April Munday

by His Ransom

  There were two guards in the gatehouse and Richard killed them both, silently and quickly, hoping that the routine here was the same as that at Corchester, where the guards changed late in the evening. He needed as much time as possible inside the house before the guards were found. Although it took precious time, he decided to throw their bodies into the moat. The alarm was less likely to be raised because the guards were not at their post. He had seen enough of the lack of discipline in Sir Walter’s men during the siege to know that that must be a common occurrence. If anyone found the bodies, the alarm would be sounded immediately.

  Once he had disposed of the bodies, he slipped inside the gateway. He was now inside the courtyard. It was smaller than he had expected. At the duke’s castle, this would be the most dangerous place. People were always crossing it on their way to somewhere. Then he reminded himself; it was doubtful that anyone would have managed to get inside the castle gatehouse alive. The duke’s guards were much more alert than Sir Walter’s, even now.

  He took a deep breath. Most people would be in the hall. It was dark and cold and either just before the evening meal or just after it. Few people would venture away from the fire in the hall unless they had to. He knew he could not rely too much on the routine being kept to, since Rosamunde’s capture would have changed that routine.

  He hoped that she wasn’t suffering too much. She would be scared, he knew. She would expect Guy to come for her, but she must know that he would not be able to arrive with a force of men before tomorrow, when it would be too late. No, he could not allow himself to be distracted. He could not think of what Rosamunde was going through, only how to find her and get her out, even if that meant that she must go into a convent rather than marry him.

  He crept around the courtyard, keeping away from windows and moving quickly past doors. The need to save Rosamunde urged him to speed, but the knowledge that he could not help her if he was caught tempered that desire. Eventually he found a quiet, unwatched door and entered the house. There had been no one in the courtyard. Nonetheless, Richard stayed on his guard, with his knife in his hand. Sir Walter’s people were lax, but he would not depend on it. They might not be expecting anyone to attempt a rescue until tomorrow, but the closer he got to Rosamunde, the more likely he was to find those who were prepared and able to fight him.

  He came across some stairs and climbed them. Doubtless Sir Walter would be in his bedchamber, exulting over his prize.

  When he reached the top of the stairs, he heard Rosamunde’s screams. She sounded hoarse as if she had not stopped screaming since Sir Walter’s men attacked her. He controlled his impulse to rush blindly along the hallway and kill whoever he might find there and pressed himself against the side of the stairwell. He lowered himself to his knees with difficulty and looked into the passageway. Two men were standing outside a closed door talking quietly. Occasionally, when Rosamunde gave a particularly heartrending scream, they looked uneasily at the door. They were probably the witnesses that Sir Walter would need to prove that Rosamunde had been under his roof for a night. Richard noticed that both men were armed. It seemed Sir Walter wasn’t taking his safety completely for granted.

  Richard banged loudly on the wall and ducked down back into the stairwell.

  “Robert, is that you?” called one of the men.

  Richard banged the wall again.

  “Robert, hurry up,” called the same man. “The lady’s screams have given me an appetite for my wife.”

  Both men laughed. Richard snarled under his breath and banged the wall again, more urgently. The two men looked at one another. The man who had spoken drew his sword and advanced cautiously along the passageway. When he turned the corner to where Richard was hiding, Richard plunged his knife into him and he fell without making a sound. Removing the man’s cloak he flung it across his own shoulders, pulling the hood over his head to hide his face as much as possible. He then advanced quickly up the passage towards the other man, keeping in the shadows.

  “What was it?” asked the other man as he started to sheath his sword.

  “Nothing,” said Richard, but his accent gave him away and the other man pulled his sword out again. Cursing under his breath, Richard threw off the cloak and drew his own sword, running down the passage. The other man tried to parry Richard’s blow, but was unsuccessful. Obviously Sir Walter did not enforce the same practice régime as the duke did on his men. Richard despatched him easily and threw open the door to Sir Walter’s bedchamber. He knew he had very little time now; Robert was probably coming to relieve at least one of the men very soon.

  There were few candles in Sir Walter’s bedchamber, but there was light enough for Richard to see Rosamunde in nothing but her shift pinned to the bed by Sir Walter, who was naked. Even in that light he could see that she was badly bruised and there was blood on her face as if she had been struck many times. Her shift had been ripped and pulled away from her shoulders, exposing her breasts. He was too late to save Rosamunde from the humiliation of being bedded by Sir Walter, but at least she would not have to have him as her husband. Rosamunde noticed him, but she was still quick-witted enough to give no warning to Sir Walter. She continued to struggle and scream and Sir Walter raised an arm to strike her again. Richard caught his arm and he pulled Sir Walter from the bed. Sir Walter was surprised and tried to call out, but Rosamunde kept up her screams and covered any noise that he made. Richard stepped back from him, in order to give his sword arm room to move and plunged his sword into Sir Walter’s heart. And Sir Walter died, surprised that he had been defeated by the French lackwit.

  Rosamunde was sitting up on the bed, staring at him. At his signal, she stopped screaming. She made no move to cover herself. Her shift had been pulled up to her thighs and he saw that her shoulders and legs were as bruised as her face and arms.

  “We must leave, now,” he urged quietly. There would be time later to tend to her wounds.

  “My clothes…” she muttered. He looked around the room briefly. Her clothes lay in rags strewn across the floor. She had not made it easy for Sir Walter to undress her, but her body showed the price she had paid for her efforts.

  “There is no time. There is a cloak in the passage that you can take.” He had expected further protest. A lesser woman would not have understood the seriousness of the situation, but Rosamunde simply stretched out her hand to him and he helped her from the bed. He pulled up the sleeves of her shift, careful not to touch her bruised flesh and did up the tie at her throat. Although her shift was badly torn, it would cover her for now. Her safety mattered more than her modesty. He crossed quickly to the door and looked out into the passage. There was no movement or sound. Rosamunde had followed him and they stepped out of the bedchamber. Once in the passage he retrieved the cloak and Rosamunde wrapped it round herself. She had started to shiver and he feared the damage the long journey home in the snow would do to her.

  “You must make no noise,” he whispered.

  “I lost my knife,” she said, standing on her toes so that her lips were close to his ear and he wondered briefly what she meant, then understood as she bent down to take the knife from the second of the men he had killed. She smiled weakly at him, grimacing with the pain. It was not the smile he had grown used to, but it was better than nothing. She truly was a wonderful woman.

  Knowing that she would keep close behind him without being told, Richard set off towards the stairs, listening carefully for any noise that would alert him to the arrival of Robert or anyone else. But their passage through the house was uninterrupted. When they arrived at the gatehouse Richard thought he might risk taking Rosamunde across the drawbridge. There was little to be gained in taking her through the moat if it was not necessary, since they would both have to ride back through the snow in wet clothes. But there was a sudden shout from inside the house and he heard raised voices as the news of Sir Walter’s death was spread throughout his people. Seeing that they would be exposed on the drawbridge, Richard sheathed his s
word and took the cloak from Rosamunde’s shoulders. “We must swim,” he said, indicating the moat.

  “I do not know how.” Even now, she did not panic, but looked at him expectantly.

  “I will swim and you will trust me to get you to the other side.” She nodded.

  It was easier than he had expected to get Rosamunde in the water and she did not struggle against him as he began to pull away to the far side of the moat. As he had expected the drawbridge was pulled up immediately. Convinced that there would now be people watching he changed his plans slightly and they emerged from the moat to the side of the house rather than in front of it.

  “Run with me,” Richard said and took her hand. He doubted there would be archers on top of the walls yet and if there were their aim would be very poor in the dark. They found the horse and Richard mounted, pulling Rosamunde up in front of him. He pulled off his tunic and tied it to the saddle. It would only serve to make them both colder. He had left a cloak draped over the flanks of the horse to keep it warm and he now wrapped it around them both, holding Rosamunde tightly against his chest. He had expected some protest, but she slipped her arms around his waist and laid her head over his heart as if it belonged there. He was cold and tired and his leg had never hurt like this, but he was happy. He had Rosamunde. She was hurt, but she would heal and she would know who had saved her, even if he had come too late to stop Sir Walter bedding her. Now they must travel back to the castle. He could not wait for daylight. Fortunately the moon was bright and they came upon his tracks quickly. Rosamunde shuddered against him a few times and he knew she was crying. He held her tighter against him, until she gasped in pain.

  “I am sorry. We need to get warm as soon as possible.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you for saving me from him.”

  “I was only keeping my promise to your father.” But he pulled her closer to him more gently in the hope that she would understand that that was not his only reason.

  Rosamunde had never felt as cold as this in her life, yet she also felt strangely warm. She had been cold even before they had plunged into the moat. Sir Walter’s house was cold and she had been almost naked for some time. Although Sir Walter had beaten her so much that she had been more aware of the pain than the cold, she was still cold. Now she could not even feel her bare toes. All of her body and some of her head were covered by the cloak. But Richard was cold, too. Their wet clothes were dripping and cold water was pooling where she sat on the saddle and it made her even more uncomfortable. She shivered uncontrollably. Richard held her so close it was almost as if he wanted to make them one. She could not be embarrassed by their closeness; they must both get warm as soon as possible or they still might die this night. She tightened her arms around his waist. He had come for her and rescued her. She was safe from Sir Walter forever thanks to him. She had not dared hope that anyone would come before the morning and here he was, bearing her away to her home before the night was barely started. She was overcome with gratitude and relief and leaned against him more.

  She was aware of everything about him. He, too, was shivering slightly. His exertions in crossing the moat must have warmed him. His breathing was heavier than usual, although it soon slowed to the normal rate that she knew so well. Every now and again his body would stiffen and he would take in a short breath through his teeth. “Were you hurt?” she asked anxiously. She knew nothing yet about what had happened before he had appeared in Sir Walter’s bedchamber. She had not noticed any blood on him, but she had not been of a mind to notice much about him, except that, miraculously, he had come for her. It was possible that one of the men that Sir Walter had set to guard him had got a blade past his guard. The long ride would have hurt his leg badly and perhaps he had not been able to defend himself properly. She hated the thought that he had been hurt for her sake.

  “No, it is my leg. It has been many months since I rode a horse any distance. Margaret’s treatment is good, but I don’t think she intended my first real ride to be quite so long or fast. Do not fear; I will get you home again.” He stiffened again, as if home was not a pleasant thought. Then he relaxed slightly. “You will want to know that Thomas was still alive when I left.”

  He did not sound certain that they should find Thomas still alive when they returned, but it was good to know that there was some hope. She shifted her body slightly, so that she was no longer putting any weight on his injured thigh, but he pulled her back again. “You will not be able to balance like that.”

  “But it will cause you pain,” she protested.

  “No more than I already have.”

  She shivered violently and he pulled her roughly back against his chest. “The sooner one of us is warm the sooner the other is too.” He sounded exasperated and she wondered what she had done to annoy him. It did not matter. It was so much more comfortable to be held against him like this. She could almost forget the events that had led up to this moment – almost. Now her fear was subsiding she realised how frightened she had been. Not just of Sir Walter. She had been frightened that Richard would not come, but he had and come alone by the look of it. He had risked his life for her, as her father had commanded him. He was indeed a man of honour to take his promise to her father so seriously. She could not hope that it was anything more than his honour that had made him her rescuer. He was a man of honour, not a lover.

  Richard’s undertunic was loose and she felt his bare chest beneath her cheek and she brought one of her hands up from his waist to lay a palm above his heart. She sighed once, then gave way to the tears that had threatened since she had seen Thomas attacked. They were tears of rage as well as relief. She barely noticed that the hand that Richard had been using to hold her now stroked her back. All she knew was that she was with him and she was safe.

  Eventually Rosamunde’s tears subsided and she loosened her hold on Richard’s waist and her breathing became calmer. The palm that she had placed so trustingly on his chest, however, remained. He could not allow himself to become distracted by her; there were still many miles to go and the pain his leg was distraction enough. He began to fear that it would not hold out until they reached the castle. He had not known such pain since the leg had first been broken, but he was alive and Rosamunde was alive and free from Sir Walter. Nothing else mattered.

  He returned his hand to Rosamunde’s waist. Gently he moved her hand from his chest to his waist so that their bodies were closer again and she was held more securely. The ground was icy beneath the horse’s feet and there was always the danger that Richard would lose the path and they would fall into a ditch, breaking the horse’s legs. He had not rescued Rosamunde only to kill her on the journey home and there was still the possibility of pursuit. He doubted that anyone would come after them immediately and if they did the pursuit would probably be ineffectual, but he would not rely on that. Sir Walter was dead; whoever was now in charge might be a better man. He seemed to remember that Thomas had mentioned a son who was full-grown. He might be adequate to the task of chasing a tired horse carrying two tired and cold people through unknown countryside at night. Richard was listening constantly for any sound that might mean they were being pursued.

  Despite his efforts, Rosamunde was distracting him. Her chest rose and fell against his, pushing her cold breasts against him as she shivered in the cold. Her cold nipples pressed into his skin and he thought how many ways he could warm her body if they stopped. He shook that thought off; he had not rescued her from a rapist to impose himself on her in that way.

  He could not get the sight of her on Sir Walter’s bed out of his mind. She had been neither afraid of Richard, nor embarrassed and had not seemed to care that she was half-naked before him. He knew that this could not be so; it could only be that her ordeal had been so great that she had forgotten the state of undress that she was in. He hoped she would forget that he had seen; she was the virtuous woman that he had sought all these years and she should not have to bear the memory of her shame.

/>   Rosamunde stirred against him, making herself more comfortable. In the warmth of the cloak their wet clothes were finally drying and their bodies warming. Now he began to feel the fullness of her breasts against him. Her shift was so fine it might as well not been there for all the barrier it offered and his undertunic was just as fine. Even though she began to warm, still her nipples rubbed against him. Now he was warmed by his desire for her as well. He did nothing to check the desire; the warmer he was the warmer he could make her. They rode in silence for many miles.