by Lynn Kurland
“Robin is a bit testy, love,” Nicholas said cheerfully. “I don’t think he’s been sleeping well.”
“She is not your love,” Robin growled.
“Look, Anne, at the fine meats before us tonight,” Nicholas said, closing his fingers gently over her wounded wrist. “What will you have? The fowl looks particularly fine this eve. Or perhaps the eel. Nay, I think we’ll start with the boar. I can smell the fine sauce from here.”
Anne watched as Nicholas’s fingers were removed from her arm and Robin’s placed there. He pulled her right arm gently toward him until she had no choice but to shift in her chair so she faced him.
“I’m trying to eat,” she said pointedly. “And with your brother, if you don’t mind.”
“Nick can feed you whilst I look at this,” Robin said gruffly. “I don’t trust his methods of healing.”
Anne forced herself not to tremble at his touch. Impersonal or not, it was gentle. She stared at his long, tanned fingers as they unwrapped the binding on her wrist, then she felt his calluses as he trailed his fingers gently over the bruised flesh. He lifted his head and looked at her.
“Does it pain you still?”
Anne had difficulty finding her wits to speak. It had been years since she had been this close to Robin. Or, more accurately, been this close to Robin and not been either shouting at him or giving him a false smile before she fled to weep in private over his harshness.
And he was no longer the hot-tempered lad of ten-and-nine. He was a man, not a boy, and being so close to him and having his hands on her skin made her want to bolt. Or faint. She couldn’t decide which.
“Anne?”
She blinked. “It still hurts a bit when I move it.”
“Has it occurred to you, then, to keep it still?”
She started to snap out a retort, then she caught sight of the faint twinkle in his eye. She blinked a time or two, certain her eyes were deceiving her. He couldn’t be teasing her. Robin had forgotten how to jest years ago.
“I don’t think the cloths are stiff enough,” she managed.
“Then you should have let me tend it to start with,” he said, sitting back and recapturing his brisk tone. “I’ll have to splint it now. After supper. And I suppose I’ll have to serve myself since you’re unable to do it.”
Anne pursed her lips. Apparently his lack of manners had robbed him of a supper companion, for he had no one with which to share his trencher.
Nicholas put his arm around Anne’s shoulders. “Pay him no heed, Anne. He forgets he is now in a civilized hall, not out in his tent with his men. Here, I’ve chosen all the best pieces of meat for you. Shall I feed you, or can you manage?”
“By the saints, Nick, she isn’t helpless. Stop hovering over her.”
“I’ll hover as much as I like, Rob. You aren’t her lord and master. If she doesn’t want me hovering, she can tell me so herself.”
“She doesn’t like to be fussed over, you fool.”
Anne sat back and listened to them talk about her as if she weren’t there. Robin was annoyed and Nicholas was fast becoming that way. She suppressed the urge to crawl under the table.
“And I say a woman needs to be fussed over. ’Tis nothing but the chivalrous thing to do.”
“And I say you’re treating her like a cripple. Her leg is weak, not useless, and her hands are perfectly capable of bringing food to her mouth. Don’t pity her.”
“I’m trying to woo her,” Nicholas growled.
“She’s not yours to woo,” Robin returned, just as darkly.
“And just who are you to determine whom she belongs to?”
Robin rose so quickly, his chair almost toppled over. “Outside.”
“Gladly.”
Anne sighed as they both strode angrily across the rushes. It was another peaceful night in the de Piaget household.
But apparently they were fighting over her and that was something to be examined. Anne wondered if anyone would notice if she left the table to savor the miracle. She looked about her carefully.
Her father was deep in discussion with Gwen, which boded very well for her being allowed to escape the hall. The rest of the family and garrison were applying themselves industriously to their supper and the noise in the hall was formidable. Anne slipped out of her chair and made her way up the stairs. Perhaps a bit of fresh air would help her see more clearly.
Though she wasn’t sure what it was she was supposed to see. Nicholas was flattering her, but it couldn’t be more than that. Robin was doing the saints only knew what. Perhaps he lusted after her wealth. Perhaps he was merely trying to thwart his brother.
Perhaps he had lost his mind somewhere in his travels over the past five years.
She clapped her hand to her head, and then turned her attentions to getting herself up to the battlements without getting killed. The memory of being pushed down the steps was almost enough to make her turn around and go back down to the light and comfort of the great hall.
But then she would have to face Artane’s eldest lads when they returned from their brawl and she didn’t think she was equal to that task. Besides, there were guards aplenty on the roof.
She would certainly be safer alone than finding herself squeezed between two Artane brothers who seemed bent on killing each other.
12
Robin whirled on his brother the moment they were outside, and slammed him back up against the hall door.
��Leave her be,” Robin snarled. “She’s not yours and she never will be.”
“Let Fenwyck determine that,” Nicholas said stubbornly.
“Damn you,” Robin shouted, “she is not a mare at market! She is not available for you to look over and decide that a tryst with her would be amusing sport for the winter. She does not want a husband and even if she did want one, that man would not be you!”
Nicholas leaned back against the door and folded his arms over his chest. A lazy smile formed on his face.
“Is that so,” Nicholas drawled.
Robin snagged his brother by the front of his tunic and dragged him down the stairs, feeling that the dirt would be more suited to beating Nicholas senseless than the top of the steps.
“She is not for sale,” Robin growled, releasing Nicholas.
“Then you’d best pass those tidings to the garrison for I know of several who think she just might be.”
“Who?” Robin demanded.
“Careful, brother,” Nicholas said with a grin. “If I didn’t know you so well, I would think you were jealous.”
Robin grabbed Nicholas by the tunic and shook him. “Names!”
Nicholas only grinned again. “I wouldn’t presume to sentence any lads to a thrashing from you, my lord. I suppose you’ll have to discover their identities on your own.”
“I know the identity of one man already,” Robin said pointedly, “and that man would be wise to turn his attentions elsewhere.”
“Why should I?” Nicholas asked pleasantly. “You’ve made no claim on her.”
Robin had absolutely nothing to say to contradict that, so he contented himself with plowing a fist into his brother’s belly and stomping back up the steps. Perhaps he would do well to keep a closer eye on mistress Anne, just to keep her safe. The first lad to look at her with lust in his eye would die a slow and painful death. It was a perfect reason not to let her out of his sight.
He strode back into the hall and immediately noted that Anne was not in her place. He fixed Amanda with a glare.
“Where is she?”
Amanda smiled serenely. “Gone.”
“Where?”
“I daresay she thought to escape your foul temper by hiding on the battlements. She often goes there—”
Robin vaulted over the table and jogged to the stairs. He wanted to sprint there but didn’t want anyone to think him anxious. By the saints, she could fall and kill herself and no one would be the wiser until they saw her body on the ground! What had possessed his father to allow
her to wander up there without an escort?
He ran up the various flights of stairs to the battlements and burst through the door onto the walkway. He spotted her immediately and walked over to her without hesitation. He turned her away from the wall and began to pull her toward the door.
“What are you doing?” she gasped.
“Taking you downstairs.”
“But—”
“Leading you along is the only thing which keeps me from wringing your neck here on the walkway, Anne. Do not argue with me.”
She didn’t. She wasn’t exactly coming with him enthusiastically, but she wasn’t fighting him either. Robin wasn’t sure if he should be pleased or terrified by that.
He led her down to his mother’s solar and shut the door behind them with his foot.
“Light a fire, won’t you?” she asked quickly.
He looked at her, and felt himself grow weak under her gaze. By the saints, she had become a beauty. And it wasn’t all just the fairness of her face. The quiet inner beauty she had always possessed had somehow found its way to the outside. It was no wonder half the garrison wanted to offer for her. The saints be praised that her father wouldn’t give her to any less than a lord’s heir. At least he had no reason to fear a mere knight stealing her away from under his nose.
“Robin?”
“The fire,” he said, “aye, I remember. Do not start your harping on me already, mistress Anne.”
She turned her face away. Robin led her to a chair near the hearth and cursed under his breath. He hadn’t meant to hurt her feelings. In truth, he had no idea what he was about. He’d been fuming for a se’nnight that he couldn’t seem to get Anne away from Nicholas, and now that he had her, he wanted to flee.
It was enough to make him want to throw up his hands and surrender.
He built up the fire, then sat back on his heels and looked at his lady. The moment he met her eyes, she averted her gaze. So she cared nothing for him. He couldn’t blame her. He didn’t care much for himself of late either.
He sat down and reached for a piece of kindling. She’d need a splint on her wrist. Nicholas knew better than to leave an injury such as that alone. Robin cursed under his breath as he worked. It should have been splinted and wrapped immediately. It would likely take her twice as long to recover from it now.
The rustle of fabric drew his attention and he looked up to see Anne rising.
“Where are you off to? Sit back down.”
“I’m not going to stay any longer and listen to you curse me,” she said stiffly.
“I was cursing Nicholas, not you. He should have splinted your wrist. Sit back down. I won’t chase you the next time.”
She hesitated, then she slowly sank back down to her chair.
And for some reason, that hurt him—likely because he knew he was hurting her. Didn’t she know he would chase her as many times as she wanted? Didn’t she have any idea that she was the reason he hadn’t come home in five years? Didn’t she have any idea that she was one of the reasons he trained until he dropped each day? He never, ever wanted to see her look at him and find him lacking.
Her insecurity broke his heart. Sweet, lovely Anne who should have had nothing but smiles filling her days, who deserved a gallant knight to court her, and a body that was perfect and didn’t pain her.
Yet what did she have instead? A leg that was lame and a surly knight who couldn’t string two words together to form a decent compliment.
Robin bent again to his whittling, not liking in the least the emotions that raged inside him. He could never give Anne what she needed, be what she deserved, and he was a fool to want to. He finished with the thin strips of wood and tucked his knife back into his belt. Then he looked around him for the cloth that had initially bound Anne’s wrist.
She held it out and he took it. He laid the cloth on her lap and placed her wrist on it.
“Hold the splints, Anne girl, while I wrap it,” he said, placing the wood where he wanted it.
“What did you call me?”
He looked up and met her pale eyes. “I don’t remember,” he lied. It had been a slip, an unwitting indication of his thoughts. He hadn’t called her that since before his humiliation at Baldwin’s hands. It had been his pet name for her, his alone. He’d broken Nicholas’s nose the first time Nick had taken up calling her that. He resumed his work, feeling acutely uncomfortable. Gentleness was not in his nature. Soft words and silly endearments were not in his vocabulary. He was a warrior, not a woman, and he had no time for foolishness.
“I don’t want you using this arm,” he said as he tied the two ends of the cloth together. “No sewing, no cooking, no carrying. If I see you doing the like, you will regret it, and rest assured I will be watching you closely for the next se’nnight to see that you obey me.”
“I am not one of your men, Robin.”
He slipped his fingers under hers and rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. “I know that, Anne.” He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it roughly. He didn’t dare meet her eyes.
And then he realized how foolish a thing it had been. He released her hand quickly and stood. “’Tis time you were abed. Let me bank the fire and I’ll see you downstairs. I don’t want you tripping again.” He carefully tended the fire, then brushed off his hands and turned to look at Anne. She hadn’t moved. She was looking at her hand as if she’d never seen it before.
Robin wiped off his hands again and crossed the two steps that separated him from her. He held down his hand and called her name quietly. She looked up at him and her eyes were full of tears.
Robin suppressed the urge to run.
Anne put her hand into his and he gently pulled her to her feet.
“You’re overly tired,” he said gruffly. “Rest is what you need.”
She nodded, but she didn’t move. Robin hesitated, wondering what he dared do. What he wanted to do was pull her into his arms; what he dreaded was having her push away in disgust. Or would she laugh at him? That he couldn’t have borne—
The door burst open and Nicholas stood there, disheveled. He met Robin’s eyes.
“The page,” he said, holding on to the doorframe for support. “The one you gave my wine to. That was Stephen of Hardwiche, wasn’t it?”
“Aye. What has befallen the lad?”
Nicholas looked at him, his gray eyes wide with shock and horror.
“I think he’s dead.”
13
Edith walked sedately down the passageway, doing her damndest to appear calm. She nodded regally to whatever servant she passed and slipped by members of Artane’s guard with as little notice as possible. She reached the base of the tower steps, took a deep breath, and climbed them slowly. After she reached the landing, she took another deep, calming breath, opened the door, and stepped inside the chamber. Once the door was closed behind her, she gathered all her reserves of control and asked the question she could not believe she was forced to utter.
“Dead?” she queried politely.
Maude was naught but a huddled mass against the wall, quivering and sniveling. Baldwin loomed over her with his fist raised. He turned to glare at Edith.
“Aye, dead,” he snarled. “And this silly twit here was the one to do it.”
And then he did something that forever damned him in Edith’s eyes. He reached out and kicked Maude with all his strength.
It was one thing to kill a man. Even torturing a man was acceptable in several circumstances. Tormenting a woman could also be done, should the offense be grave enough. But beating a woman who was already cowering on the floor, who had no defenses, who was unable to fight back . . .
Edith knew that somehow she would have to reconcile that with what she was doing to Anne, but for now all she could see was herself in Maude’s place, trying to avoid the battering fists and flailing feet of her own sire.
Then again, Baldwin was Sedgwick’s get. What else could she expect?
“Cease,” she said, striding across
the chamber and pushing her brother away. She stood between him and Maude. “I’ll see to her.”
Baldwin drew his hand back, likely to slap her, but she stood her ground. She was certain he could see the hate in her eyes. When his own anger faltered and he lowered his hand, she knew she had won at least that battle.
“I should punish you as well for this,” he growled.
“Do, and you’ll regret it,” she said calmly.
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“The only way to be sure would be to kill me now.”
He looked to be contemplating it, then he cursed most foully and turned away. “That sport is too easy.”
Of course. She pursed her lips at his contemptuous tone, but said nothing further. There was no point in trying to humiliate him. Robin had done that well enough that morn. She had watched them earlier and seen Artane dispatch him with barely an effort. Her brother’s bluster was a great deal of wounded pride, surely, and perhaps encouraging him to assuage that pride would keep him out from underfoot until she could decide further how to proceed.
“Perhaps you’d find better sport in the lists,” she suggested.
He glowered at her. “’Twas a moment’s misstep this morn,” he said.
“Doubtless.” She smiled at him sympathetically. “I suppose we all have them.” Some fewer than others, but she didn’t bother to point that out to him.
Baldwin pointed a shaking finger at Maude. “See to her. If you don’t, I will, and rest assured, they won’t find her to bury her.”
Edith watched him leave the chamber and wondered if he actually had the spine for such a deed. He boasted of it often, but she’d never seen the fruits of his foul labors. She very much suspected that he didn’t have the bollocks for the like. She wondered if he would even be capable of seeing through any of the tasks she intended to assign him.
Good assassins were always in such short supply.
Edith sighed and turned to kneel down next to Maude. She lifted the blubbering girl’s face up and looked dispassionately at the swelling already apparent. There was one thing she could say for her brother: he knew how to use his fists to their best advantage.