“I have not heard of other women taken in ransom, and I surely would have over the course of three years. Am I the first, then? Or have you never been successful?”
“Osburn, can’t you see what she’s doing?” DeFrouchette demanded in a low, stern tone. “Tell the Norsemen they’ll be paid.”
Osburn blinked, as if he didn’t understand at all, but he obeyed DeFrouchette’s order anyway. “Pay no heed to her,” he declared. “My father’s very wealthy. He hid away his fortune before he had to forfeit his goods and property to the Crown.”
“I had better be paid what was agreed,” Ingar warned from the stern. He looked at Isabelle in a way that made her shiver. “I will have my money one way or another.”
Perhaps her plan had not been a wise one, after all.
“Of course you’ll be paid as we agreed,” Osburn said. “My father keeps his word.”
Isabelle sniffed at that. “The man is a traitor. Who can trust a traitor?”
DeFrouchette moved to stand in front of her, and his whole body seemed to burn with rage, his blue eyes most of all. “My lady, keep that lovely mouth of yours shut, or I will gag you again. I know what you are trying to do, if the rest of them do not, and I will not permit it.”
Since she did not want to be gagged again, and was quite sure he would do as he said, she did not speak, not even to answer. Instead, she walked away and went to sit near his friend.
Denis grinned as she joined him, then sobered. “My lady, I would not be so quick to make my friend angry.”
“Why not? He says he won’t hurt me. I am worth too much to him.”
“And he should be worth much to you, for he will protect you. If you anger him, you might make even Alexander think you are not worth the trouble to guard you from these others, and that would be a mistake.”
Perhaps he was right. At least DeFrouchette was no Brabancon or Norseman.
“I do not say this to frighten you, my lady, for in truth, I have seen Alexander lose his patience only once—and it was unforgettable, I assure you—but it could happen. There is much about this business that has tried his patience already.”
“There is much about ‘this business,’ as you call it, that has done much more than try my patience.”
Despite her haughty response, as the ship neared the wharf built parallel to the shore, she considered what the Gascon had said. Perhaps DeFrouchette was the one man it would be foolish to further antagonize.
While they were still several feet away from the shore, Ingar ordered his men to pull in their oars. The momentum and Ingar’s steering brought the vessel’s left side close to the wharf.
One of the men nearest the bow grabbed the rope coiled there and leapt ashore. He tied the rope to a piling. Another two hastened to lay a plank from the ship to the wooden platform.
“Thus I bring you safely,” Ingar announced as he strode down the rocking ship as easily as another did a village street.
He passed her by with only a glance before halting in front of Osburn. “When do I get the rest of my money?”
Osburn drew a purse out of his wrinkled tunic and put it in the Norseman’s outstretched hand. “That is for this journey. There will be more after the next, and when my father arrives. Now that we are here, will you join us for a little celebration?”
“No. We must set up camp.”
“Very well, if that’s what you want to do,” Osburn replied with a wave of his hand. “I won’t insist.”
That would mean more wine for him, no doubt.
Osburn headed for the plank, then glanced back at DeFrouchette. “Bring her,” he ordered as he strolled off the ship. He nearly stumbled when he was on the wharf, but he quickly righted himself.
“He has got to get his land legs,” Denis said to Isabelle as he reached down to pick up the leather pouch at his feet. “It will feel like you are still on the ship at first.”
DeFrouchette joined them and gestured toward the plank. “After you, my lady,” he said with an impertinent bow and shrewd gaze, as if daring her to try to run from him now.
She started forward, but Ingar blocked her way. “Not yet!” he said, grinning. “Not until I have made my farewell to your lady.”
With that, he tugged Isabelle into his arms and kissed her full on the mouth.
For an instant, she was too shocked and immobilized by his bearlike grasp to respond. He tasted of ale and fish—nothing like DeFrouchette—and his beard scratched.
Recovering, she pulled away and slapped him hard across the face.
Ingar laughed as he let her go. “Ah, my lady, it is too bad that Osburn’s father has powerful friends among the Norse of Dublin, or by Thor’s thunder, I would risk his wrath, and DeFrouchette’s, too, and keep you.”
She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. “And I would risk your wrath and try to kill you.”
Ingar chuckled and shook his head. “I think not, my lady. No woman of mine has ever had cause to complain.”
“To your face,” she retorted. “Who can say what they mutter about you when you are not there?”
She had finally said something that took Ingar aback. God’s blood, was there nothing she would not say, to anyone?
In spite of the frustration and annoyance the lady created in him with her tart tongue, Alexander nearly laughed out loud to see the Norseman’s expression.
His shock was no more than he deserved for kissing her. Neither was the slap.
As he followed her down the plank, he also took a secret pleasure in noting that she had not struck him when he had kissed her. She had not enjoyed it, but she had not hit him.
She swayed on the wharf, and he was finding it difficult to get his balance, too.
“As I said to her,” Denis remarked, coming up behind him, “we need to get our land legs.”
“You don’t seem to be having any trouble.”
“When you have been tossed through the air as many times as I have, the difference between a ship and the land is nothing,” he said cheerfully. He nodded at the lady. “Perhaps you should help her.”
“I think that is one woman who does not require much assistance.”
Denis laughed softly. “Oui, you may be right.”
Sure enough, she managed to walk relatively normally as they left the wharf. They followed Osburn across the small pebbled beach and up narrow steps cut in the bluff leading to what had once been the postern gate. It was a difficult climb for all of them, made even worse by the worn steps.
Alexander stayed close to the lady. She slipped once, but when he reached out to help her, she refused his offer with a look that would have curdled milk.
By the time they reached the top, even he was winded. Osburn complained bitterly between gasps for breath; Denis said nothing, his silence a more eloquent comment on his exhaustion.
The fortress did not improve upon closer inspection. Although Alexander would have been hard-pressed to describe what he had expected, he had not anticipated finding a castle that was little more than a ruin.
While attempts at repairs had been made to the crumbling outer wall, the workers had used a haphazard jumble of stone. It looked as if carts of rocks had been brought there and simply dumped. In other places, where the gaps were not so wide, barricades of pointed stakes filled in the spaces. Both these measures were meant to be temporary, or masons would have been called in to do a more thorough repair job.
Alexander could easily imagine that the lady, who seemed as slippery as an eel and just as hard to hold, was already plotting a way to get out of there. It would take more than a few pointed spikes or hastily repaired walls to keep her inside. He hoped the very notion of being caught by the Brabancons would make her think twice before she did anything foolish.
Even from this distance, he could make out several scruffy-looking men watching them. If the lady was smart, and it was obvious she wasn’t stupid, she would not attempt to get past them.
Two more were standing guard at the poste
rn gate as they approached. Both were large, stocky and unkempt, and their clothing was similar: the padded gambesons knights wore beneath their armor, leather jerkins over top, dark wool breeches, and boots. Their swordbelts were wide and their scabbards without adornment, like the metal hilts of the swords protruding from them. These were not weapons for decoration or show but were clearly intended to be used, and often. In addition to their swords, both had long daggers stuck through their belts. Alexander would not have been surprised to learn they had at least one more knife hidden in their belts or boots.
The shorter one, whose hair and beard were filthy blond, stood a pace behind the other, indicating he was subordinate to the man in front of him. This fellow was easily over six feet tall and looked like an ox on two legs as he waited with his hands on his hips. His lank mud brown hair hung past his wide shoulders, and it was as if all the evil things he had done had left their mark upon his scarred, ugly face.
“Hail, Heinrich!” Osburn declared as he reached the tall man, and they clasped arms in greeting.
The lady came to a stop before she got within ten feet of them. She clutched his tunic at the neck and held it tightly closed. He couldn’t blame her for attempting to cover her chest as much as she could for the Brabancon was studying her with an openly lascivious leer on his ugly face.
“So, this is the woman,” he said, his voice more like the growl of a bear than a man’s, his accent Germanic. He switched to passable Norman French. “A beauty, as you said. Nice and ripe.” A feral grin came to his beady black eyes. “Just the way I like my women.”
Alexander put his hand on the hilt of his sword and moved closer to her. The sooner the Brabancons knew she was under his protection—and not the useless Osburn’s—the better. And maybe fighting would quell that other excitement raging in his blood, the excitement that had been there ever since he had first laid eyes on her, and that he was not able to subdue.
“Allow me to introduce you,” Osburn said, mockingly polite. “This is Heinrich, my lady, the commander of the garrison here.”
Once again, this astonishing woman did not start to cry or cower. She regarded Heinrich with haughty dignity and said, “Since your garrison, as you choose to call it, is composed of thieves, murderers and cutthroats, he looks vile enough for that command.”
Heinrich’s heavy brows lowered ominously, and he took a step closer.
So did Alexander, drawing the man’s attention to him even as his blood sang with the hope of battle.
Then the fool Osburn broke the tension simmering between them. “Take care, my lady. Heinrich is like a wolf on a lead, and I don’t know how long I can keep him on it. It could be that if he’s enraged, he’ll bite you. I won’t consider myself responsible if he does.”
“Since you hold me here against my will, you most certainly are responsible for whatever happens to me,” she said. She glanced at Alexander, then back at Osburn. “And obviously you are forgetting my watchdog DeFrouchette. He will not be happy if his prize is harmed.”
“No, I will not,” he seconded, watching the Brabancon study him.
He half smiled and waited, hoping the Brabancon would challenge him.
The Brabancon stayed frustratingly silent. Alexander was about to challenge the man himself when it began to rain, a slow, steady drizzle.
Osburn looked up at the dark sky. “This isn’t the time or place to talk, and I want some wine.”
He shoved his way past Heinrich. The lady hurried after him and so did Denis, his shoulders hunched against the wet.
Alexander took his time, strolling through the gate as if he had all the time in the world. As he did, he felt the Brabancons watching him from the gate and the wall walk. He rested his hand on the hilt of his sword, prepared for an ambush, or at least a confrontation.
None came, but he felt their hostile gazes and knew it was only a matter of time.
Chapter 7
Isabelle hurried after Osburn, as equally determined to get away from those two men as she was to get out of the rain.
Opposite the small postern gate through which they entered was a wider one, with two heavy oaken doors studded with iron. Inside the yard, the buildings seemed as hastily and haphazardly repaired as the walls, all save one. Obviously of newer construction, it was not stone, but half-timbered. Another smaller building, made of stone, was attached to it at the east end. Judging by the smoke coming out of the louvered hatch in the roof, she guessed it was the kitchen. The west end of the new building abutted a tower that seemed in relatively good repair.
In addition to the new building, which she thought must be a sort of hall, there was a long, low structure that had a stinking pile of straw and manure outside it. These must be the stables. Across from that was a storehouse or armory and what appeared to be the remains of a chapel, for there was a cross carved over the door. Of all the buildings, it was in the worst condition—not surprising, considering the sort of men who lived here.
Her gaze swept over the men on the wall walk, counting them. There were fifteen, including the two at the gate.
They all looked to be wearing the same sort of mismatched hodgepodge of garments of cloth and leather, and a few sported breastplates. It was as if they wore whatever they could find or steal, which was probably the case.
Trust Oswald to have hired Brabancons, and probably the worst of those he could find! And she should have guessed he would flee to the west, far from London and the king’s court.
As for those two at the gate, what a pair of horrible reprobates they were! The one named Heinrich especially looked like something from a nightmare. She had been glad when DeFrouchette had drawn closer to her, and she’d actually taken comfort from his presence. She was grateful for DeFrouchette’s tunic, too. She didn’t want to think about what Heinrich might have said—or done—had she been clad only in her shift.
As Osburn drew near the new building, the door opened and a young woman with a shawl thrown over her head came rushing out. Clad in a simple gown of gold-colored wool that hugged her slender form, a plain leather girdle about her waist, she was very young and very pretty, with thick dark hair and bright brown eyes. Most surprising of all, for it seemed so incongruous in this place, her smile of welcome was glorious.
Isabelle halted as Osburn did, and so did Denis and DeFrouchette behind her.
“Osburn!” the girl cried as she threw herself into his arms and kissed him.
Her actions explained her place here, for that was no sisterly kiss. She was either Osburn’s wife or his mistress.
Osburn put his hands on the young woman’s upper arms and pushed her back. “Can’t you see it’s raining, Kiera?” he demanded, moving forward. “I hope you’ve got a good fire going.”
“I ’ave, and I ’ad the serving women start preparing food as soon as I saw your ship,” she quickly replied, pathetically eager and apparently not disturbed by his less than enthusiastic reception. Her manner of speaking belied a humble origin, telling Isabelle that she was probably not his wife.
The object of the girl’s affection didn’t reply as he continued on the way. Kiera hesitated a moment as she looked at Isabelle and the others, then hurried after him.
Isabelle, too, glanced at DeFrouchette, curious as to what he made of Kiera and her presence there.
What she saw shocked her, for on his stern visage was an expression of distaste amounting almost to revulsion.
Why? She was pretty, so it couldn’t be because of her appearance. Because she was Osburn’s mistress? He was hardly a model of virtue, to look at Kiera thus. Because she obviously liked Osburn? In truth, Isabelle found that somewhat disgusting herself—but then, she had not been born a peasant.
If she had, Isabelle thought as they continued toward the half-timbered building, and a lord’s son who was not unattractive came along and offered her a finer life than she could ever know, might she not be tempted, too? Might she not even overlook his drunkenness and other faults?
Perhaps
, and she would remember that if that were so, Kiera’s first loyalty would be to the man she believed had saved her from a life of poverty and want.
They entered what was indeed a rudimentary hall. There was a large open area, with a central hearth that contained a fire. The smoke made its way upward and out through the thatched roof. The only other ventilation was the door, so the smoke lingered.
Bundles and bags beside benches along the wall told Isabelle that the Brabancons bedded down here. She suspected the area behind a screen at the far end of the room was where Osburn and Kiera slept. A few chairs, large and ornately carved, were near the hearth. She also noted that in addition to the entrance, two other doors opened out of this building, one to the east, to the kitchen, and the other to the west, which must lead into the tower.
Several hounds, as ugly as the Brabancons and probably just as fierce, looked up from the bones they were gnawing. One or two rose on their haunches and growled, the saliva dripping from their massive jaws, until one of the serving women setting up the trestle tables in preparation for a meal gave a command that silenced them.
Isabelle had never seen more slatternly, unsavory-looking serving women. Their garments bespoke some quality when they were first new, but they had not been well taken care of and were laced in such a manner that they exposed far more than they should. The ages of the women were difficult to discern, except that none of them were as young as Kiera. Also unlike Kiera, their hair was untidy and their brazen stares more than impertinent. They looked like the sort of women who would be more at home in a brothel than serving in a castle.
When Isabelle saw Heinrich boldly caress one as he passed her by and heard the woman laugh and mutter something in response, she realized she was probably right, and their duties here no doubt extended to more than serving food and cleaning.
She wondered if DeFrouchette had ever availed himself of their services, then dismissed that thought as unimportant.
Osburn tossed off his sodden cloak. Kiera grabbed it before it hit the rush-covered flagstones and hung it on a hook near the entrance. He threw himself into one of the chairs.
Margaret Moore - [Maiden & Her Knight 03] Page 8