by Meg Cabot
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 entourage 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 law
n 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—”
“Bloody hell,” muttered Hugo, rolling his eyes.
“Dick,” cried the innkeeper, leaving his taps and glowering furiously. “Let the man alone. I won’t have fightin’ in me place—”
“If the bloke tosses us ’is purse,” sneered the smaller man, who appeared to be known as Dick, “there won’t be any fightin’, Simon. We’ll call it an even trade, won’t we, Timmy?”
The giant grunted, giving Peter a shake. “Aye.”
Three things occurred simultaneously just then. The first was that Peter, suddenly discovering that he had a backbone, or at least teeth, sank them into Timmy’s arm. Timmy bellowed and released the boy, just as Dick, trying to illustrate to Hugo the seriousness of his intent, lunged at the squire with the business end of a very sharp stiletto. Hugo, witnessing the gleam of the knifepoint, unsheathed his sword and flung himself at the evil-minded Dick, only to find himself tripping over Simon, the innkeeper, who had decided to dive for the gold Hugo’d left on his table, in an effort to keep it from being lost in the fray.
The innkeeper ought to have stayed put. Hugo, in a desperate attempt not to kill some innocent soul with his blade, smashed a heavy shoulder into the table, shattering it and sending the coins flying across the room. Sprawled on his back upon the floor, Hugo found himself blinking at the crossbeams, the breath knocked out of him. The next thing he knew, the ferret-faced Dick had pounced, both of his scabby knees pressing down upon Hugo’s sword arm before he could raise the weapon. Dick’s small, rodentlike eyes sparkled with greed as his stiletto pressed against Hugo’s throat, recognizing the bigger man’s unexpected disadvantage.
“Nice somersault, that,” Dick complimented him with a smile that revealed a mouthful of rotting teeth. “Now cough up them coins—”
Out of the corner of his eye, Hugo saw that Timmy had caught Peter again, and was pulling out tufts of the lad’s hair as recompense for biting him. Peter caterwauled while the rest of the inn’s clientele scattered in four directions, with the exception of the innkeeper, who was still scrambling about the floor, looking for his money.
Hugo sighed. He still had his dagger in his left boot, tucked there for occasions exactly like this one. He’d draw the blade across Dick’s throat before the footpad could whistle fare-thee-well, though Hugo didn’t much like the idea of getting his cloak bloodied. Lord, he was sick of death.
“Very well.” Hugo sighed again, feigning surrender. “Take it.”
But the moment Dick’s hand went for the purse at Hugo’s belt, something whizzed past the cutthroat’s cheek and buried itself through the thick sleeve of Dick’s jerkin, pinning his arm to the floor just between Hugo’s legs. Hugo had jerked his own hand back just in time to keep it from being impaled.
Staring down his long torso in disbelief, Hugo saw that a violet-tipped arrow had embedded itself deeply into the floor-boards, missing not only his hand but his most prized treasure of all by a mere two inches. Dick’s arm was trapped against Hugo’s legs, and the shock of how close the projectile had come to splitting his hand in half caused the cutthroat to whimper.
Hugo looked up just in time to see the girl the innkeeper had called Finn turning to level an arrow at Timmy’s broad back. This time, she calmly warned her intended victim.
“Let the boy go or I’ll sever your spine.”
The giant froze. Then, rotating slowly, Peter writhing in his arms, Timmy looked from Finn to his partner, trapped against Hugo and the floor.
“Gor,” the simple man gulped. “Don’t shoot, lass. Dick and I didn’t mean nofink—”
He released Peter, who staggered away, clutching his head and moaning, Hugo thought, a bit louder than necessary.
The auburn-haired girl lowered her bow and approached Hugo, her lovely face as unconcerned as if she’d just brought in the washing. She studiously ignored Dick, despite his whimpered moans, and did not so much as glance at Hugo as she bent, wrapped slender fingers round the arrow’s shaft, and gently worked the missile out of the wood in which it had been embedded.
While she was so close, Hugo could not help staring, and he did so unabashedly, taking in the smooth white skin, tinged pink at lip and cheek, the long, oddly dark eyelashes, the flowery fragrance of her. He was not generally dumbstruck in the presence of women—far from it, actually—but for the life of him, he could think of nothing to say to this maid, not even when her hand was but an inch from his—
“Ah,” the girl said, finally drawing forth her arrow, intact, from the floor. She examined the tip critically, thumbing the point to check its sharpness. She was apparently pleased with the result, since her pretty face broke into a smile that revealed a set of even white teeth. “Well, look at that,” she said to herself. “Thought
for certain this one was lost for good.”
The minute he was free, the hapless Dick scrambled to his feet, cursing fluently and flapping the arm that had been pinned to the floor.
“Damned bloody bitch,” he howled. “What’d ye do that for? We was only havin’ a bit o’ fun. Weren’t we, Timmy? Jus’ a bit o’ fun with the knight—”
Finnula Crais wasn’t listening, however. She slid the undamaged arrow back into her quiver and calmly, with a last, appraising glance at Hugo, slipped out the door.
Hugo was on his feet in a split second, dodging the innkeeper, who was still on his hands and knees searching for coin, and the hopping-mad Dick, as well as the wreckage of the table he’d smashed. But though he reached the door perhaps a second or two after the girl, she had disappeared, as suddenly as she’d appeared in the first place. He looked up and down the cobblestoned street for some sign of the lass, but saw no trace of her.
He was swearing to himself when Peter approached, panting for breath.
“Did you see that, my lord?” the boy asked excitedly. “I never saw anyone in my life handle a bow like that. She lifted that thing like it was a part of her arm. Did you see it?”
Hugo, still scanning the crowded street for the girl, growled menacingly in response. The boy either did not hear him, or unwisely chose to pursue the topic in spite of his master’s warning.
“Saved our lives, I think she did, my lord. Why do you think she bothered? Wee lass like that, you’d think it would be us that would be doing the rescuing, eh, my lord? But she fair took that Dick’s hand off—” Then, in a different tone: “My lord, why do you look like that? Is aught the matter?”
Hugo shook himself. Was aught the matter? Who was this Finnula Crais, that she threw him into such a panic of emotion with a single look? Hundreds of women had looked at him in his lifetime, and he’d never reacted like this before. Nay, he’d quite naturally and happily lured them into his bed, and a pleasant time was had by all. What was it about that ridiculously dressed, cunning little redhead that had sent him chasing her, like a tom after a she-cat in heat?