dark English countryside, terrified that they might be set upon by wolves—or worse, highwaymen—at any given moment. Recognizing his complaints for what they were, fear somewhat inadequately masked with insolence, Hugo put up with them, but felt the moment was soon coming when he'd give the boy the cuffing he so desperately needed.

They were, by his estimates, two days from Stephensgate when he felt they might risk stopping in the small village of Leesbury for supplies. He was not concerned for himself so much as for his mount, Skinner, a well-trained destrier who had been with him through thick and thin, and deserved better than grass day in and day out. Still, Hugo had to admit to a certain longing for good English bread and cheese, all washed down by that glorious beverage of which he'd had so little in Jerusalem: beer. And there was no other way to acquire oats and beer than to venture into a town.

Peter was beside himself with glee at the prospect of returning to “civilization,” as he called it, though when he actually caught a glimpse of Leesbury, Hugo sincerely doubted he'd be impressed. After instructing his squire firmly that he was not to refer to Hugo as “my lord” in public, Hugo guided his exceptionally small en
tourage through the village gates and to the first establishment he saw that looked somewhat respectable.

Instructing the stable boy that his mounts were to get the finest oats available, and slipping a gold coin into the lad's hand to ensure it, Hugo nodded to Peter, and the two of them entered the Fox and Hare. At six and half feet tall, Hugo was an abnormally large man, and he not only had to duck his head upon passing the threshold, but turn his broad shoulders to one side in order to squeeze his bulk through the narrow doorway. His presence, however formidable, caused barely a stir with the besotted clientele inside, many of whom looked as if they, too, had spent a few nights out of doors.

With the owner of the establishment, however, it was quite a different story. Hugo's darkly tanned skin and heavily bearded face gave away the fact that he'd been in the Holy Land, and as the proprietor of the Fox and Hare knew well, no man returned from the Holy Land with empty pockets. Not relics of saints, or supposed shards of the Cross…no, religious icons held no interest for any sensible man whatsoever. It was the diamonds, the rubies, emeralds, sapphires, pearls, the gold and silver, the lapis and turquoise, the booty from Byzantium that one could almost smell on a man freshly returned from the Crusades that drew the owner of the establishment to Hugo's side immediately.

“Good afternoon, sir,” the portly innkeeper cried. “Won't you sit yourself down at this table here and refresh yourself with a pot of me sister-in-law's best ale?”

“Gladly,” Hugo replied, and indicated that Peter should sit at the table opposite him.

Peter sank gratefully into the wooden chair, feeling that finally he was being treated as the squire of a rich and powerful earl ought to be treated. The proprietor's fawning attention seemed to him only fitting, and he heartily dug into the fare that was placed
before him, the thick loaf of freshly baked bread, the deliciously creamy, slightly biting cheeses, the crisp fruits, the steaming pots of stew. As he ate, he glanced around the crowded eatery, as his master had done when they first entered, but saw naught to cause undue alarm. In all, the clientele seemed rough, though not unmanageable. Sucking the foamy head from a tankard of ale placed before him, Peter leaned back in his chair and prepared to be pampered.

Hugo, however, did not relax. Well-used to battle, he knew that one trick of the enemy was to lull one's foes into a false sense of security, then attack. Sipping the brew the innkeeper had pressed upon him, he grudgingly admitted to himself that it was, truly, the best ale he'd had in ages, but his eyes never left the faces of the people seated around him, nor did they stray far from the door.

That was how he happened to see the creature who appeared on the threshold just moments after their arrival. At first he took the small figure for that of a young boy's. Surely no woman would be immodest enough to don a pair of form-fitting leather chausses. But that's precisely, he soon realized, what it was. A woman, and a young one at that, with a face like an angel and a mop of red hair that had been tied back in a messy braid that swung past an amazingly narrow waist, down to an equally amazing heart-shaped backside, readily visible thanks to the slim-fitting chausses. No wimple for this lass, or bliaut, either. She wore a white lawn shirt that was hardly opaque, and slung across her back was, of all things, a short bow and battered quiver.

If anyone else was surprised at this apparition, he gave no sign. In fact, the innkeeper greeted her as easily as one might a sister, casually offering her a stool and handing her a tankard of ale. And indeed, the sight of this comely—one could easily say beautiful—woman in boyish garb caused no more comment than a few laconic how-d'ye-dos. Glancing at Peter, Hugo realized that his
squire, at least, was appropriately appreciative of this auburntressed vision.

“Slay me,” the boy breathed, gazing over the rim of his tankard. “But that's a
maiden
.”

“And an uncommon fair one, at that.” Hugo shook his head, relieved that Peter was as shocked as he was. Ten years ago, when he'd left England, young women did not traipse about the countryside in men's clothing, and certainly did not frequent hostelries unaccompanied. So things hadn't changed around here as drastically as Hugo had at first thought.

The girl, then, must be a local eccentric, her odd ways accepted because they were familiar. Perhaps she was, in some way, related to the innkeeper. The two were engaged in easy conversation that seemed to be centered around the good fortune of someone named Robert. After a moment or two, the proprietor pointed to Hugo and said something in a hushed voce that caused the girl to turn her head in Hugo's direction.

He suddenly found himself raked by a gaze so piercing that, incredibly, he felt his cheeks warming. Women in Acre, though they might have shaved their privates, were too modest to look a strange man in the eye, and he was unused to such direct scrutiny. Lucky for him his thick blond beard hid his blushing cheeks.

As quickly as he was pointed out he was dismissed, the girl's restless gaze moving away from him and toward Peter, who choked on his mouthful of beer when he noticed the direction of the girl's look. Then the damned innkeeper was approaching, wanting to know if there was anything else he could get them.

“Nothing too good for our men fighting the good fight,” was how he put it, making it perfectly clear that he knew Hugo was back from the Holy War. “If there's anything I can get you, anything at all, you just call out.”

Catching the man's arm before he could move away, Hugo
pulled him down so that the innkeeper's ear was level with his lips. “Who,” he demanded in his deepest voice, the one that brooked no disobedience, “is the maid in the lad's attire?”

The innkeeper looked surprised. “Finn?” He glanced over at the girl, who fortunately was looking the other way. “You mean Finnula? My brother, what owns an inn in Stephensgate down the road, is married to her sister.
Everyone
knows the Fair Finn.”

As if to prove his point, an old crone who had been huddled by the hearth, in spite of the fine weather out of doors, got up and pulled on the sleeve of the girl's white lawn shirt. With practiced grace, the maid called Finnula flipped the crone a mark, and the hag cackled happily as she caught it, and went back to the fire.

“See that?” the innkeeper said happily. “Like I said, everyone knows Finnula Crais, the miller's daughter. Finest shot in Shropshire.”

This was hardly a satisfactory answer, but Hugo handed the man a coin for it, just the same. Stumbling away, massaging his arm where Hugo had gripped it in his massive, ironlike fist, the innkeeper glanced down at the weight of the coin in his hand, and hesitated. It was a solid gold piece, the kind he hadn't seen in…well,
ever
. Like a man in a daze, he passed a couple of laggards at a nearby table, nearly tripping over their outstretched legs as he went by. When one of roughly garbed yeoman laughed a rebuke, the innkeeper righted himself and apologized, showing them the coin. The two drunkards whistled appreciatively, but it was the girl, noticing the exchange, who swung her intensely direct gaze upon Hugo once more.

Beneath the table, Peter kicked him.

“Look at that,” the squire hissed. “That's twice she's looked this way. I think she likes me!”

“Get up,” Hugo said woodenly. “We're leaving.”

“What? But we only just got here!”

“We're leaving,” Hugo said again. “We've attracted enough attention to ourselves.”

Grumbling, Peter shoved bits of bread and cheese into his pockets, then tossed back the remainder of his ale. Hugo flung a few coins on the table, not even bothering to look at the denomination, then picked up his cloak and began to stride from the room, willing himself not to glance in the girl's direction again.

But he got no farther than the threshold before a raspy voice called out, “Oh, sir? I'm believin' ye've forgotten somethin'.”

Hugo didn't have to turn around. He'd heard the brief scuffle, and, assuming it was only the innkeeper diving for the coins he'd tossed upon the table, had ignored it. Clearly, however, it hadn't been the Fox and Hare's proprietor who'd been responsible for all that scuffling.

Straightening, his eyes narrowing dangerously, Hugo laid a hand upon his sword hilt and said, still not turning around, “Let the lad go.”

Behind him, the two drunken cutthroats chuckled. “Let 'im go, sir? Aye, we'll let 'im go. Fer a price.”

Sighing, Hugo turned. He was so tired of violence, so very sick of death. He didn't want to kill the two village louts who had hold of his squire. Time past, he'd have slit their throats and laughed about it later. Not now. He had seen so much needless death during the Crusades that he could no longer kill so much as a moth without regret.

But that was not to say he wouldn't slit a throat if forced to.

The two men who'd been lounging at the table nearest Hugo's were on their feet, albeit unsteadily, and the bigger one had a heavy arm drape about young Peter's neck. Peter, for his part, was struggling against the viselike grip; his boyish face had turned a rather unnatural shade of crimson. He had been caught
completely unawares, and for that would suffer both at the hands of these louts, and later, his master's.

“Don't mind me, sir,” Peter choked, his thin hands wrapped around the burly arm that strangled him. “Go on, save yourself. I'm not worth it—”