She closed her eyes against the sensuality of the moment, the solid feel of him, his leather and salt scent, the jangle of his daggers and keys and whatever else stewards had on their persons.
Do not forget Michael. You promised our parents. She reopened her eyes, blinking at the garishly rendered walls and high domed ceiling of the bath-house. I would have drawn and coloured that painted bath-house dragon with more sinewy grace and movement, with a brighter and more subtle gold and blue.
“Remember your brother,” she whispered, as Conrad—she could no longer think of him as a “sir”, not when he had just rescued her again—ordered pages and maids to set up a new bathing barrel, with fresh hot water. “Michael is very fair,” she tried again, staring at the picture of the dragon. It was faintly cross-eyed and she had to bite her lip against the chuckle.
“Gold, like you,” Conrad said, brushing a hank of her bedraggled curls from her cheek.
“No, Michael is nearly as dark-haired as you,” Maggie tired to explain, yelping when she found herself deposited, into a steaming tub.
“My clothes!” she protested, smacking the water in her fury when Conrad laughed.
“I knew you would be over-modest, and Lady Ygraine promised us a change of garments. Budge up,” he continued. To her horror, he dropped his tunic and trews and vaulted into the water beside her.
“Wash my back?” he asked, with a cheeky grin, before sinking under the water, surfacing like a merman and calling to the hovering servants, “Hot tisane and griddle cakes for the lady.
“Nothing beats eating in the bath,” he went on, “and you must be hungry.”
“You cannot keep me off-balanced all the time,” Maggie protested, but her exasperating companion gave no sign of hearing her.
“Is Michael taller, fatter, than you?”
“My height and sinewy,” Maggie answered, wondering if she dare peel off her water-logged clothes. “I meant fair-minded, earlier.”
Too much at times, her memory reminded her darkly. He would rarely ask for money or goods to the value of the work he did for others. Give him a complex lock and he was happy.
“A man of his word, then.” Conrad had found a comb from somewhere, perhaps in the bottom of the tub, and was teasing it through his hair.
“Yes,” Maggie agreed, though she took little comfort in it. Michael’s most used word was “No” and he always meant it. I begged him to move into a town after our parents died and he said no. I told him Alice was interested in him and he acknowledged she was an excellent cook and a sweet, kind soul but still he said no, or not yet. When he finally strolled through the village to offer for Alice he was ever so surprised she was already betrothed, although I had told him of her courtship with the smith all that summer.
Yet he will have gone with the bandits without any complaint, if they challenged him with a new treasure chest to tussle with and open.
“I was bitter—very bitter—when my wife died. Your scowl is the same I see in my mirror,” Conrad said, taking a handful of soft soap from the ledge close to the tub and rubbing at his shoulder. “Bathe, girl, I want to get out of here before my skin cracks.”
Resigned, Maggie squirmed out of her clothes, glad of the shielding water, and began to wash.
“Does he like riding, hawking, fishing?”
“Only locks and locked doors and treasure chests.” Maggie dunked under the water, keeping her eyes shut tight so as not to see anything that was not hers, and then swiftly resurfaced. “He has been the same since he could walk.”
“Can he ride, though? Or is he—” Her companion broke off as two pages scrambled in, bearing trays of bowls of fruit, dried meat and bread. “Thanks, lads.” He saluted the pair who both straightened and marched out, proud to have served.
He leads without thinking, but he is used to warriors and as blunt as a club. She did not like admitting a lack, but knew he must know, for Michael’s safety and rescue. “Is he like me?” she seamlessly picked up. “He rides like me.”
“Teeth of hell! So not at all.” Conrad struck the water, grabbed a handful of dates and motioned to the bowls. “Eat. You will feel less weary after. How is the foot? If you soap it well you should be able to wriggle it free.”
Becoming accustomed to his sudden changes of subject, Maggie merely said, “I will do so once you have bathed, sir. I will have more room to manoeuvre then,” she added slyly.
He grunted, a dry sign of amusement, and nodded. “Agreed. I will fetch you more towels.”
“Any would be welcome,” Maggie replied, forgetting she was speaking to a knight and lord of a castle, a steward and acting sheriff. I do not remember who he is, and I must. We are not equal—he needs me because Michael’s skills will be handy to him, nothing else. The thought chilled, and despite the steaming hot water and scent of lavender, she shivered.
“Ha! You speak truly, lass, but no peeking now, I am for the out.”
She had not meant to look, but almost as if her eyelids were on butterfly wings, they flapped open and she watched him ascend from the bath-tub. It was truly an amazing sight. Conrad was lean and taut with battle-labour, scarred heavily on his flanks but with few wound-nicks on his back. His spine jutted proud close to his neck and his thick arms and long legs were tanned and covered with swirls of hair that looked as soft as baby-down.
Blushing, Maggie sank deeper into the water before her eyes could steal any more looks, and she did not stare when a bustle of servants entered the bath-house with towels and clothes.
“Leave the lass in peace now,” Conrad ordered. She smelled another whiff of lavender and heard the brisk slap of a damp towel hitting the walls close to the cross-eyed dragon and then he was off, boots in one hand, new trews partly unlaced and still stripped to the waist.
He leaves so I can fiddle with this wooden shackle round my ankle.
Maggie was relieved, then despairing, as the part-plank encasing her foot would simply not shift. She soaped and wriggled and flexed and muttered curses, tugging and trying to smash the wood off against the iron bolts of the barrel wash-tub. “I will not call him back to aid me again,” she snarled under her breath, wriggling her toes for another effort.
Her whole foot tingled with pins and needles and her leg spasmed with painful cramps but finally—finally!—she eased her limb free and the rotting wood sank with a muffled clump down to the bottom of the tub.
Panting, her fingers wrinkled like an ancient washer-woman’s, Maggie rested her head a moment against the rim of the barrel. Now to wash and dress. All she longed for was sleep, but she guessed Conrad was right and she should eat. The rest she should do, as always, for Michael.
For my brother. Using the old battle-cry, Maggie forced herself to stir.
• ♥ •
Conrad beckoned to a loitering squire and sent the youth off with his heartfelt thanks to the lord and lady. He considered sending a message to David, but discounted it. His second and the rest of his men deserved to sup in the hall tonight, as he had promised.
The girl is bound by promises, too, he thought, swinging his arms idly through a set of sword drills as he stalked in front of the bath-house. Admit it, man, if only to yourself. You are guarding the wench. Who did she remind him of, with her colouring and temper? She is a painter. Have I seen her work?
She intrigued him. Accustomed to fear and respect from even the knightly class, he considered her lack of dread toward him as unusual. Or rather, her concern for her younger sibling outweighs them. Yet, the youth was sixteen, close to manhood, and surely not dependent on any woman’s skirts.
She resents him a little, as I do my brother. Perhaps that made a kinship between them, for why else did he feel so content in her company? “Although not in the bath-tub,” he admitted aloud. The glimpses he had of her body, clothed and naked, had stirred Conrad to an urgent discomfort that had only now subsided.
Shouts by the watch-tower of the outer bailey propelled Conrad toward the castle walls. In a blaze of bri
ghtly burning torches, a party was being let into the bailey. He counted a dozen mounted men, three pack mules and a scattering of dogs, mostly trackers. A bishop, or even an archbishop, come to witness the Ormingham church treasures? he wondered, but dismissed the idea. No high cleric that he knew would travel in such small state or with so tiny a retinue.
He strode closer, to see the fluttering banners. Even with their torches, it was too dark to pick out the badges, but that one rider in the midst of the column, sitting straight where the others hunched over their saddles, seized his attention. He had seen that bright red-gold hair before, Conrad was certain of it, and the man’s carved profile put him in mind of Maggie. Not caring if he stared, he nodded in recognition as the rider eased his skittish horse out of the group and cantered about the bailey to settle the black brute down.
And yet how strange, that a nobleman and a peasant lass should tilt up their heads in the same manner, almost as if they are kindred. Not close-kin, he mused, but cousins, perhaps? He has a fading tan, so perhaps he is lately returned from crusade.
“Away!”
Maggie’s warning shout whirled him about, faster than a whipped top. His heart feeling lodged in his throat, Conrad sprinted across the yard, leaping over a hound pup, and shot through the bath-house door.
A dark figure, hooded and wielding a charcoal-blackened long dagger, slashed again at the girl. Maggie met the blow with a pail she had snatched from the floor, splinters from the bucket raining over her head.
“Hey!” Conrad yelled. Cursing that he had obeyed courtesy and left his sword and axe with Lord William’s steward, he drew his short eating knife and charged.
Silent, nimble as a dancer, the figure glanced once at him, measured the distance between them, and attacked Maggie again. A fool…overconfident or desperate…
Conrad slammed into the stranger, snatching at the black hood. The figure staggered, then rolled, flinching as Maggie tried to smash the pail onto her attacker. She missed, and in that instant of her being off-balance, the deadly, sooty dagger jagged upward, straight for her heart.
Conrad kicked the blade aside, bundling Maggie behind him. “Why not dance with a man, you bastard,” he spat out, lunging a second time at this unknown assailant.
“Guards!” Maggie’s call made his ears ring, even as he struck out again and the hooded figure darted back, light on soundless feet, then turned and ran straight through the wattle-and-daub wall of the bath-house.
“My Lord!” Sir David burst in through the door, weapons bristling, and Conrad pointed, ready to pursue himself when he heard a stuttering breath behind him.
Twisting, he saw Maggie pale as a candle flame, shuddering with delayed shock as she dropped the pail. And no wonder, poor lass. He enfolded her in his arms, letting her know she was safe, alive, and heard her whisper, “That was a man.”
He hugged her tighter and kissed the top of her head, a tender act which had always soothed Joan. Though not perhaps if she had ever been assaulted by an assassin. “You are safe, safe,” he murmured, locking his rage away until he encountered the figure afresh.
“Why?” Maggie clawed at him, her cold fingers digging into his tunic as if to hide herself in his bones. An unknowing act I will never taunt her with. She trembled against him and he rocked her, wishing he could make her forget these last few terrible moments. “Why me?” she asked, and swayed anew.
Why, indeed. I intend to find out. Conrad made the signs of the cross and the hammer of storm god Thor over her, to seal his vow.
Chapter 4
Maggie compelled her limbs to be still, and resisted the urge to rub at her arms. She had been on view before, when she was dragged before Conrad, but had not felt as exposed as she did here, standing in the middle of a small, stuffy solar. Worse, although Conrad remained beside her, as tall, unyielding, and protective as a stone tower, the rest of what seemed to be Lord William’s court had settled on cushions surrounding her. Hemmed in, aching from the long ride, still hardly believing she had been forced to fight for her life, she felt bitterness churning darkly through her.
“So you did not see the man’s face?” Lady Ygraine insisted, covering her goblet with a pale hand to show she required no more wine.
“No, my lady.” They had been through these questions once, while everyone else were allowed to sit down, be served ale or wine and little pastries that smelled delicious.
“Enough,” Conrad said, as if he sensed her weary hunger. He squeezed her shoulder in a silent gesture of support and added, “We have been over this already, and you have not subjected your new guest or any of his party to such close inquiry. Let us take our ease for a space, more recollections may come, then.”
Lord William, portly and red with ale, coughed into his black and grey beard and punched the empty cushion beside him. “You already have leave to—”
“And I shall not leave her side until this interrogation is complete.”
“Conrad, my friend! We do not doubt you…”
Maggie sensed the gulf of class yawning between herself and the others. The new guest Conrad had referred to was no doubt settled somewhere in this solar, served with food and drink, while she was not. They kept beating her with questions because they thought she was only a serf and stupid.
“…we ask only because this girl may have missed something…”
They talk as if I am not in the same room. Anger blazed in her and she welcomed it, better fury than the clammy fear, the burnt-in memory of that tall dark figure stalking her silently, like death himself.
“A blessing I was just dressed,” she said softly, though only Conrad heard and flicked a smile at her. She longed to ask bluntly about the riders who had entered the bailey that evening, about the new guest, but suspected, with her being only “this girl”, her question would be dismissed. Still, for Michael, she tried.
“My lady,” she addressed Ygraine, who at least looked at and not through her, who had granted her clothes, a dark green and red gown more faded than her own rainbow arrayed womenfolk, but warm, trimmed prettily with flashes of gold thread, and a good fit. “My lady, will the leader of the riders be joining this meeting, or is he still with his men and bedding down in the great hall?” She did not add, “Or is he already here with us?” though it was a close thing.
“Excellent question!” rapped out Conrad, striking a nearby chest with the flat of his hand. Several ladies, juggling tiny plates and goblets, giggled at the force of his blow.
The older lady gave Maggie a keen stare a falcon could not have bettered and jerked her head at her companion. “You know as well as I, Master Steward, that the rules of hospitality require that strangers who come in peace to the halls of Ormingham are granted bed and board for the night, especially now, so close to Yule.”
Conrad bowed in answer, and Maggie choked down another wave of hot anger at these nobles with their games of courtesy. But then, he surprised her. “Very true.” He stood with his long legs slightly apart, his dark hair spilling past his broad shoulders, his fists resting on his belt. A fighting pose. Torn between amusement and bracing herself, she stole another glance at him sidelong, intrigued as to what he would say next.
“There are many good strangers who have entered these walls.” Conrad lifted a hand from his belt and blew on his fingernails as if he was starting a fire. “Far more than simply those who are already known to you and Lord William. And with such goodly masses, the stragglers, the hangers-on in the baggage trains, the less than savoury characters, I know that a prudent lord and lady such as yourselves will wish to make inquiries, as you have interrogated this damsel.”
Lord William’s blotchy red face became, if possible, even more flaming, while the whispers in the solar and twitches amidst the cushions stopped. The lord tapped his goblet and frowned. “We shall do so directly.”
“May I, my second, and my young witness join forces with yours?” Conrad continued pleasantly, as if he was commenting on the bright, frosty weather outside.
“To be sure,” Lady Ygraine replied, her sharp face looking as if she had just been pressed against a whetstone.
“Shall we go, before the good strangers in your hall are asleep?”
Conrad was relentless, Maggie decided, as, with clear reluctance, Lord William hauled himself upright and beckoned to two lounging squires and a wispy-bearded young knight. They were going back into the great hall, and she would look for a dark-garbed man who moved on the balls of his feet.
“Will such a careful would-be assassin be in the hall?” Maggie had not meant to speak her question aloud, but the shock of this whole night still haunted her and for more than her own sake she felt she must speak. After all, he may have other targets. “If he slipped in with the riders, might he not have gone to earth elsewhere?”
In the village Michael was good at not being discovered, especially if there was harvesting or other tasks he did not like. The memory stung, but she thought it held a lesson. A castle and its bailey are much like a village, with lots of places to hide.
The lady Ygraine clearly did not share her disquiet. She stared at Maggie and sniffed. “You are beyond yourself, my girl.”
“It is a good thought, however,” remarked Conrad, who remained as close and constant as a shadow by her side. “I will tell my men to search the stables and garderobes.”
And now, suddenly, as if she remembered, the lady became indignant. “This creature put a hole in my bath–house! I say he will be found!”
“My men and yours will root out this alien together,” Lord William announced, sweeping past to leave the solar first. With a glare at Maggie, his lady picked up her skirts and followed, her maids bobbing after like ducklings after their dam.
Conrad touched Maggie’s shoulder again as they moved with the rest of the softly chattering stream and spoke quietly into her ear. “Was the stranger that attacked you one of those who took your brother?”
Sir Conrad and the Christmas Treasure Page 3