Wildewood Revenge (8 page)

“I killed a lot of men,” he answered grimly.

“Oh!” Said like that it didn’t seem quite so exciting or romantic. She took a step back. He’d just admitted he was a murderer and if this wasn’t a dream and he really was a crazy, forest dwelling madman then she’d better stop worrying about lingerie and start thinking about escape. She felt her stomach tighten, the fear was wide awake. She remembered his advice. Feign interest.

“I suppose that happens in wars,” she suggested weakly. What did she know? She had no real concept of conflict, what it must be like to be in a position where you have to kill or be killed. She felt young and gauche and embarrassed. She wished she wasn’t here, that she hadn’t taken the dog for a walk. She wished she was home at Kirk
Knowe
.

Miles broke the awkward silence that followed. “Help me pack up our things, Mademoiselle and we can be on our way more quickly.” He aimed a kick at the sleeping form in the corner of the cave. “Edmund, get a move on you lazy cur, Grace will ride with you this morning.”

Grace shook her head. This was madness. She was in a cave at the top of the world with a medieval knight and his squire chatting about the crusades and yet she couldn’t be. It was impossible, this simply could not be happening. The man, the boy, they weren’t real, couldn’t be real. They were in her head, and she was beginning to think she was
going crazy. She’d called him mad, but she was the mad one. She had to put a stop to it, dream or no dream she was in charge and she would jolly well wake up. Maybe that was the answer, all she had to do was say no; click her heels together and it would be over and she would be back at Kirk
Knowe
.

“About that...”

“About what?”
Miles picked up and shook his cloak.

“Well, about this whole business. You know; the ransom the bishop and
Wildewood
.”

“Yes.”

“Well, it’s not really going to happen, is it? You’re not even real, none of this is. It’s all in my head. I know it is.” She touched the fingers of one hand lightly to her forehead. “Or maybe you’ve drugged me. Who knows? I certainly don’t. It’s okay though, I’m used to everyone thinking I’m crazy. I suppose I’ve just gone a little too far this time.”

He paused to assess her. “Pardon?” he said, this time heavily accented.

She thought distractedly how his accent became more pronounced when he was ill at ease, and if his expression was anything to go by, he was certainly that. She tried a different tack.

“Look, one of us is obviously crazy. You’re either a weirdo or you’re just in my head. Which would you rather be?”

Edmund took a step back, crossing himself fearfully while Miles stayed silent. Grace continued unabated.

“I’ve already told you
that I don’t want to go with you. I’ve played along so far, but my leg is much better, you said so yourself, and I have no intention of going any further with you. I appreciate what you have done for me, if you’re real that is. But I don’t know you. You could be
anyone, and you’re taking me further and further away from the people I do know. I want to go home. Either, you take me back or lend me Edmund’s pony, and I’ll go myself.” She paused for breath. He was still studying her. Had he actually understood what she’d said?

“I don’t believe a word of all that rot about bogs that can swallow a horse. Bloody hell you’ll be telling me there’s a dragon next! You can’t keep me, and you can’t make me do anything against my will.” She set her hands on her hips ignored the frantic churning deep inside and looked him squarely in the eye.

Straightening, Miles let the cloak fall to the ground in a heap and stared at her. He was no longer smiling. Edmund looked anxiously from one to the other. Miles took a step towards Grace and she held him at bay with her open hand, which was deftly grabbed and held tight by the wrist. Suddenly, she was less sure of herself and even surer, this was not a dream.

“You think I am not real, Mademoiselle?” He squeezed her wrist. “Does this not feel real? Or what about this?” he added as he leaned into her. “Make no mistake, little one,” he breathed slowly. “I am very real and whether you wish it or not, you will accompany me to
Wildewood
. Perhaps you are a little mad, touched by demons. Quite frankly I do not care, I carry demons aplenty. You will do as I say or suffer the consequences. You want me to treat you as my prisoner? Tie you up? I can do that if I really need to. Do I need to?” He raised a brow questioningly “You are coming with me, and you will be freed unharmed when I receive the ransom, and not before.”

She stared at him; finally aware she was playing a very dangerous game and had no idea of the rules. She looked at his hand where he gripped her, his palm was warm against her skin and she felt the pulse
in her wrist jump against him. She tugged her hand, her fear over ridden by his arrogance. Who did he think he was?

“Let me go,” she hissed.

He yanked her closer instead and for a long moment they exchanged feral glares. She dropped her eyes to the jagged scar which followed the line of his jaw, cutting a silver swathe through his stubble. He glared back at her and they both took a deep breath. He dropped her hand and she resisted the urge to rub her wrist where he had held it too tightly.

“You don’t scare me.” She threw at him as she turned and limped out of the cave.

Miles watched her go. “I wasn’t trying to scare you,” he said to her departing back. “If I tried, you’d be terrified. You can be sure of that.”

He turned to Edmund and shrugged his bewilderment at her outburst. Edmund looked back at him uncertainly.

“
Are
yer
still
wantin
’
her to ride with me, my lord?”

“Worried she’ll overpower you, Edmund?” laughed Miles. “Of course she may ride with you. It’ll give me a rest from her tongue.”

Grace stubbornly limped past the tethered horses and kept going. She was headed back in the general direction of the way they had come the night before, though any tracks had been covered by last night’s snow and she quickly veered off course.

“Will
yer
not go after her?” asked Edmund bewildered.

Miles shook his head. “There’s no need she’ll not get far.” She stumbled and disappeared momentarily in a drift of snow. Edmund made to go after her and Miles caught his sleeve and held him. “Leave her.”

Grace pulled herself up and took a couple more steps before admitting reluctantly to herself that it was madness to continue. Her
thigh ached, she had no sense of direction and if her current run of luck was anything to go by, she probably would end up in one of Miles’ horse-eating bogs. She had no option other than to go with him. She chanced a quick glance, they were already mounted. They were leaving her. She sat down on a boulder and studied her boots, fiddled with the loose threads of her jumper and wondered about curling up in the snow and going to sleep. If she didn’t die of hypothermia maybe she’d wake up in a
straight
jacket on a psychiatric ward. She refused to call after them. How dare they leave her? She looked up when the legs of Miles’ horse intruded on her peripheral vision.

“Mademoiselle?”
He leaned down from the saddle and reached out his hand.

Glaring up at him she struggled to her feet and held up her hand reluctantly. Miles took her small hand in his and swung her, none too gently, up behind him.

“Hang on tightly,” he said gruffly, as she reluctantly slipped her arms around his waist. He kicked the horse and cantered back to where Edmund waited, before dumping her back on the ground and leaving her to Edmund’s ministrations.

Grace glowered at Miles from the back of Edmund’s pony where she’d been swiftly transferred. Nodding back curtly, Miles turned away quickly before she could see the amusement in his eyes.

“Okay,” muttered Grace. “So you’re not the man of my dreams. That just leaves weirdo - and no bloody
nutter
is going to get the better of me.”

Chapter Nine

“How did you end up with Miles?” Grace asked the boy as she sat behind him on the sturdy pony. Maybe Edmund could throw some light on the weird situation. Surely the boy wasn’t also in on the charade? Yet, he acted the part perfectly and had the rustic accent and due deference one might expect from a medieval page. It would be a simple task to find out.

“I was in Palestine with Sir Guy; he was not a good lord, and Miles took me from him.” Edmund pushed the pony on in an effort to keep up with Miles who was some way ahead.

“That’s
an awfully long way from here. H
ow old were you, Edmund?”

Edmund turned to look over his shoulder, trusting the pony to follow without direction. “I’m uncertain, my lady.” Grace watched, amused, as he counted fingers trying to work out the answer. “I was seven or eight summers when Sir Guy took me from kin to pay me father’s debt. I spent
mebbe
one full year with him as page before we was off on crusade.” Edmund flashed a shy smile. “He is mean spirited when in his cups. Miles and he did not agree on many things.”

Grace returned his smile. Why did that admission not surprise her? Her recent experience had already proven that Miles did not agree on much at all.

“They fought at the tournament and Miles was victorious,” continued Edmund, his smile transformed into a wide grin as he added, “and he took me along to train as his squire.”

Despite her very real need to disbelieve everything the boy said
,
Grace found herself drawn i
n by his tale. She was appalled
and
fascinated in equal parts. To take a child from his family at such a young age was heart-breaking. But the idea of men fighting to uphold what was right was intriguing and seemed alien to her. Her experience of men had not been so noble. With the exception of her father and grandfather who had been exceptional men, all the men she’d encountered so far had their own interest at heart. She did not forgive or forget betrayal. She gazed at Miles far ahead on the path, and found herself pondering on what he’d fought about, instead of wondering how the man and the boy could possibly keep their stories straight...if it was all a pack of lies.

“Who is Sir Guy?” she asked, turning back to the boy.

“Sir Guy de
Marchant
.” Edmund lowered his voice, making no attempt to hide the nervous stammer, “
An
... enemy and a...bad man.”

“And
Miles,
is he a good or bad?”

Edmund seemed to consider for a moment before replying, slowly. “I reckon he be a good man, who sometimes does bad things.”

What kind of bad things? She needed to know what he was capable of and who better to tell her but Edmund.

“How long have you been with Miles?”

“Three winters,” he answered quickly, his small chest almost puffing with pride. He had no need to count on his fingers this time. “He promised to return me to me kinfolk once he’d enough funds to return to England, so we stayed in the Holy Land and Miles took payment for services.”

Grace considered this. She knew nothing about the history of the crusades but in her experience no one did anything for nothing. “Didn’t he get paid for supporting the king?”

Edmund shrugged and Grace supposed that squires were not meant
to be privy to the financial dealings of their masters. “He amassed many wonderful treasures.” The boy’s eyes widened as he remembered, but just as quickly his expression changed and he lowered his voice. “But on our return through Normandy we
be
ambushed by Sir Guy and his men, naught but common thieves they be. Now he has
nothin
’ but what ye see before
yer
. His armour paid our passage across the channel.”

Grace tried to reconcile this last fact with the man who rode ahead. Strong and brave by Edmund’s account, he’d already fought Sir Guy once and won, and then allowed himself to be robbed by the very same man, of everything earned during three years fighting in the Holy Land. It seemed a little careless. It didn’t sound quite right. Maybe Miles had done something bad then? It was none of her business; she should really leave well alone. What good would it do to rake it up? But she was beginning to obsess and would continue to do so if she didn’t get answers.

“What kind of bad things has Miles done?”

Edmund shrugged and stifled a sly smile. “I reckon
yer’ll
have to ask him.”

Hmm
, thought Grace. She could just imagine how that conversation would end.

Edmund urged the pony onward. With the distraction of conversation he’d allowed it to dawdle. They’d fallen well behind and even Grace recognised the sense in staying close to Miles. He was the only one who knew where they were going. Shaken from its lumbering gait by Edmund’s insistent kicking, the pony surged forward through the snow and Grace clung on tightly to retain her seat. She was grateful she had, when the beast, in its eagerness to comply; stumbled over one of the many rocks hidden beneath the snow, and they were forced to
dismount and temporarily halt their progress.