Margaret Moore - [Maiden & Her Knight 03]

by All My Desire

He forced his thoughts back to Ingar. If the man did not agree, he didn’t know what he would do.

  Yes, he did. He’d kill Osburn. He’d be killed in turn, of course, but he would accept that fate as just punishment for his hand in this business, and for not making more certain of the men with whom he allied himself.

  Surely, though, Ingar would agree. He must.

  Alexander spotted Hielda crossing the beach toward the steps. The sly and proud way she smiled and swayed her hips when she saw him told him that she had not been in the Norse camp to exchange pleasantries, and she had no basket as if she had taken them any supplies. It was easy enough to guess what she had been doing there, and he suspected that she was now several coins richer.

  As Hielda started up the steps toward him, he tried to remember if she had been part of that gawking group in the hall when Isabelle had made her appearance before Lord Oswald. He couldn’t remember. He had been too shocked by what had come after to recall exactly who had been present.

  If she had been, she would surely have told the Norsemen the news of the lady’s real name and the proposed marriage. No doubt Ingar would think him a fool, too, but as long as Ingar thought him a fool with skills that made him worthy enough to be part of his crew, he would endure the jibes and mocking looks.

  He paused and pressed back against the bluff to let Hielda pass by.

  “’Scuse me,” she said as she rubbed against him far more than necessary. “Bit narrow here, ain’t it?”

  He could hear the chink of coins from somewhere between her heavy breasts, where she probably kept her purse when she was not earning more.

  “I think you’ve done enough of that today,” he said, trying to keep his annoyance and disgust at bay. “You could wear yourself out.”

  With a low, throaty chuckle, she said, “Worse ways to do it. You should find out.”

  Denis was going to tell Kiera; he was going to tell Ingar. Both of them might alert Oswald to the plan to escape, so it might be wise to suggest he had no such ideas in case it came down to one person’s word against another’s.

  Barely able to keep his nostril from curling at her stench, he hauled her closer still. “Maybe I will.”

  Her eyes gleamed like a ferret’s. “Now?”

  Smiling with false intent, he shook his head. “I have business at the Norse camp.”

  “Tonight?”

  He chucked her under the chin. “At night, I guard the lady. Come to the Gascon’s quarters after you finish serving Lord Oswald and the others in the morning. I’ll be waiting.”

  She gave him the most lascivious smile he had ever seen, and then grabbed him in a way that made him jump. “Why not now? What’s so important you can’t take a little time?”

  He fought the urge to shove her away. “I want more than a quick tumble in the sheets.”

  Her brown eyes sparkled with greed, and she raised her face as if she was going to kiss him.

  “How much do you want?” he asked before she could.

  The talk of money grabbed her attention. Thank God.

  She slid him a calculating glance. She would know the amount of the ransom soon to be paid and was surely figuring her worth based on that. “I’m good.”

  “I trust you will be.”

  “I’ll be worth it.”

  “I expect so.”

  They negotiated the final amount for her services, and once her price was settled to her satisfaction—and he was quite sure she considered herself a clever negotiator—she seemed content enough to wait until the next day and went on her way.

  He wanted to brush off his clothes and wash his hands as he continued down the steps and across the beach toward the cluster of tents with their dragon poles. Instead, he looked up at the sky, checking the weather and breathing in great gulps of fresh air, a blessed relief after Hielda’s proximity. The sky was clear except for some high, thin white clouds. The water in the bay was fairly calm, but he could see foam on the sea beyond, where the wind was greater. It was not the stormy weather Ingar apparently preferred, but it looked promising for a speedy journey.

  Recognizing Alexander, none of the Norsemen issued any challenges as he strode into their camp past a large pile of driftwood. The whole camp reeked of smoke from damp wood, salted fish, seaweed and the wet canvas of their tents slowly drying in the sun.

  Obviously gambling, several of Ingar’s crew crouched in a circle, the sound of the wooden dice in the leather cup unmistakable. A few more were practicing throwing their battle-axes at a stump set up as a target, and they were very accurate. Another man was fixing the strap on his shield, and three more stood near a pot, arguing about whatever was in it. One man sat on a log while another sat behind him, calmly picking the nits out of his friend’s hair.

  It was a cozy domestic scene—for Norsemen. Such was going to be his home for the rest of his days, if Ingar agreed to his bargain.

  He didn’t see Ingar anywhere in the camp or on his ship. That confused him, for he had expected Ingar to be bellowing orders or drinking ale and singing some ancient saga about valiant deeds that sent men to Valhalla to feast with the gods. Then he remembered Hielda.

  He headed for what had to be Ingar’s tent, for it was easily the biggest one in the encampment, and the poles outside were the most ornately carved and colorfully painted. “Ingar!” he called as he waited outside.

  “What?” the Norseman’s groggy voice called back. “Can’t a man get some sleep?”

  “It is Alexander DeFrouchette, and I have come to speak to you of an important matter.”

  The tent flap parted, and a half naked Ingar peered out at him. To Alexander’s surprise, a large gold crucifix dangled from a wonderfully worked chain around his neck. “Well then, enter.”

  Alexander stooped to go through the opening. He couldn’t straighten inside. Neither could Ingar, who promptly flopped down on the wooden bed covered with what looked like a black bear’s pelt. Like everything else in the camp, the furnishings in the tent had obviously been made to be taken apart and stowed on the ship, then put together when needed. A bronze lamp, not lit, hung from the ridgepole by a chain and was filled with what smelled like sheep’s tallow. Ingar gestured at a three-legged stool, and Alexander sat.

  The Norseman wore only his brown woolen breeches, and his chest bore several scars. His boots were near the wooden bed, and so was his sword, a damascened blade, made of different qualities of iron and steel that were wound around each other, then welded together and hammered flat. The technique made for a strong, supple blade, and an expensive one. That weapon alone would have cost more than most men made in a lifetime of trade or farming.

  But that was not the only weapon the Norseman possessed. Lying across an iron-embossed wooden chest was a battle-ax whose head was delicately carved with swirling, curving lines—a lovely thing it was, for a weapon of destruction.

  The rumpled linen beneath the pelt and the general state of the feather bed told Alexander that Ingar had not been napping. Ingar saw his speculative gaze and laughed as he fingered the crucifix. “A man gets lonely.”

  “I didn’t realize you were a Christian,” Alexander said, not speaking of his activity with Hielda even while wondering if Ingar would heed the church’s teachings about charity.

  “My father was baptized, and so was I.” Chuckling, Ingar pulled his tunic out of the rumpled linens. “It’s good for trade.”

  “Speaking of trade, I have come to make a bargain with you, Ingar.”

  “What kind of bargain?” Ingar reached under his bed and pulled out a wineskin that he had probably hidden from Hielda.

  He offered the skin first to Alexander, who shook his head.

  “You speak for Oswald?” Ingar asked before he put the opening to his mouth and drank deeply.

  “No.”

  Ingar lowered the skin, wiped his mouth and belched. “No? This is a bargain for yourself?”

  “Yes.”

  Ingar’s expression grew very shrewd, and certai
n. “You want the woman.”

  Oh, God, how he did! But he could never, ever be anything more to her than the man who had abducted her and caused her so much misery. “I want to take her home and return her to her family. I have discovered that she is not the Lady Allis after all. I took the lady’s sister by mistake.”

  He felt himself blush as Ingar’s eyes widened like Denis’s. Then the Norseman threw back his head and laughed fit to collapse the tent. “The wrong woman? You put up with her and ran after her and nearly drowned yourself—and she was the wrong woman?”

  Alexander waited until the man calmed down. “Yes.”

  Another idea seemed to strike Ingar. “Then she is not the prize for ransom.”

  “Nor is she married, so Oswald plans to force her to marry Osburn.”

  Ingar frowned with disgust. “Waste her on that drunken rat? Bah! He would do better to sell her to me. She would surely think so, too.”

  “I gave the lady my word she would not be harmed, and I intend to keep it. Also, that was not the agreement I made with Oswald, and I will not permit him to change it. Nor will I allow him to sell her to you.”

  Instead of being offended, Ingar smiled slowly, one side of his mouth lifting with sardonic cunning. “This is not about your honor and word given or broken. You would rather take her home than see her wed to that fool or in my bed.”

  Alexander started to stand. He had made another mistake coming here. They would find a different way to escape, even if it meant stealing horses. “I told you, I gave—”

  “I know, you gave your word.” Ingar half rose and put his large hand on Alexander’s shoulder, pushing him back down. “But that does not mean there need not be a ransom. Won’t this Sir Connor pay to get her back just the same? He may not want to pay so much, of course, but surely he will give you something for her.”

  “I won’t risk going close to Bellevoire, for I’m sure Sir Connor has many more patrols out now, searching for her or anybody trespassing on his land.”

  “You could take some of my men.”

  Although he would not say so to Ingar, he would trust the Norsemen about as much as he would the Brabancons. “She goes back to her family, and the loss of the ransom is the cost of my error. I will not further dishonor myself by bargaining like a man hawking goods at a fair.”

  Ingar’s gray eyes narrowed, and all trace of good humor vanished. “Then what have you to offer me in return for helping you? You have no money and nothing of any value.”

  “I have my sword arm. If you agree to take us from here, I will serve in your crew for the rest of my life and give you half of all the plunder I get.”

  He steeled himself to betray no uneasiness as he waited for Ingar to answer, but with Ingar stroking his beard and studying him, even he thought his offer seemed pathetic.

  “What you offer is not without value,” Ingar said at last, “but Oswald is a wealthy and powerful man, with powerful friends. You ask me to abandon such a man and the payment he offers now for the sake of what you may provide later?”

  “Oswald was rich and powerful once, before he betrayed his king. Now he is an outlaw, and one who treats you and your crew like hirelings, not Norsemen to be respected. Or do you fear this formerly wealthy and powerful lord?”

  “Not at all,” Ingar answered with calm certainty and no rancor. “And it is true, he keeps us here like dogs on a leash.”

  He eyed Alexander as he might a horse he was thinking of buying—as he had treated Isabelle. She had known this humiliation, yet it had not defeated her, and he would endure it, too.

  “You might not live long,” Ingar noted.

  “That’s true.”

  The Norseman smiled. “You are an honest man. And I suspect you can fight like a Berserker when you must.” His smile disappeared. “But when a man does not care if he lives or dies, he usually dies.”

  He would say what was necessary. “I wish to live as much as any man, and if I am in your crew, Lord Oswald will not be able to catch me.”

  “Ah! You will be hiding with us.”

  Like a coward. But if that helped convince Ingar to agree… “Yes.”

  His gaze shrewdly measuring, Ingar studied Alexander more. “So, you will not keep her for yourself?”

  “I gave the lady my word she would not be harmed, as I will give you my word that I will sail with you if you help me. How can you trust me to keep my word with you if I’ll break it with another?”

  “Very true,” Ingar mused aloud. “Besides, there are many women.”

  None like her.

  “I have many myself, in many ports.” Ingar turned over his left hand so that his palm was facing upward. “One here.” He did the same with his right hand. “One there. It is a fine way to live. You will see.”

  Alexander doubted that he would find anything about Ingar’s way of life enjoyable, except perhaps the copious amounts of ale and wine the Norsemen consumed. That might help him forget Lady Isabelle, Denis and what he had done. “So you’ll help us?”

  “Yes.” Ingar thought a moment. “As you have no wish to be captured by patrols, neither have I, so we dare not sail far inland this time. I will set you ashore and put out to sea, then return in two days to pick you up. If you are not there, I will leave you.”

  “Then you won’t have me in your crew, and you’ll have lost Oswald’s patronage, too.”

  “I will risk it.” Ingar gave Alexander another sly grin. “You will come back. Your honor will demand it, and if you don’t, I’ll know you’re dead. As for Oswald, I am no man’s churl, and it is worth some coin to prove it.”

  Chapter 17

  In the dim light of evening, Isabelle sat on the bed in her chamber, her head leaning limply against her hand. She had not gone below for the evening meal, and no one had come to check on her, or to bring her food. Maybe they planned on starving her into obedience.

  She sighed wearily and wiped at her running nose with her free hand. She had cried her cry, and felt drained and empty of far more than food. Every time she thought things were terrible, they became worse. Every time she was pleased to have maintained her dignity in the face of her troubles, new ones arose to test her mettle.

  Worst of all, when she had finally believed that Alexander DeFrouchette was not her enemy, she had discovered fully, completely, incontrovertibly, that he was. He had decided in the end to remain in Oswald’s camp, abandoning her to a terrible fate.

  The door to the room crashed open, and Isabelle shot to her feet.

  Dressed in his fine clothes and shining boots, a smug smile on his face, and his wine-befuddled eyes fairly glowing with lust, Osburn sauntered in. “So here you are, my bride-to-be. I came to beard you in your den.”

  She moved around the bed, away from it and him. “Get out, Osburn. We are not married yet.”

  “As good as,” he slurred as he reached back and closed the door. “Why wait for the formalities? You’re here, so am I, and there’s”—he gestured lazily and smiled with demonic pleasure—“a bed.”

  “Does your father know you’re here?”

  “See how she asks, like I am a child?” he demanded, looking around as if the chamber were full of spectators before his sneering gaze returned to her. “Rest assured, my lady, I am not a child, and my dear father has finally found that out, too. My dear dead father.”

  Isabelle gasped, disbelieving. “Dead?”

  “Completely.”

  She backed away. “I heard no sound of a struggle.”

  Swaying as if he were again on the deck of Ingar’s ship, Osburn grinned. “I’m too smart for that. I sent Kiera to sleep with the other women and told my father I wanted to discuss his plans in private. He came around the screen and sat in my chair. My chair, not his.” Osburn shook his head as if to clear it, then regarded her with glistening, frightening eyes. “But I was ready for him. I went behind him and slit his throat. Easy, really. He burbled a bit and tried to get up, but he was too fat.” Osburn laughed, a hideous gi
ggle, then ended in an angry sob. “He thought I was stupid. Well, who’s the stupid one now, eh? He’s the one that’s dead, not me!”

  So one of her enemies was dead—but she was still in danger because Osburn was not.

  “Now come, my dear, and kiss me. I’ve waited long enough to have you.”

  As Osburn stumbled toward her, she saw the dagger in his belt. She had gotten a weapon away from Heinrich; surely she could do that again and defend herself.

  Osburn halted and shook his finger at her. “Don’t get any ideas, my lady. I won’t let you near my dagger—or at least, not that one.” He giggled again at his own joke and shoved the knife further into his belt. “You really must learn to act more like a lady. As my wife, I’ll expect no less.”

  “I was only marrying you to protect my family. Now that your father is dead, so is my reason.”

  He fingered the hilt of his dagger. “You think I don’t have money to pay assassins? Besides, I have to marry you, because if I don’t, there’s nothing to prevent your family from coming after me.” He nodded as he crept closer. “I told you I wasn’t stupid, Isabelle. I don’t want to die because of you.”

  She continued back toward the outer wall, near the loophole and the loose stones. If she could get him in front of them....

  “Oh, come, come, Isabelle,” he cooed, sounding so eerily like his father that it made her flesh crawl. “I’m not so bad, really. I’m handsome, and if you cooperate, I’ll treat you well.”

  “What about Kiera?” she charged, inching toward the loophole. “She loves you.”

  “She’s nothing but a servant, a woman to warm my bed and pleasure me when I desire it. I’ve taught her well, though, so I won’t discard her just yet. After all, a man can have a mistress as well as a wife. Are you jealous?”

  “That is the last thing I will ever be where you are concerned.”

  He stopped a few feet away and drew out his dagger with measured deliberation. The blade gleamed in the moonlight shining in through the loophole. “I told you to come here and kiss me.”

  She had to get him to come to her, one way or another. If he swung at her to hit her, he would be off balance, too.