“That he could not?” Allis asked.
Connor glanced at his wife. They knew that Rennick DeFrouchette could indeed father children, for they had seen that coloring and that build and those eyes in another man—Connor’s own brother, Caradoc, or half brother, if the story told by their old nurse was true. She had said that Connor’s mother had been raped by a squire named Rennick DeFrouchette and Caradoc was the result. Connor believed it, for the resemblance between the late baron and his brother was too strong to be denied.
Nobody at Bellevoire, except Allis, knew of this relationship—not even Isabelle.
After Gleda had gone, and before the servants returned to their tasks, Allis said, “What about his mistake? What if he finds out he has Isabelle, and not me?”
“I don’t imagine he lingered to talk to anybody in the village or castle, and when he returns, we will have the money, so his error will not be of such grave import, even if he does learn of it then.”
“I can ask some friends of my father to lend us what we need to pay the ransom.”
“And we can ask Caradoc, too. Speaking of Caradoc—” Connor fell silent and glanced at the maidservants who were filing into the hall. They, in turn, glanced at their lord and lady, then away.
“Come to the solar,” he said, rising.
Allis nodded and followed him. The solar was on the second level of one of the inner towers, a smaller, much more private place in which to talk. After taking possession of Bellevoire, Allis had set about removing all evidence of the baron’s former occupation, especially here. The walls had been plastered with a mixture of lime, water and sand, and then painted in a pale blue, like the sky. The furnishings were of new oak, the light shade adding to the airy feeling Allis had tried to impart to this chamber, which also had a larger window than most of the buildings in the castle. The chairs sported cushions stuffed with goosedown covered in silk the color of jewels: sapphire, emerald and amber. A large chest, painted in those same colors and holding the records of the estate, stood behind the trestle table where Connor sat to study the rolls and lists of tithes and services due. Now, in the afternoon, a mellow golden light filled the room and warmed it.
“I’ll ask Caradoc to bring the money himself,” Connor said the moment he closed the door behind his wife.
Too anxious to sit, twisting the ends of her girdle around her fingers, Allis asked, “Are you thinking Caradoc should meet this half brother of his?”
“Not exactly.” Connor walked toward the table, then leaned his hip against it as he regarded her with grave concern. “Allis, are you truly well?”
“I have been better, but I am not ill.”
His expression grew even more grave. “Then you will be able to manage if I leave for a little while?”
She dropped the tassels of her girdle and stared at him. “Leave?”
“If Oswald is involved, as I truly believe he is, there is one person who might know where he would hide a captive.”
Allis’s eyes widened with comprehension. “Auberan,” she breathed, naming the other villain involved in the traitorous conspiracy with Rennick DeFrouchette and Lord Oswald. He had also been stripped of his titles and estates save one far to the north. He had been banished there rather than executed, a rare act of benevolence by King Richard, brought on in no small part by Isabelle’s request for mercy.
For a time, Allis had feared there was some deeper bond between them than charity on Isabelle’s part; fortunately, Isabelle had made it very clear that there was not. “For Isabelle’s sake, Auberan might tell you—if he is not involved in this, too,” she said.
“He may be. Either way, I think I should ride north and seek him out.”
Allis rose and put her arms about her husband, pulling him into her embrace. “I would rather you went at once. Whether this young DeFrouchette has noble aspirations or not, I cannot and will not trust him, and I will not believe Isabelle is safe until she’s here again. If there is a chance Auberan knows anything about where Isabelle may be, we must not delay.”
Isabelle simply couldn’t bear another moment in that horrible hall, where she was the object of the Brabancons’ lustful glances, Osburn’s drunken rants and the serving wenches snickers and snide looks. She was even weary of Denis’s perpetually cheerful banter.
She was determined to go out this morning, and without Denis trailing after her like a faithful dog. She would have to be careful, and she didn’t expect to get far, but she was going to do it.
She waited until Denis was talking to Kiera and those Brabancons who were still in the hall were either arguing with each other, or teasing the hounds, or flirting with the serving wenches. Then she slipped out.
To find plenty of other Brabancons loitering in the courtyard.
That could not be helped, and since she didn’t really want to raise anyone’s suspicions, it was probably just as well, she thought as she wandered toward the ruined chapel.
Ever since Alexander had departed, she had been afraid of what he would discover at Bellevoire. Allis and Connor would be delighted to hear she was safe, of course, and they would surely agree to pay any ransom Alexander DeFrouchette demanded, but what about when he returned, knowing he had abducted the wrong woman? She could envision his terrible wrath, and even though she didn’t believe he would physically hurt her, she didn’t want to be here to find out. Therefore, she must escape tonight. She would escape tonight.
She raised her head and looked at the wall walk nearest the tower. Yes, if she stayed in the shadows, it would be difficult for the sentries to see her from the opposite—
Somebody tapped her on the shoulder. She twisted, ready to tell Denis that she was just getting a breath of fresh air.
Heinrich grabbed her shoulders and backed her against the rough stone wall of the chapel, blocking her with his bulky body.
This close, he looked even uglier, and crueler, and his disgusting stench made her want to retch. She tried to sidestep him, but he got in front of her again.
Isabelle hid her fear behind her dignity. “Let me go.”
Heinrich’s lips curved up in a disgusting leer, and his eyes gleamed like a fevered wolf. “What, you prefer that scrawny little Frenchman’s company to that of a real man?”
“My preference has nothing to do with it. He has been following me since DeFrouchette left, taking his master’s place.”
“Until now. Your guardian is gone, so now it is my turn to enjoy your company.”
Denis appeared behind Heinrich.
The sight of him did little to lessen her fear. Heinrich outweighed him by eight stone at least, and the Brabancons were notoriously fierce, rough fighters. It was said they would even use their teeth.
“You are not to touch her, or Alexander will make you regret it,” Denis declared.
Heinrich stepped away from Isabelle to face Denis. She saw her chance and started to sidle along the wall away from them.
Heinrich chuckled, a low, horrible sound like a troll laughing. “You may be DeFrouchette’s slave, but I am not, and I fear no man. I have decided this woman should learn her place.”
Even as he shrugged, Denis’s hand went to the handle of the dagger shoved through his belt. “If you want to be a fool and risk my friend’s anger, so be it. I do not think Osburn will be pleased if you accost this lady, either.”
Heinrich’s bushy brows lowered. “You think he can stop me any better than you can? Do you think you or any man can keep me from what I want?”
“I think you would not be wise to upset the son of the man who hired you.”
“I’m not afraid of Oswald, either.”
“Perhaps not, but you would risk not being paid for a woman? Or have I heard wrong, and you have been paid all you are owed by Lord Oswald?” When Heinrich didn’t answer, Denis grinned. “I think not. There are plenty of women, many more than there are rich men who can afford your price, I’m sure, so should you not think twice about upsetting a rich man?”
“You
may be right, Gascon.”
Then Heinrich’s face contorted with anger and he lunged forward. He grabbed Denis’s tunic by the collar. The garment twisted about Denis’s throat and lifted his arms so that he couldn’t get hold of his dagger. “Or maybe you are enjoying the lady’s favors and do not want to share.”
Isabelle stopped creeping away.
A swift glance showed that all eyes were on Heinrich and Denis. With no clear thought for what she was doing, she ran forward and took hold of the hilt of Heinrich’s sword with both hands. As he felt her close by and twisted to see what was happening, she managed to draw the heavy weapon from its scabbard, grunting with the effort.
“Stop!” she cried as she lifted the dull gray blade and put the tip against Heinrich’s spine.
In a single motion, Heinrich let go and spun around, knocking the sword from her hand with a blow as another man would swat away a fly. It skittered across the cobblestones to rest near another Brabancon’s booted foot. The man reached down to grab it while Heinrich closed on her, his teeth bared with anger like the beast he was.
Gulping for air, Denis pulled out his dagger. “Leave her alone, or I shall kill you!” he cried, rushing the German.
He tried to strike, but the man was quick, despite his size. Heinrich whirled around and shouted to the Brabancon holding his sword. The man tossed it to him, and he deftly caught it. The hulking mercenary and lithe Gascon began circling, each watching the other without so much as a blink.
Osburn and Kiera appeared at the entrance to the hall, drawn by the commotion. From that vantage point, Osburn saw the two men, but he made no move to stop their fight, while Kiera turned away and hurried back inside.
They were not the only spectators. Some of the Brabancons laughed, clearly expecting Denis to lose.
Isabelle feared that, too, and the thought sickened her as much as Heinrich’s stench. She searched for something—anything—to use as a weapon. She would rip up a cobblestone if she had to.
She spotted a large stone that had fallen from the wall of the chapel and sidled toward it, being careful not to draw any attention away from the combatants and praying to God to watch over Denis until she could help him.
Heinrich charged, swinging his blade in a mighty blow—that missed, for the agile Gascon jumped nimbly out the way. Then he ran past the bigger man, lashing out with his dagger.
Bellowing with rage, Heinrich looked at the tear in his sleeve and the growing patch of blood. “Now you will die, you maggot!”
Isabelle bent down and grabbed the rock. Tension fairly hummed along her limbs as she waited for her chance.
With another bellow like an enraged bull, Heinrich raised his sword and swung at Denis. Denis cried out, blood staining his tunic from the wound on his arm. The Brabancons grew silent, watching with the bloodlust of carrion creatures waiting for the end.
There was no more time to waste. Isabelle sprinted forward and struck the back of Heinrich’s head with all her might. The man groaned and staggered forward, then collapsed facedown on the cobblestones, blood oozing from the back of his head.
As Isabelle stood panting and the rock fell from her hand, Osburn shoved his way through the Brabancons. He nudged Heinrich with his foot, then used his toe to roll him over. He bent down to get a closer look at the man’s staring eyes. “God’s blood,” he muttered with disbelief. “She’s killed him.”
Chapter 10
Ingar’s ship rose and fell as it skimmed across the ocean. Alexander, standing at its stern, gripped the gunwale to steady himself. The wind-whipped sea churned and frothed, and the sail billowed taut, straining the single line of rigging. Clouds scudded across the gray sky as swiftly as a hawk diving for its prey.
Yet neither the wind nor the seething sea, nor the apparently imminent storm, dampened the spirits of the Norsemen. It was as if they relished the terrible weather, and Ingar especially fairly reveled in it.
When Alexander had returned to the ship, Ingar had been disappointed that he had not been followed, muttering something about his men needing a good fight before they grew as rusty as old rivets. That might explain his fiendish delight in the stormy weather.
Or perhaps he appreciated the speed the wind gave his vessel more than the danger, or saw this as an opportunity to demonstrate his skill. His men seemed relieved not to have to row, and it was obvious they had no fear that the wind would tear the sail asunder, as he did. He also feared that the shallow drafted vessel would be capsized by a wave.
Ingar laughed, shouted something, and then deliberately steered the ship so that it was broadsided by another wave. His men got soaked and they cursed, shook their fists and raged, but there was no real anger or malice in it. They seemed to be enjoying the tilting of the ship as much as Ingar, while Alexander felt like he was in a cart driven by a madman and pulled by a runaway horse.
“Is this some kind of Norse game?” Alexander cried above the wind.
“What, is a great big Norman like you afraid of a little salt water?” Ingar shouted in reply. A wide grin slashed his face, which was glistening with droplets from the spray. “This is nothing. We have sailed through worse a hundred times, and Olaf needed a bath. By Woden’s beard, this is what we live for—a fine wind and a fast ship! Give me this rather than staying on shore, waiting for some spoiled nobleman to decide to sail.”
Alexander squinted at him through the spray. “His father pays you well to wait and be at his command, does he not?”
“He has to, to make us waste the summer months on land and not on voyages of trade.”
Pillage and plunder, Alexander silently amended as he wrapped his cloak around himself, although it was as damp with spray as Ingar’s face.
Once more Ingar heeled the ship, and Alexander had to grab the gunwale to keep from going over the side. When he shot the Norseman a filthy look, Ingar threw back his head and laughed as he leaned on the tiller.
Enough was enough.
Alexander let go of the vessel’s side and made his way across the heaving deck toward Ingar. Once there, he stood with his feet planted, an arm’s length from the gunwale so that he would not be tempted to grab hold and show his fear. “Are you so bored you are trying to drown me for your amusement?”
“I am not trying to drown you,” Ingar objected as he leaned on the tiller and soaked half his crew. “My men need waking up. So long on land has left them sleepy.”
“Then it is for them you steer this vessel like a madman, and not to send me over the side to a watery grave?”
Ingar grinned. “Man to man, would you blame me if I did? Then I could have that woman for myself.”
“Osburn won’t sell her to you,” Alexander replied with far more confidence than he felt. In truth, there was very little he would put past that spoiled, greedy drunkard.
“You don’t think so? By Thor’s hammer, you are a poor judge of men if you think not.”
“His father would be angry.”
“For enough gold, that one would risk a father’s rage, and I would give him plenty for her.” Again, Ingar steered toward a wave. Again his men shouted and cursed and laughed, the one who must be Olaf shaking his fist at Ingar.
“He’s too afraid of his father.”
“And I tell you, you don’t know men, my friend. He will take the money and flee, for it would be enough to free him from his father forever. He is like a spoiled dog who will not hesitate to bite his master’s hand if he thinks he will be able to run away afterward. If it were between him and me, that woman would already be mine.”
“It is not. As I have told you, she is not for sale.”
Ingar grinned. “Out of respect for you, I have not made another offer, nor will I.”
Respect. That was something Alexander had craved his whole life, and now, apparently, he had it—from a Norse brigand who wouldn’t hesitate to buy an abducted woman.
Ingar pointed, and Alexander made out landfall on the horizon. “We are nearly there.”
; Alexander had never been so happy to see distant hills in his life.
Keeping his gaze on the horizon, Ingar said, “If you wanted to take her, that fool Osburn couldn’t stop you, or his Brabancons, either. You’re too good a fighter, and those Brabancons are not.”
Alexander didn’t mask his surprise at this observation. “They are the scourge of Europe.”
“Because they are ruthless, like Berserkers. But risk their lives for one woman? None of them will want to die for that, unless they are very well paid.” Still holding the tiller in his powerful hands, Ingar regarded Alexander gravely. “You would die for that woman.”
Alexander told himself to ignore Ingar’s words. “The lady is going back to her husband. I want the ransom, not her.”
Ingar turned his attention to the rocks guarding the entrance of the bay, now looming closer. “If you say so. But if the money is not enough to satisfy you, I offer you a place in my crew. We sail far to the south as well as to the north, and there are plenty of beautiful women between here and there.”
Maybe there were, but it was not Lady Allis’s beauty alone he admired. It had sparked his desire, yet what he felt for her now was far more than physical craving, although that burned strong, too. It was her spirit, her refusal to yield, even her defiance of his advice, that made him admire her.
They said no more as Ingar concentrated on getting past the rocks. As the ship rounded the farthest one and shot into the calmer waters of the bay, he shouted another order. His soaking men leapt to their feet to lower the sail, and then the mast.
Despite Ingar’s confidence, Alexander heaved a sigh of relief that they had arrived safely. Through the commotion on deck, he spotted Denis waiting on the wharf. The Gascon was hard to miss, and not because his cloak was snapping behind him like a pennant.
“Your friend looks like a flea on the back of a burning dog,” Ingar noted as he aimed his vessel toward the wharf. He gave Alexander a speculative look. “Or as if he’s missed a lover.”
Alexander was too concerned with Denis’s agitated state to take any notice of the implication. “Something has happened. Can you dock any faster?”
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