Grym crossed his arms and studied her. She had said she was Norman. But even amongst them, few nobles learned to read, and only the greatest houses bothered to teach their daughters what most considered a useless skill.
Was she highborn?
He had assumed she was a soldier’s bastard, a peasant overly proud of a questionable heritage. But the bastard of a Norman knight didn’t learn to read no matter how doting her father. A nobleman’s daughter didn’t stoop to theft. Even if her family were destroyed by war, she would be hostage or married to legitimize the theft of the holding.
Stepping close enough to inhale the scent of heather that surrounded her, he peeked at the prayer she read: The 29th Psalm.
“I despised learning Latin,” he said. “Who taught you?”
A challenge flashed behind the gray of her eyes, and Grym waited for her to strike out. Instead, she gently shut the book and set it on the table, as if knowing its value.
“Grym?” William touched his arm. “The man seeking shelter?”
“Aye.” Closing the tapestries behind him, Grym was halfway down the steps before William laughed.
“What?”
“I know that look in your eyes.”
“What look?”
“You are entranced by the thief.”
“Ye are the one to always be thinkin’ of women. The devil will take yer soul over a woman yet, my friend.”
“Mayhap, but at least it will be a merry damnation. You, on the other hand, have a habit of having women try to kill you.”
“One woman, one time, does no’ equal a habit.”
“The wee icy blonde is one to murder.”
“She is no’ icy.”
William’s expression shifted from confusion to horror. He grabbed Grym’s arm.
“Do not say you have developed a soft spot for her. She is a thief, and likely a whore. She will do whatever it takes to survive, including you. Intellectually, I understand that, but I do not want to ever see the reality of it sticking out of your back again.”
“No’ another word.”
Turning away, Grym hurried down the steps. He considered William closer than a brother. Like the Proverbist predicted, his own brother had been a source of contention, but William was a loyal, trustworthy friend. He was not perfect, though; he had the annoying habit of speaking his mind, and of being right often enough to make his advice worthwhile.
“Ye have become as humorless and shortsighteded as one of those white monks since Robbie’s death.”
“I am not humorless,” Grym finally responded.
“Since we returned here, you have done little but drive workers to exhaustion with repairs, and ride from town to town seeking information.”
“The man hanged today no more killed my brother than you did.” Grym stopped and stared at the wall curving in front of him. “I need answers, Will. Robbie’s murder makes no sense. There was naught to gain from it but a few coins. The old man told the sheriff Robbie was drunk, so why not just rob him? Why kill him?”
“We both know Robbie’s death was meant to be yours. You do not need to hunt his murderer. Wait, and he will come to you.”
Grym stopped at the landing. A stranger paced the great hall, strewing mud across the floor. Edith would kill him for that. He frowned at the mess, even as his gut tightened in warning.
“Or wait for her to come to you.”
An itch grew across Grym’s back. “The thieves?”
“I do not believe in coincidence, and they walked into your camp as bold as you please.”
Scratching at the itch over his right shoulder blade, Grym set his mind on his guest. He didn’t believe in coincidence, either. He’d be better for the knife, this time. “What did he say he wanted?” he asked John, the guard at the door.
“Shelter,” John said. “Edith offered him ale, but he refused.”
“And his men?”
“Only three. They remained in the kitchen.”
Nodding, Grym walked into the hall. The man didn’t notice them at first. Instead, he paced and studied the room as if seeking to acquire it. “Well met.”
The man startled, then bowed slightly. “Well met. I am Jean de Mont, brother to John, Earl of Mowbray.”
“Hugh, Earl of Warfield.” Grym stretched out his hand and clasped Jean’s arm just below the elbow. He felt a knife underneath the fabric. Contempt filled him. A quick appraisal of de Mont suggested he was unused to the sword, much less a miseriecorde used to dispatch wounded enemies on the battlefield. His limbs were thin and wasted, even though the man probably had less than two score years. His paunch was visible, and his skin looked sallow in the torchlight.
“My men say you seek shelter.”
“Yes. A storm came upon me while I was out hunting a young thief.”
“Ye think he is in my woods?”
“She,” Jean said. “The thief is female, and the sheriff tracked her as far as a clearing above the bridge.”
“You rode with the sheriff?”
“I met him on my way from Carlisle.”
“Ye are welcome to stay until the storm abates, but I will not have a woman hunted on my lands, even if she is outlaw.”
“Your chilvary will betray you, Lord Warfield. ’Twas she who robbbed and murdered your brother.”
Chapter Nine
Alais studied the trunk at the foot of the bed. It was the kind many nobles used as they traveled from manor to manor with their portable wealth. The woman from the kitchen carried in a bowl with steam curling from its contents, and a lump of soap. She eyed Alais like she had the plucked chicken.
“I am Edith. The young master sends food and water as ye both look as if ’tis been a while since yer last meal. Or wash.” Disapproval shaded her voice as she set the bowl and soap on the chest. “I will burn those,” she gestured to the clothes they wore, “when you have changed.”
With that, she followed the man from the room.
“Well, she is as pleasant as salt on a sore,” Alais said.
“Almost unpleasant enough to put me off food,” Johanna said, as she inspected the bread, cheese and some type of pastry on the tray. “Almost. What is this?”
Steam curled from the delicate silver pitcher Johanna held out. Alais sniffed the pitcher’s contents. “Warmed wine. My nurse used to make it when I was sick.”
Johanna laughed. “My mother just asked if I were dead. If not, I worked.” She grinned as she popped a pastry into her mouth, then shivered. “Oh, God have mercy, these are good. Try one.”
Alais shook her head. “We are imprisoned.”
Johanna shrugged as she licked her fingers. “What God wills will be. Why go hungry waiting for it to happen?”
She took another sip from the silver cup and reached for another pastry. “I ken the danger, and that we can do nothing about it. We could run into a howling storm and die quickly—or stay here where we might persuade our captors to mercy.”
“Nobles aren’t known for their merciful natures.” And Grym had made it clear that whatever else happened, he would not easily let them go.
“William says we are under Warfield’s protection.” Johanna reached for another bite-sized pie and stuffed it whole into her mouth.
“I do not trust him. He has no reason to keep me safe, unless he knows who I am and my value on the open market.”
“Even I know a promise of protection is sacred. ’Twould be a sin for him to turn you out, or over to the sheriff.”
“Murder, rape and robbery are sins, too, yet are committed every day.”
“Grym would never…” Johanna frowned. “I think we can trust him.”
“Trust can be betrayed.”
“It can be unfailing, too.”
The strength behind her sudden desire for Grym to prove himself worthy would have sent Alais to the floor if she were not already there. She tried to shake off the thought, but it refused to go. Instead, it slivered into her heart and remained there…confusing her almost as
much as his too-quick smile.
Johanna turned back to the food. “Has he kissed you yet?”
“What? No.”
“He wants to. Do ye want him to?”
“No.”
“Aye, you do.” Johanna grinned. “He unsettles you.”
“Because he makes no sense, Jo. His words, his manner… I cannot anticipate his next move.”
Her eyes took on a devilish gleam. “His desire to see you dressed like a woman means you confuse him, too.”
“You listen to too many minstrels.”
“He did not leave us in the woods. We just need to wait and see why.” Johanna held out a pastry. “And while we wait, I plan to eat more than my fill. ’Tis been too long a time since either of us has had plenty to eat.”
Alais sighed her agreement. She took the offered pastry. She was always hungry, on some level. The sweet dough was stuffed with beef. It had been forever since she’d eaten beef. It fairly melted on her tongue. “Oh, this is better than a gold plate by an open window.”
“Aye.” Johanna tore into the bread, ripping off a hunk large enough for two men. “I say we eat and go north, like you said, once the storm stops.”
Alais took the bread Johanna gave her, devouring it like a monk just off the Lenten fast.
“Who knows, maybe we will wed in Scotland, have children, and get so fat we can barely get through a door, much less a window.” Johanna swallowed.
“Marriage is not for me.”
“Why?”
“My first betrothal came when I was a year old. The boy was ten. He died of a fever when I was five. My second betrothed was the son of one of Papa’s friends. The wedding was planned and would take place as soon as I was old enough.” She ran her fingers roughly through her curls. “Papa tried to protect me. He knew what this war would bring. He died before the marriage took place. The attack came only a few days after his burial.”
“Is that how most nobles marry?”
Alais nodded. “Marriage is about land and power. Negotiations begin at birth. Sometimes, before.”
Johanna looked thoughtful as she swallowed the last of the cheese. “What of love and passion?”
“Passion can be bought.”
“And love?”
Alais looked up and caught Johanna watching her. “Love makes us weak.”
Johanna shook her head. “I loved Thom the Miller. He made me feel stronger, better.”
“Did he love you back?”
“Aye.”
“Where is he?”
“Dead. He went to fight for Robert of Gloucester to earn money for our marriage. He was slain on the first day of fighting. Gloucester did not even return his bow.”
Alais’s heart hitched. “Why did you not tell me?”
“What would it have changed?”
Johanna had lost much, too. The fall may not have been as far, but the landing was just as hard. A few days of warmth and security were a boon. “You are right,” Alais said. “I am being foolish. We are warm, reasonably safe, and dry. We might as well eat and drink and be merry until Grym decides to betray us, or we can escape.”
“William said—”
“William is not the one who will decide.”
“Grym means you no harm,” Johanna said.
“You do not know that.”
“He would not give us food and clothing if his intentions were dishonest. You think he knows who you are. I think he will not care. He means to keep you safe.”
Grym may have vowed to protect her, but he didn’t make her feel safe. He made her nervous and anxious, like the feel on the back of her neck when the sheriff was near. She ran a finger over the trunk. It was made with superior craftsmanship, down to its delicate silver carving of two hounds fighting. She studied it closer as horror filled her mind.
“Jo, where is my scrip?”
“On…” Johanna swallowed. “On the bench.”
Alais retrieved the stolen coffret. On the lid, two hounds made of inlaid mother-of-pearl and stained glass fought each other. She held the box up to the trunk.
“Oh, God’s gold.”
Chapter Ten
“Deal with him,” Grym said to William and walked toward the slype that led to the kitchen. At the end of the walkway, he thrust his hands into the barrel of icy water and splashed it over his face. The water was kept there to combat kitchen fires, but now it worked to still his thoughts.
He tried to picture the woman upstairs slitting his brother’s throat and simply couldn’t. Alais was not a threat; at least, not in that sense. She was a distraction, a pleasant one that could get him killed if he didn’t rein in his thoughts, but her sex alone made her an unlikely murderer.
Then again, he’d been fooled by a pretty face once before.
Using his distorted reflection in the water, he smoothed his fingers through the dark mass of hair that could break a comb. The color was a legacy from his grandmother, who also gave him the blue eyes that characterized the people living here before the Romans and the Saxons, an invasion of the dim past that she had talked about as if their crimes were committed by the current king. Unlike Robbie, he didn’t have the distinctive green eyes that were a common Warfield trait, but he hadn’t noticed until Lady de Mowbray had asked if his father had gotten him off a serf in some hay mound.
He hadn’t thought of that in years. So why…
Of course. Jean de Mont would be her son, taking his name from her dowager holding. As the youngest son of old Earl of de Mowbray he would gotten nothing from the earl’s estate. So…was de Mont more like his mother or father? The old earl had been without honor or loyalty, breaking oaths as easily as a child lied. If he were still alive, Grym would have assumed he was the one behind his brother’s murder. But de Mowbray was dead. The mother had been vicious, but uninterested in anyone or anything but herself. She was unlikely to send assassins after his family.
Maybe Robbie’s death was as simple as robbery gone wrong.
But if it was, why would de Mont be hunting the thief here?
His coming here could be a coincidence, but like William, Grym was suspicious of such occurrences. Heading toward the kitchen, he pushed aside a piece of scaffolding left over from the repairs to the kitchen roof, then jumped aside as planks clattered to the ground. He glanced up, then around. The castle’s state of repair was as dismal as the weather. Had his brother done nothing but gamble and drink in the years he’d stewarded Warfield?
“I sent our guest to the stables,” William said as he stepped into the light shining through the kitchen window. “He wanted to make sure his horses were well-cared for.”
“If he annoys Theo, his horse will find a better welcome than its master.”
“What are you going to do with the thieves now?”
“Now?”
“She killed your brother.”
“So says de Mont. Something rings odd.”
“You think he killed Robbie?” William snorted. “The man couldn’t harm a midge, much less a grown a man.”
“If a man is drunk enough, even a child can do him harm.”
And just like that, his argument for absolving the thief disappeared like snow on a spring day. Retracing his steps, he kept his pace slow and deliberate as he climbed the steps to where he’d put the thieves for safekeeping.
Pausing outside the open door, he studied the women.
The redheaded thief had changed clothes, now wearing a gown that brushed against the top of her shoes. She said something too soft for his ears, but she ate as she spoke. When she reached for another one of Edith’s tarts, the movement set off a myriad of tiny bells sewn into the bliaud. He grimaced as he remembered the gown she now wore. His sister-by-law had been as frivolous as his brother.
“What is it?” William asked in his ear.
“The most repulsive garment ever created.”
“I meant with the thief.”
Alais gripped a box as if it were all that saved her from tumbling over a prec
ipice. She was still in her sodden tunic and torn hose and even paler than before. A sudden desire to protect her from whatever put such fear on her face competed with the need to right the wrong done to his brother. If Jean de Mont was right, then he’d brought the woman responsible for his brother’s death into his home and under his protection, but something within him refused to believe she would harm his brother. Although women rarely murdered, they were capable of such deeds, especially those without benefit of nobility. But the angles and curves of her face, as well as the spark in her eyes suggested nobleness. Blood didn't concern itself with marriage vows, and often made those born outside of vows of better character than those the world called legitimate.
An itch grew across his back, centered on an old injury just below his shoulder blade. He scratched at the scar on his thumb. He had to stop bringing home strays.
“You cannot trust her,” William said softly. “Your uncle believes women are to be protected and treated with kindness and courtesy, but English women are not like Scottish women. And thieves are—”
“Say no more.”
“This woman has sent your thinking astray,” William said. “She is not a stray brownie in need of rescue. You cannot—”
“No. More.”
William sighed. “Watch your back then. Literally.”
Stepping into the room, Grym positioned himself in front of Alais. She looked up, shock in her eyes. Her hands shook as they gripped a small box with two hounds on the lid.
Recognition sent his heart into his throat.
Robbie’s coin chest.
Grief dimmed the room until all he could see was the box. Coldness more numbing than the sleet coating the castle invaded his mind, his heart, his body. He should have returned home to guard his brother’s back years ago. He knew better than anyone that Robbie was incapable of governing himself, much less Warfield.
“You are staring.” She was snappish and tense, as if she knew he knew.
“Where did ye get that?”
“Get what?” Johanna moved across the room, but William intercepted her. Grym ignored them both to take the box from the thief. The coffret was small, barely the span of his palms when held side by side, and just as familiar to him as his own hands.
One Winter Knight Page 37