White Lion's Lady (11 page)

They attracted scarcely the mildest of interest as they passed, the villeins more focused on returning their goats and cattle to their pens for the eve than they were on the bedraggled pair of pilgrims. Nor did anyone take notice when, near the outskirts of the retiring burgh, Griff slowed his mount and walked it off the road toward one of the village’s storage barns.

“Where are you going?” Isabel asked quietly as he dismounted,
the first words she had spoken to him since they had stopped earlier in the day. “Are we to stay here for the night?”

“ ’Tis as good a place as any,” Griff answered as he pulled her from the saddle.

He tried the door of the outbuilding and was pleased to find it unlatched. Inside, the large shed was dark and warm. It smelled invitingly of fresh hay and fleece, the vague oily-musky scent wafting off the bales of wool that were stored there from the last shearing. The spacious barn held ample room for the both of them and Griff’s horse, a fine alternative indeed to spending the night in the rain.

“Come,” he said to Isabel when she hesitated outside. “We’ll be safe here.”

She followed him in, seating herself on a plump sack of fleece as Griff led his mount past and began to remove the gray’s saddle and riding gear. He heard her yawn behind him and by the time he turned to offer her a blanket, he found that she was already fast asleep, curled up and slumbering like a babe.

Griff strode over and covered her with his mantle, taking care not to wake her. She would need her rest, for tomorrow they would have to make haste; the more distance they could put between them and Droghallow, the better. Indeed, he thought wryly, and the more distance he could put between himself and lovely Isabel, the better. Despite efforts to convince himself otherwise, she was fast becoming pure temptation, a distraction he damned well did not need—not when a careless inattention could cost both of them their lives.

He supposed that that determination had been at the root of his behavior earlier in the glade, when he had knowingly, deliberately, provoked her anger. He did not want her to look upon him with favor or fond regard, and so he had mocked her, from the harsh exaggeration of his initial impression of her as a halfwit little girl wandering lost in
Droghallow’s woods, to his scorn of the kindhearted young woman who had painstakingly restored, preserved, and borne around her own delicate neck the misplaced medallion of a boy she knew nothing about and would, had fate not intervened, likely never see again. Even now, with the small bronze half disc lying cold and solid against his chest, Griffin could scarcely believe he had it back.

At last.

After ten long years of scouring every inch of the woods in vain, a decade spent regretting the cherished pendant’s loss, finally, he had it back. It was all he had of his true family, the only tangible bit of evidence existing in this world to give him even a hint of who he was. He would never part with it; his flippant statement that he would pawn it on first chance had been a bald-faced lie intended to mask what it actually meant to him—what it meant to him to know that Isabel had cared for the amulet on his behalf all this time. He could scarcely reconcile his good fortune, no more than he could fathom the intriguing woman who had brought it to him after so many years.

Lady Alys, second wife to Robert of Droghallow and the only mother Griffin had ever known, once said to him that nobility was something a person carried in his heart, not hung about his neck like a chain of gold. At the time, Griffin had thought it to be just a pretty saying intended to soothe the feelings of a dejected young boy who had lost the only thing of value he had ever possessed, but now, looking at Isabel, he had to wonder.

For what had not been the first time, he pictured her reclining on the rock near the stream, instead imagining her lying there unclothed, welcoming. He relived the moment he had kissed her in Droghallow’s keep, as well, remembering all too vividly the sensual meeting of their mouths, the savage quickening of his blood, the keen response of his body to hers. He wanted to know that feeling again—knew he would, in fact, if given half a chance. While carnal
pleasure was a pursuit he seldom shied away from, defiling doe-eyed virgins had never been to his taste. And only a man with fool’s lack of sense would risk any portion of his anticipated reward by delivering the Earl of Montborne’s affianced in a condition even so much as a shade less than healthy, hale, and wholly untouched.

Griff had been called many unflattering things in his life, but never a fool. He had no intention of forfeiting any chance at his boon, but still, it didn’t stop him from wondering. It didn’t stop him from wanting.

He did not know how many hours he remained awake, watching Isabel sleep, contemplating the road that lay ahead of him now that he had turned his back on Droghallow. Griff had let the night pass in thoughtful silence, allowing himself to close his eyes for short snatches of time at most, too restless for sleep, too aware of the precariousness of their circumstances to let down his guard. It was not until the first traces of dawn began to filter in through the cracks in the barn’s warped wooden walls that Griff decided to see about procuring them some supplies for the rest of their journey. Trusting that Isabel would be more secure secreted away in the shed than out in the open with him, Griff buckled on his sword belt and headed outside.

He had taken with him all the money he saved at Droghallow, collected in a leather pouch he wore on his baldric. A few of the coins were sufficient to bribe the tavern keeper out of bed and purchase food enough to last Isabel and him for at least two days of travel. Griff’s stomach began to growl as he waited for the stout old man to pack up his goods: a full skin of wine, a hank of cold mutton and two loaves of black bread. With a murmured thanks, he took the bounty under his arm and stepped out into the crisp, dewy morning.

Though he saw no one about, Griff sensed he was being watched. He walked along the road, taking care to look casual,
even as his gaze scanned every croft and cottage for lurking signs of attack. He felt movement shift and pause around him, knew with a warrior’s certainty that he was being followed. Immediately, his concern flew to Isabel: Where was she? Had she remained in the barn? Was she safe?

His protective instincts flared, but Griffin willed his feet to keep moving at an easy gait, forced them to walk in the direction opposite the wool shed once he had stepped off the road and headed for the village outbuildings. He waited for signs that whoever shadowed him was still on his heels, unwittingly following him some yards away from Isabel’s hiding place.

Confirmation of his suspicions came an instant later, communicated by way of a sword being freed from its scabbard behind him.

Griff tossed down his bundle of foodstuffs and met the confrontation with equal menace, drawing his blade and wheeling on his attacker.

“I expected I might find you here, Griff.”

Odo grinned at him from the other end of his blade, but his weapon remained level, unwavering and poised for action.

“Where is the rest of the guard?” Griffin asked, trying to ascertain his chances now that it appeared he was as good as caught. He could only hope he was not too terribly outnumbered. “Don’t tell me Dom dispatched but one man out to apprehend me.”

Odo shook his head. “He’s sent the bulk of the garrison after you, but while they took the road north, I took a shorter path. Figured I’d catch up to you sooner or later.”

So, it was just Odo he had to contend with at the moment. Griff battened down his instant sense of relief; he had seen the big knight in action on many occasions, often enough to know that Odo was every bit as apt as any three of Droghallow’s other guards put together.

“You shouldn’t have done it, Griff. This thing Dom’s hatching is serious business. It may even involve London, if the hasty message he sent to Prince John is any indication.” When Griffin did not respond, Odo added, “Dom’s put a thousand marks on the woman’s head—double on yours. A man could do a lot with that much silver.”

Griffin chuckled, not at all surprised by the news that Dom had offered a bounty for his capture. “Don’t count your reward so soon,” he told Odo. “You’re a long way from collecting.”

The lieutenant tilted his huge head, his unruly beard splitting with his humorless smile. He took a careful step sideways, his grip tightening visibly on his weapon in preparation for combat. Griffin mirrored the action, beginning a wary circle of move and countermove as each man sized up the other and weighed his chances of winning.

“Let’s not make this into a war between friends,” Odo said, firming his stance in the mud-slicked yard. “After all, I’ve naught against you, Griff. In fact, I’d be willing to let you walk away. Just give me the woman.”

Griff snorted. “Forget it.”

The big knight seemed to consider for a moment. “We could split the money,” he suggested. “What say you? ’Twould be an easy five hundred apiece.”

“The woman stays with me,” Griffin said.

“I should warn you,” Odo growled, “I’m in a piss poor mood from riding all night in the rain. I haven’t the head for games. I came here to get the Montborne wench, and I’m not leaving without her.”

Griffin shook his head. “You’ll have to go through me first.”

“Very well,” Odo answered with a nod.

He let his blade relax slightly as if he meant to back down, then, in the next heartbeat, he raised it high and swung at Griffin. The two weapons clashed against each other, the grating sound of metal on metal ringing out and
slicing through the tranquility of the waking morn. Odo charged again with lethal force and relentless determination, cleaving the air with his broadsword and hitting Griffin’s blade with a jarring series of heavy, solid blows.

A few peasants came out of their huts amid the ruckus, opening doors and poking heads out from window shutters to peer about, only to scurry back inside like timid mice when their sleepy eyes lit on the combat underway.

At first, Griff could only strive to defend against the attacks, deflecting Odo’s thrusts with the flat of his weapon while each hammering strike sent him back a pace, his feet squishing and slipping in the muddy yards of the village. A careless stumble over a rut gave Odo the upper hand and cost Griffin a gash on his arm. It was more of an annoyance than a threat to his life, but the metallic smell of blood and the searing pain of sliced flesh served to bring his senses—and his battle rage—into clear focus.

Odo was grinning as he came at Griffin once more, driving him backward with a full body press of his blade. Griff pushed against him, then spun away in the next instant, using the big knight’s momentum to his own advantage and sending the guard pitching forward. Whirling to face Odo’s snarling return, Griffin raised his sword and brought it down hard. The two blades crashed against each other, sparking with the contact. Odo’s curse was vivid, a guttural snarl that left no doubt he was out for blood. With murder flashing in his eyes, the bearlike knight barreled forward.

Though he was a fairly equal match for Droghallow’s lieutenant, it was all Griffin could do to meet the thrusts delivered upon him. For every pace he advanced on Odo, the guard forced him back two more, cleaving and hacking from all sides, relentless in his apparent intent to see Griffin skewered on his blade. Chickens squawked and scattered around them as the fight moved farther into the village commons. Rain spat down in icy needles from the char-gray sky, sluicing off Griff’s brow and dripping into
his eyes as he fought to deflect the onslaught of hammering blows. Before he realized it, his spine came up against the unyielding mass of a cottar’s hut. Odo’s blade flashed in the dim morning sunlight an instant before it bit into the wattle-and-daub exterior next to Griffin’s head, only narrowly missing its mark.

Griff dodged the blow and ducked down low while the guard worked to free his weapon. He made good use of Odo’s momentary distraction, plowing into the big knight’s gut with his shoulder and knocking him to the ground on his back. Without a moment wasted on pity, Griff raised his sword and sent it home, driving the blade deep into Odo’s barrel chest. Odo sucked in a broken gasp of air, then breathed his last through a pained grimace, his eyes wide with shock but still blazing with malice. Griff waited to withdraw his blade until those flinty eyes turned sightless, unblinking as the rain pattered down into them.

The death of the man who had served with Griff for nigh on a decade brought him no measure of satisfaction, nor did it bring much relief. The road ahead was a long one, and now that Dom was offering so steep a reward for their capture, they would find little peace along the way. They were on their own as never before, and time would quickly become their enemy.

With a handful of peasants looking on from the relative safety of their huts, Griff gathered up the bundle of food he had bought from the tavern and headed back for the wool shed to rouse Isabel. He noticed Odo’s waiting mount tethered near the road and freed the brown destrier to take it with him. Now he and Isabel had two horses for their journey.

Griff had a feeling they were going to need all the help they could get in making it to Montborne before Dom’s machinations—or his royal allies in London—caught up to them.

Isabel had been awake for a short while, feeding Griffin’s mount a handful of carrots from out of the saddle packs and wondering where its master might have gone. She did not have to wonder long, for in the next instant the door of the wool barn swung open and in rushed Griffin.

“We must go now, my lady,” he told her in an urgent tone as he strode past her to ready his horse.

“What’s wrong? What happened to you?” Isabel asked, taking in his disheveled appearance with a quick, worrisome glance. He looked like a ragged tomcat, his clothing soiled and torn, his tawny hair sweat-soaked and tousled, his face marred by grime and fresh bruises. “You’re bleeding,” she gasped when she caught sight of his left arm, the ugly crimson stains and sliced linen sleeve clearly the work of an enemy’s blade.