When Davie had cheerfully ambled out, the girl gave him a considering look.
“You value loyalty first, above everything,” she remarked, keeping her eyes on him as she settled cross-legged on the floor and avoiding the rich furnishings of the room.
“Do you not do likewise with your brother?” he snapped, and clicked his teeth. Brothers were in several sharp ways a sore matter to him. “Is there something amiss with my chairs or bed that you must sit on the rushes?”
Again the girl’s flawless skin dappled into a pretty rose pink.
“I am somewhat…messy,” she replied in a subdued voice, flicking her muddy skirts. “Have you known Sir David a long time?” she questioned hesitantly, adding almost at once, “No matter. I should not have asked.”
“I am not one of those lords who demand silence,” Conrad observed, thinking at the same time that this little villager was like no other peasant wench he had ever met. Most were frankly admiring or terrified of him, or both. Her free, determined manner with him was startling but refreshing. “To answer your question, Davie and I have been friends since we were squires together.”
Recalling Sir David’s unwavering support again made Conrad’s heart clench in memory and shame, so much so he admitted, “He saved me from much ridicule when I was younger. I was not so well-favoured then, being long-limbed, lanky, and dark. My parents despaired of me.” Unlike their adoration of Richard, their golden, favoured child and heir. Richard, bold and fair as the Lionheart King himself; Richard who should be sheriff here, but who had gone off for adventure and crusading, leaving him, Conrad, with the work. Richard was always adept at fleeing any kind of responsibility. “To be sure, I was a sullen thing.”
Why did I admit that? Perhaps it was because of the girl’s large blue eyes and the steadfast, warm look of sympathy in them. And what was her name?
“I am Maggie,” she replied, exactly as if he had spoken. “Are you truly going to involve me in your plans, sir, or was that an excuse so you and Sir David could withdraw from the great hall to have more privacy? In case of spies,” Maggie went on, interpreting his expression, rightly, as being thunder-struck.
“Spies,” Conrad repeated.
The girl shrugged narrow shoulders. “If this castle is anything like my village, gossips are everywhere. But will you allow me some part, sir, in my Michael’s rescue? I know my brother and what he looks like, after all.”
At this astonishing point, his second-in-command returned with a maid and the whole matter was put aside in a clattering of plates and cups as he, David, and Maggie were served with fresh warm bread, wrinkled apples, and hot blackberry tisanes. She ate with surprising delicacy, yet again reminding him of…someone, and thanked the maid and himself most profusely.
Conrad raised a hand and she at once fell silent. “If you are to come with me, we must leave soon. We have many miles to cover, some through the forest of Galtres, before we reach Ormingham. Can you ride?”
Maggie shook her head.
“Sir, do you think this wise?” David was protesting, but Conrad over-rode him with a glower. The girl was right. She knew what her brother looked like. She was only a villager, so the rules of protection and courtesy that applied to gentle-women did not apply—or, not so strongly.
She wants to come, anyway, his guilty conscience prompted, and he mentally agreed. Already, and somewhat to his own amused surprise, he wanted her with him.
“You shall be mounted with me,” he went on, ignoring David’s stifled snort. “Do…something with your hair.” That whole delicious, blonde silky mass… “Bind it down. I cannot have it flicking and blinding in my face.”
“Yes, sir.” She lowered her eyes, but he saw the flash of triumph in her gracile face, and felt a jolt of pleasure, himself.
This will work. The outlaw gang vanquished, a locksmith recovered. It will be an excellent day’s work.
And perhaps this time the lass will admit to my rescue?
Chapter 2
A gathering of horses, war-chargers, palfreys, and spare mounts, a hasty bringing together of men, weapons and supplies, and they were off. They pounded out of the bailey, through the village and onto the track to the old Roman road. Sunrise to sunset they rode, and then on through the night, sunset to sunrise. Riding in front of Conrad, his thick arms braced on her either side, Maggie felt her world shrink down to her heartbeat, the scalding ache of her thighs, the glare of snow and the relentless drum of the galloping horses.
Had she ever imagined the recovery of Michael would be an adventure? Wishing she could clasp her aching head but not daring to relinquish her grip on the horse’s mane, Maggie longed to stop.
“You awake there?” Conrad growled, his lips close to her ear. She shook her head as if he was a bothersome fly and forced her wind-chapped lips to reply.
“Doing well,” she said, determined her teeth would not chatter. In truth, she was not so frozen. Sir Conrad had supplied her with a thick cloak and a woollen cap, cloths to wrap round her boots and rags to bind her hair. If I could only have some eastern cushions for my hips, perched on this bony nag. Who knew horses had such a spine? Glancing sidelong, she caught a knowing gleam in her companion’s deep eyes, as if he expected her to complain. But I shall not.
“Yourself?” She tried a smile, the cold light of the coming dawn piercing her cheeks.
“We make camp soon, and rest the horses.”
“Naturally. The horses. And the pack mules,” she added, wondering why she was teasing him as she might have done Michael. The truth was, she had ridden with this man for hours, her back snug against his chest, her legs pressed against his long shanks. It was hard not to feel a kind of closeness to him.
Now, she felt rather than heard Conrad’s rumble of a chuckle and knew a fleeting lightness in her soul as his arms tightened briefly about her.
“You will not be outdone, will you?” He guided their mount onto an unpaved section of road that did not jolt her bones, which was overall a blessed relief.
“Is this a contest?” she replied, catching her wind-sore mouth in a yawn before she could stop it.
He smiled against her woollen cap and Maggie closed her eyes. The great horse moved beneath her, smooth now as a sailing ship on a calm river, the beat of its hooves strangely soothing, like a lullaby. I wonder how Michael is faring, she thought as she slid slowly, inexorably into sleep.
• ♥ •
Conrad gently lowered the sleeping girl onto the rough pallet of bracken and hay that he had set before the new fire. She had done well, he decided, nodding to Davie, a silent reminder that the man guard her, before he checked on the horses and men. A palfrey had picked up a gorse or bramble tear on her flank. Conrad was conferring with a groomsman on how to treat the wound when the weary peace of the camp shattered.
Lurching out of the darkness, Maggie staggered back to the fire, plucked out a burning branch and brandished it at the figure coming after her.
“Back!” she cried, stabbing the flaming brand at her would-be attacker, “You will get none of what you want from me!”
Conrad thrust the salve at the nearest groom and began striding back, to hear the farrier, Brian, say, without shame or apology, “Come on, goldie, I can give you a sweet time—”
“What is happening here?” Conrad pushed between the pair, scenting the mead on the farrier’s breath.
“A bit of sport.” Brian swayed on his feet, squinting past the taller man as he gave the girl a wave. Has this fool been drinking all night? Supping while on horseback?
“I do not expect to be set upon when I slip into the hazels to pass water!”
“You take on so, goldie, not fair—”
She took a deep breath that would have fit a dragon, clearly ready to light into the fellow afresh, when Sir David with his uncanny ill-luck, stepped out of the trees where he had been setting guards and said drily, “Women following soldiers are usually bed-mates.”
“I am not following anyone!” snap
ped Maggie, as red-faced as a dragon’s fiery breath. “I am seeking my brother, and your lord is meant to be aiding me! Or do such courtesies only count for knights and ladies?”
Conrad sensed the camp about them stiffen and knew his men were leaning in to listen.
“Ladies do not bawl like market criers,” he drawled.
The bright stare cut toward him. “How else am I supposed to be heard?”
“Enough!” He made a cutting motion with his arm, tired of the whole squabble, and addressed his men. “The girl is with me—mine—and you all know it. Brian, get yourself a pail of water and dunk your head. We move on in two hours, when the sun tops that pine tree. Get on!”
He caught the girl’s arm and led her, none too gently, back to the pallet by the fire. “You stay,” he ordered, ignoring her look of utter betrayal.
He turned to leave, go back to the horses, when a narrow wiry hand grabbed his cloak. Looking back, he almost flinched at the flinty glare which stabbed him.
“You need the farrier, yes? But mark this, my lord, you also need me.”
His temper bridled at her insolence. He leaned down into her face, part of him amazed at how very blue her eyes were, in her anger. “I just saved you from a mauling, or worse. Why did you not wait for me to escort you? Are you so naïve?”
If she could, she would have shot poison like a snake, he guessed, though her words were pin sharp. “I did not know such courtesy was required in your own camp.”
Not even a gesture of thanks, the ungrateful little wench. Did she think they were equals? “You do not tell me how to govern,” he began afresh, but she interrupted,
“Then rule yourself first. I thought you, sir, were different.”
With the I was wrong hanging between them, she stepped aside and flounced down on the pallet with such force that a puff of hay-dust rose in the air between them. Sensing he had made a mistake, loathing that feeling, Conrad stamped back to the horse lines.
Later, too brief a time to be truly rested, they rode on, into the forest of Galtres. The girl sat before him, silent as a stone. I thought you were different. “What happened to you?” he growled, too low for her to hear. He disliked her being so stiff, that was all.
I do need my farrier. She had no right to complain. As for Brian approaching her, it is the way of the world. In a war-band, everyone expects it.
So why did these reasonable justifications seem hollow?
He pointed at an oak tree, covered with frosted acorns that sparkled like gems in the winter sun. “A rare sight,” he remarked.
After a moment, during which he counted three misted breaths of his horse, he spotted her tiny head dip in agreement. “See,” she murmured a moment later, flicking an arm out, then regripping Gog’s mane.
She had pointed to an ancient way-marker, topped by a spray of holly. The red berries made him think of her mouth and he was relieved she could not see his face. Am I an acne-ridden squire, to be so easily affected? “Fits the season,” he managed. For years Christmas-time had been an ordeal, reminding him only of what and who he had lost.
My Joanie. The accustomed ache was less harsh
“How long to Ormingham, my lord?”
Even as he answered, “A few hours more only,” Conrad marked her use of the title.
Progress it seems. He spurred his jangling bay horse on, calling to the rest of the column to keep up. “We drink in Ormingham tonight!”
And pray this lass needs no more rescuing that she upbraids me for, he thought, while his men roared in approval.
• ♥ •
The quaffing did not go on for long. Scarcely had Conrad entered the great hall at Ormingham Castle, wondering where the Lady Ygraine and her maids had escorted Maggie, than a green-tunicked page ran up to him and tugged on his belt.
“Sir, you must come! The damsel is stuck!”
The bearded Lord William rose from the table and nodded to Conrad. “Go. We shall follow.”
Conrad turned and jogged after the little page, who pelted full tilt down the spiral stairs and out into the courtyard. Shading his eyes against the setting sun, Conrad scanned over the lad’s curly red head to the dry moat with its two bridges, one old, one new.
He stifled a hiss of displeasure. Maggie was not with the ladies where he had left her, milling safely about the bath house, or taking her ease in a bath. She was standing on the old bridge, with a toddler in her arms. “What?” he demanded.
The Lady Ygraine, a matron bright in silks and furs, swept forward.
“We await ladders and ropes and a carpenter, good knight,” she said, her voice brooking no refusal. “Your woman stopped the miller’s lad from tumbling through a breach in the old bridge but in so doing, stepped back and caught her foot in another hole. She is pinned until we can safely free her.”
Conrad strode to the edge of the old bridge. Part of him wondered why the rotten, rickety mass had not been burned, especially with the sweet-smelling new bridge spanning the moat not two yards’ distance. Another, larger part of his mind noted how well Maggie looked with an infant in her arms, even if the black-haired toddler was grizzling and rubbing his eyes and bumping his head restively against her shoulder.
“You are unhurt?” he called.
“We are unharmed,” came back the prompt reply, “Though Peter is very tired and hungry.”
“Oh…” A slip of a woman in a faded scarlet dress turned into the shelter of her taller mate’s arms. The miller, recognizable from the dust and straw bits on his clothes and hair, whispered to her, “Twill be all right, Agnes. We broke a silver penny for our boy and promised a pilgrimage to York. The saints will deliver him.”
As if to deny the saints, the old bridge creaked and a timber broke off and shattered in the mud and rubbish of the moat.
“Stop that at once!” ordered the Lady Ygraine, and a knot of youths fell back from prodding and kicking at the warped planks of the ancient structure.
“Away there!” Sir Conrad and Lord William warned another lingering set of bystanders, while baby Peter’s whimpers became screams and angry tears.
“Where is the carpenter?” Maggie called above the tumult, bending her knees as the bridge creaked again. “Can anyone catch?” she nodded to the squirming toddler in her arms.
“No,” said Conrad at once, “it is too far.”
Maggie turned away, twisting her upper body as she could not properly move her feet. She embraced the squalling little boy, signed the cross over his tiny forehead, and leaned closer into the babe.
And then, exactly like a catapult, she unwound, flinging her arms and whole body skywards. The child shot from her grasp like a slingshot pebble and Conrad had snatched the infant to himself before he even registered clearly what she had done.
Swiftly, he handed the wide-eyed, wide-mouthed, thankfully silent Peter to his mother as the old bridge shuddered with the force of Maggie’s desperate throw, the moss-covered beams flexing like timbers on a longship.
She knew. She knew the bridge might give at any moment and still she acted.
“Where is that carpenter?” he roared.
As if in answer, Peter resumed his bawling, his scarlet-faced sobs rising to the gasps of the onlookers.
“Look!” Maggie pointed, and the gaping, muttering crowd followed her fist, to where a heron flew lazily overhead, indifferent to human concerns.
A feint—“No!” yelled Conrad, but the sly wretch was already moving, her muddied skirts hoicked up as she pelted back across the writhing bridge, her cloak flapping and one foot still partly encased in a wooden cuff, though now it was bare, as the girl had clearly tried a desperate jerk to break free of the enclosing timber.
On she came, clumsy as a wounded crow, the old bridge swaying with her every step, fleeing just ahead of the splintering, moaning, falling mass.
He charged to meet her, catching her the instant before she fell in turn, spinning away with her from the deadly edge and rolling them both over and over on the mud
dy, blessedly solid earth. Over her heaving, panting figure he heard the rickety maze of planks behind them explode like a seed-pod and thunder off into the muck and debris of the moat.
“I could not—” She shuddered and took another quick series of breaths. “Just a baby, wandering—no other saw, spotted in time—He was mine to save, like Michael—”
Conrad dragged himself to his feet. His skull ached and his ribs felt as they did after he had practiced in the tilting yard, but he was hale. Nodding to Lord William and his lady, he scooped up his companion, clutching her fiercely to his chest. She seemed unhurt, though she now wore part of the old bridge as a wooden anklet over one foot.
How much must that have hurt, yanking herself free?
“We are for the bath house,” he announced, when his heart had stopped pounding. He smiled briefly at Peter, who grinned at them from the cradling warmth of his mother’s arms.
Through her mat of golden hair, blue eyes stared up at him with some suspicion. Walking on, Conrad lowered his head, but it was not sweet nothings he murmured.
“Were you a lad, you would be beating out warped copper pots and chopping the rest of that bridge for kindling. No, do not say you had to rescue the babe, do not say anything. I like a quiet bath-time.”
Still, she wet her chapped lips, a prelude to speech. “My thanks.”
He almost missed it, so soft her were words. He hugged her a little tighter and walked on, wishing for a moment that she was his.
Though if she were, I would be torn between kissing her or turning her over my knee, and we still have to free her from that section of wood.
“Tell me of your brother Michael,” he said instead.
Chapter 3
“Michael is fair.” Maggie rested her head in the crook of Conrad the Steward’s arm. She would fight him again in the bath-house, for she would not be naked in front of him, or any man, but she could allow herself this respite.
I thought only noble maidens were rescued or carried, but being in this knight’s arms is very pleasant. He had called her “mine” earlier, too, but she discounted that. Cradled, her left leg raised a little higher so the remains of the wooden plank would not dig into her skin, she knew his aid to her on the old bridge was no game of courtesy. It was real.
Sir Conrad and the Christmas Treasure Page 2