“You live in these woods?”
“Just beyond the northern boundary. Castle Warfield.”
What little color left in her cheeks bled away.
“You have heard of Warfield, Saxon?”
“I told you; I am Norman.”
“And your knowledge of Warfield?”
Her shoulders slumped and she rubbed her bound wrists together. “All have heard of the young man of Warfield, murdered in the stables of the Crossroads Inn.”
“That man was my brother.”
She grabbed the pommel with both hands. “You are the Earl?”
“Aye. Ye may call me Grym.”
Alais made a small noise. “’Tis a good name for a barbarian. Your mother must have been a seer to give such a name to a child.”
“’Twas bestowed by my nurse. I was not a merry child.” He waited a moment, then two, before impatience moved him to ask, “And does the Norman thief have a name?”
“Alais,” she whispered.
“Alais from…”
“’Tis just Alais.”
Grym let his gaze linger over the back of the thief’s head. A-lay. He pronounced her name in his head, letting the word echo through his mind. The name was Norman. “I know many Normans, Alais of Nowhere. They travel in well-armed groups, never alone.”
“That is because they are intent on killing each other.”
“And your family?”
“Gone.”
“I am…” A tingle danced up his spine. He halted the horse and listened. He slid his hand over her mouth. “A moment.”
She tensed beneath his touch. The quiet seemed to rumble around them, then he heard what had grabbed his attention. Horses. Her head tilted, evidently hearing the same noise, then reached for her boot. Her bound hands made the move awkward, slow. He leaned forward and pulled the knife from her boot.
“Give me my blade.”
Ignoring her, he shifted his weight. Revenge left the road, moving through the thick bramble like a shadow. “With no snow on the ground, your soldiers will not be able to track us.”
She scowled at him. “What makes you think they are mine?”
“I have enemies, but none would murder me without honor.”
“All men kill without honor.”
A sound in the trees alerted both of them to the nearness of the soldiers. Whatever her thoughts about him, she clearly had no desire to be rescued by whoever tailed them. He slipped off Revenge’s back, taking care to walk where the snow hadn’t yet fallen and led the horse into the shelter of a copse of trees.
“Give me my dagger,” she whispered. “I would rather die fighting than be taken.”
“Ye will no’ need the dagger. Ye are safe with me.”
Her expression turned as sharp as a Saracen blade. “I take care of myself.”
The fierceness of her expression warmed and worried him. He liked that she was one to go out fighting, if need be, but a sizable number of soldiers were on the road in this weather. She ran from a powerful man.
She inhaled sharply, and he remembered.
She had been in the Carlisle square this afternoon, at the hanging of the man blamed with his brother’s murder. He had watched her push her way to the front of the dais as if she would challenge the execution. Even as he had wondered what she did, she had gone pale as a haunt, her eyes fixed on some point behind him.
He had followed her gaze but saw nothing or no one to warrant such fear, and when he’d turned back, she was gone.
Chapter Six
Alais breathed out her fear as the riders came into view. The first one passed, head bent to avoid the pelting storm. The second rider held up one hand. Several others gathered in a tight knot around him. An eternity passed in slow moments. There were only five of them, but five against two were not odds in her favor.
And her hands were bound. She couldn’t fight or run.
She hated being helpless.
She pushed against her bonds, rotating her wrists, trying to stretch the leather enough to slip free. A warm hand settled over hers. Grym slid her knife through the leather around her wrists, cutting her free.
“What are you doing?” she whispered.
“Finding my answer.”
“What?”
He shook his head. “If necessary, point Revenge north. He knows the way home. If ye show up on my horse, ye will be accorded kindness and protection.”
On the road less than dozen strides in front of them, the soldiers waited as their leader studied the ground.
Alais closed her eyes, breathing deep like Papa had taught her to chase away the fear. One. She pushed a stray curl out of her eyes. She had cut it four years ago and had been surprised when curls sprang from the shears. She hated the rioting mass, but hated more the heavy braid. Two. The air seemed to tense and shiver around her as if knowing rope or rape waited at the end of this journey. Three. She tightened her grip on her blade. Giving into fright would only put her in a weaker position. She was the granddaughter of a king; she would not be a meek victim, no matter what fate planned for her.
“They ride.” In a single move, he regained the saddle, lifting and setting her back on his thighs even as he grabbed the reins. “So do we.”
“They will hear us.”
“As I said, I know these woods.”
With barely a shift of his weight, the horse moved like a shadow through the trees, following a trail that would confuse a hound.
A fat drop of rain landed on her cheek. A second landed on her nose, a third on her outstretched hand. She looked up and saw the dark clouds rolling over the moon. A ripple of thunder warned of a coming storm. Snow? Rain? Ice?
God’s gold, she almost preferred the sheriff to finding out which it would be. Every momentous occasion in her life, it seemed, had been marked by storms. The omen had shown itself the night she and Alain were born; their mother had died at the height of the storm. The night Papa succumbed to illness, the wind had shrieked like a banshee, hurling a 200-year-old tree through the courtyard like chaff. And the night that had brought her to the western wood, the thunder raged as if all the saints were on a rampage.
Thunder rolled across the skies and icy rain came first in sharp drops that bounced off the ground and stung her skin, then smaller and faster, like beads dropped from the dormer walkway. She almost preferred to be hanged as a thief than find out what disaster this storm would bring.
Chapter Seven
In the miles that followed, silence stretched between them. Eventually, the woods lightened around them, and Alais’s stomach began to rumble. She couldn’t remember the last time she and Johanna had eaten, but knew it was before the hanging.
Then, Grym touched her arm. “Look about,” he said. “We’re home.”
She looked up and knew instantly Castle Warfield would haunt her nightmares for years to come. It was stone. Rocks as gray and colorless as the surrounding sky were piled one atop another to create a tall, square fortress and wall that looked as impregnable as its master. Her father’s keep had only looked strong. Warfield wouldn’t be so easily dismantled.
The castle occupied one end of a meadow. A lake spread out behind it, probably fed by one of the many creeks that ran through the area. Or, perhaps it was a finger of the sea. The salty tang of fish and open water hung in the air. On either side of the castle, the hills rolled into flatlands, almost kneeling in supplication at the base of the curtain wall and forcing invaders to race through unsheltered terrain before beginning the assault. Even a mediocre archer should be able to pierce ten men in that space of time. A good bowman would take out twenty. The curtain wall ran from the open space to the shoreline, bordering a small, deep channel of water.
Her childhood home, Roundtree, had been little more than a square donjon surrounded by a curtain wall of oak, with two towers guarding the entrance. The bailey had sat below the keep, protected only by motte.
Here, an outer wall punctuated with towers protected Warfield’s bailey a
nd outbuildings. An inner wall surrounded Grym’s donjon, giving an extra layer of defense. No wonder this castle survived the war. She doubted if King William the Bastard could have coaxed victory from this place as he laid waste to the rebellious North. She glanced around again at the gray stone, the gray sea and the gray sky and doubted if he would have wanted to.
Nervous energy welled in her gut. She massaged her wrists. Castles were meant as defense, built to keep invaders out; but just as easily, they kept the inhabitants in, trapping them among false friends and intrigue beyond their abilities.
“Warfield hasn’t been conquered since the Romans laid the first stone,” Grym said as he reined the horse down to a walk. “We get water from the burn before it meets the sea. Just over that hill is a lake that feeds the stream. It’s too remote to boat, too cold to swim, and too deep to poison.”
“More than one fortress has fallen to intrigue.”
“Aye, or neglect.” The bitterness in his voice silenced the questions that came to her mind. What house, large or small, hadn’t fallen prey to greed and treachery between kinsmen?
As they neared the gate, cracks in the defenses began to show. Rust on the gates and saplings in the meadow. Weeds rooted at the base of the wall and climbed the posts, hastening rot. Its lord or steward no longer tended it well.
But neglected didn’t mean vulnerable. The gates were still strong, the wall still high, the saplings young enough to be felled in one blow of the ax.
“Let me go.” Surprised by her outburst, Alais gripped the pommel with both hands. “I meant you no harm. Mean you no harm. Let us go, please. I cannot go inside.”
His fingers traced her cheek, her jaw. With surprising gentleness, he turned her head until she looked over her shoulder. In the light, his eyes were a like the sea, roiling and murky, hiding more than they revealed. “You are under my protection. You have naught to fear from me, or anyone else.”
God’s gold. What did that mean?
Grym steered Revenge along the wall until they’d almost reached the water, then turning left, they were through the postern gate and inside the castle. He whistled a greeting to several men on the guardwalk along the wall, then swung off his horse and reached for her.
“I do not need your help.”
“As you wish,” he said with a tempting grin and stepped back.
The back of her knees protested when she swung her leg over the pommel, but she ignored the pain and jumped down.
Her feet hit the frozen mud and her knees folded. Grym caught her in mid-stumble and pulled her close, taking most of her weight. “Riding can tighten the legs until it hurts.”
“I know that,” she snapped.
“Aye, and…” He stopped, frowned, then scowled down at her. “But ye have ridden. How did I no’ notice that.”
Her knees wobbled as sound dimmed. She glanced up, her gaze catching his. “Many people ride.”
“Not among those dressed in rags.” He flicked at torn fabric at her collar.
His hand on her shoulder burned. She was wet and cold and exhausted, yet she suddenly felt overwarmed and restless standing this close to him. She eased back, but he wrapped his arm around her waist and half-carried her into the small building that served as a kitchen. The smell of baking bread sent rumbles through her stomach once more.
“Aye,” he said. “’Tis been a while since my last meal, too.”
He ducked beneath a wooden bucket hanging from a beam, ignored the woman who was plucking a chicken at a large table in the center of the room, and picked up a loaf cooling on a shelf. After a single, curious glance, the woman went back to her work as if Grym carried in rain-drenched, half-starved women every day.
“Sit. Eat.”
Alais sat down on a small stool next to the hearth. It wobbled. She jerked, putting both hands on the seat to hold it steady. She watched the woman take a knife to the chicken, gutting it with quick, efficient movements. Grym tore the bread in two, then handed her the larger portion. Forcing herself not to fall on it like a half-grown puppy, she took a small bite and studied her prison.
The fire warmed the large room. Dried herbs and various-sized baskets hung from the ceiling beams, and crocks lined the far wall. On a table in the center of the room, two plucked birds—pheasant, maybe—lay on the table, almost ready for the pot. The woman had returned to her task and was deftly pulling feathers from the unfortunate chicken. Above the hewn rock that made up most of the walls, a line of red stones ran in a horizontal line around the room. Above that, wooden planks finished the walls and roof.
Feeling his gaze on her, she looked up. Grym just stood there, watching her as if he didn’t know what to do with her.
“Ah, my lord, welcome home.” An elderly man stood in the doorway, frowning at her.
“Theodor, how is my home and larder?”
“Your guests decided to hunt in your absence today. If we are fortunate, they will return with a hart.” Theodor glanced at her. “Another guest?”
Grym nodded. “Two, in fact. Can you find them a place to sleep.”
“Your brother’s room, my lord?”
“Aye.”
The woman stopped plucking the chicken long enough to frown at Alais. “Are you certain, my lord?”
“I have not the luxury to keep the room as a memorial to Robbie. Find dry clothes for them, too, Theo.”
“And when the sheriff comes?” Alais challenged. “If we are here, you will face the same punishment.”
“I am noble.”
“You think that will matter?”
“That is all that matters to the sheriff, my little thief. I outrank him.”
“I am not your thief.”
He started to respond, but obviously thought better of it, because he shook his head and smoothed out his grin. “Ye will be safe if the sheriff comes. I have given ye my protection.”
“And what do you expect in return for this protection?”
He gave her a quick grin, although his eyes went hot and black. “While the offer holds some appeal—”
“’Twas not an offer.”
“Now I know why you brought them home.” William entered the kitchen, shaking snow off his mantle and earning a scowl from the woman.
“Where is Jo?” Alais asked.
“The redhead with a mouth to make a mercenary blush? In the hall, warming herself by the hearth and pretending the sheriff did not terrify her.”
“They found you?” Alais rushed forward. Grym caught her at the waist. “What happened?”
William scowled at her. “Naught. The sheriff seeks a small blonde thief. Johanna is neither small nor blonde. He was pleasant, rode with us for a mile or so, then turned down the side road that leads to the ruined Roman wall.”
“Here.” The woman, who had to be old as the walls outside, handed Grym a large cup. The liquid inside smelled like fermented oats and mold.
Alais put a finger beneath her nose. “What is that?”
“A tonic that will keep him from catching his death. Now, out of my kitchen. You are both leaving puddles on my floor.”
Grym laughed. “Very well.” Holding her hand tighter than necessary, he led Alais along a raised walkway between the kitchen and the tower proper. They entered though a tiny door that opened onto the ground floor. Rather than give her time to look, he led her up the stairs, ignoring the hall on the first floor, but stopping on the second floor. Tapestries partitioned the floor into sections. Grym led her to the second one, which held a brazier, a bed and trunk.
“Dry clothes,” he said, tapping the trunk.
“I thought we were prisoners. Should we not be in the dungeon?”
“We keep ale in the undercroft, not thieves. I can make an exception, if ye insist, and find a dark corner for ye to bed down in, but ye would be more comfortable here.”
“Nay, I will not be.”
“Humor me. If in the morning, ye are still uncomfortable, I will find ye a dark, cold place to bed down.”
/> Ignoring him, Alais paced the narrow open space between the bed and curtain. Beside the bed, a small table held an oil lamp and prayer book. She pulled back one of the curtains of the bed. The scents of linen and mint teased her nose. A bear skin, thankfully without the head, covered most of the bed. Crisp white sheets, pulled tight over the corners, peeked from beneath the skin. Once she’d taken such luxury for granted, now…
“Drink.”
Alais jumped. Grym was at her side, holding out the cup.
“Edith is a healer, and a better cook than any man ye will meet. Ye will feel hale by the time ye reach the bottom.”
This close, she could see his eyes were darker than she’d thought, and overcast. His thoughts were well hidden, leaving her unsure if he were amused or concerned. The concoction tasted like the medicine her nurse had forced down her throat as a child. The thick taste of pine sap and dirt coated her throat and burned her gut, but the heat hit her empty stomach and spread through her blood, making her warm and drowsy. Rather than give into the warmth, she handed back the cup and picked up a psalter from the side table.
“My lord.”
She turned as a young man stopped outside the curtain.
“A Jean de Mont is asking to shelter here this eve.”
Chapter Eight
Grym glanced at Alais. If the name meant anything to her, she didn’t see it. Instead, her lips moved silently as she read one of the prayers.
He glanced at the scar on his hand, where the wolf cub had nearly bitten off his thumb. Despite the initial bloodletting, he had never had a more loyal companion. He looked at the thief again, reminding himself that she was not a lost wolf, but a woman grown and a thief by profession—even if she were roaming about the room like a curious cub.
Then, the obvious struck him: She was reading the psaltry.
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