“I saw no one.”
Duncan wasn’t about to take the simpering gentleman’s word for anything. He pushed past the man and through the pavilion flap. A flock of merchants had gathered before the booth, their curiosity overpowering their grogginess. He milled through the mumbling crowd, scanning the ground for any sign of the missing man—his cloak, a coif, the woolen blanket. Nothing.
How could three full-grown men vanish like mist? Something smelled as rotten as a twenty-year-old barrel of pickled herring. And Duncan wasn’t about to leave Linet unguarded until he got to the bottom of that barrel. He turned from the questioning onlookers and prepared to face her with the news.
But the scene he glimpsed through the gap of the pavilion flap left a bitter taste in his mouth that silenced him. Strong, willful, independent Linet de Montfort was in tears. Drops streamed down her cheeks despite the battle she fought to suppress her weeping, and her shoulders jerked in mutiny.
The foreigner reached for her, drawing her in like a fisherman hauling in his net, bringing her slowly up against his spare frame until her sobs were muffled in the folds of his cloak. “Hush now, my lady,” he murmured. “He is gone.” Then the bastard lifted one black-gloved paw and ran his spidery fingers over her golden locks. Duncan’s golden locks.
Duncan’s jaw tensed.
“Shh,” the man continued softly, stroking her hair. “He will trouble you no more, my lady. You have my word on it as a gentleman.”
Duncan longed to burst in upon them, just to give the lie to the man’s rash promise. If that lout was a gentleman, Duncan would eat his scabbard. But at that moment, Linet lifted her eyes, all dewy and full of suffering. She looked up at the stranger with all the trust and hope Duncan deserved but hadn’t received.
He was infuriated. Those should have been his arms around her. His words of reassurance. He had been the one sleeping on the cold, hard ground before her pavilion all night. It had been his body at risk against three armed attackers. And if they hadn’t somehow managed to disappear, it would’ve been his eyes she’d be looking into now with such gratitude.
Damn the wench! Had she no heart? He’d purchased her supper with his own coin. He’d kept El Gallo from devouring her on the docks. He’d saved her cloth and her cart and her horse from certain destruction. God’s wounds! He’d risked his very life for her! And yet, one flip of a velvet sleeve, one flash of a silver medallion, and she clung to an utter stranger as if the sun revolved around him.
So she didn’t believe she needed his protection. Very well. He’d withdraw it. Far more important matters waited. Whole villages of his father’s vassals endured much more pressing problems than she. And they would accept his help gratefully.
Clamping his jaw, he turned and strode off with all the dignity his noble upbringing afforded him, past the rows of curious faces, down Woolmaker’s Row, along the road leading back to the castle.
The concealing shadows of night fled before the approaching dawn, laying bare the familiar hills and dense forests rolling out across de Ware land. As he trudged home, Duncan tried to banish Linet from his mind. Instead, he thought about his people—the crofters who worked these fields, his noble kin who guarded them, the peasants who slept in the wood, the servants and merchants and paupers who would one day depend on him.
But everything he passed reminded him of her. The distant sun-filled wheat was the exact color of her hair. The shiny young leaves of the hedges dividing the fields matched her eyes. A wild rose climbing over a crumbling stone wall wore the soft pink of her lips. Even the somber hue of her gray surcoat was mimicked in the surface of the still, silvery pond south of the castle.
Somewhere in the distance, a spirited wench with a mane of amber and wide emerald eyes sought comfort in a nobleman’s arms. She’d likely forgotten all about the worthless beggar.
If only he could dismiss her as easily. After all, he tried to convince himself as the sun scaled steadily up the distant castle walls, it really was no concern of his what happened to her. She wasn’t even his vassal. She wasn’t his responsibility.
He ran a callused hand through his hair. It was no matter that the blushing clouds of morning were the color of her skin. No matter at all.
He shuddered and climbed the hill toward the castle. It promised to be another long day.
Linet was mortified. Not since her father’s death had she wept so freely, and then only in the privacy of her chamber. Here she was, staining some poor gentleman’s velvet sleeve with her tears, her season’s cloth in ruins about her, and all she could think about was how that cursed beggar had betrayed her.
She’d trusted him. Though her brain had warned her otherwise, she’d believed him. Indeed, she’d not had so restful a night since she’d left home, simply knowing he was slumbering just outside.
But he’d played her false.
She should have heeded her father’s advice. She should never have even exchanged words with a commoner.
“There,” the nobleman cooed. “You feel better now, no?”
Suddenly she realized the impropriety of the situation. Sniffling delicately, she extricated herself from his embrace.
“Much better, my lord. Thank you.” She gave him a quick smile.
His dark gaze fell sharply to the wet spot on his sleeve, startling her. Even the reassuring shrug that followed couldn’t erase the instant of displeasure she glimpsed on his face.
“Oh, forgive me,” she said. “A little water…” The basin of wash water still stood atop the small trestle table amid her things. She rushed to it, wet a linen rag, and returned to scrub vigorously at the stain. “This should rinse out most of the salt. The water shouldn’t harm the fabric. Of course, you’ll want to brush it when it’s dried, and—”
He grabbed her wrist as suddenly as a spider catching a fly. She gasped. Then he turned her hand over and bent to kiss it.
“My lady,” he breathed, his lips barely sweeping the back of her hand, “I consider it an honor to wear your tears upon my sleeve.”
She gave him a tremulous smile. What a relief it was to exchange pleasantries with a nobleman, one who understood courtesy and chivalry, one who wouldn’t twist her words. Or gaze lustfully at her. Or claim to be something he wasn’t. She wiped away one final tear and took a deep breath.
“Besides,” the gentleman added, “I have several garments just as fine.”
Linet blinked. Most men could ill afford one such garment.
The man passed off the smoking candle to one of his servants, then rubbed his hands together, the gloved one against the ungloved, his long fingers interlacing like contrasting threads on a loom. “And now, my lady, if I may introduce myself?” He made a courtly bow. “I am Don Ferdinand Alfonso de Compostela.”
“You’re…Spanish?”
“Yes.” His brow winkled in concern. “Does this trouble you?”
“Oh, nay,” she was quick to assure him. Certainly she had nothing to fear from the kind gentleman. He’d probably never even heard of El Gallo. Still, she gave him her name on a murmur. “I am Linet de Montfort.”
“It is an honor, my lady.” He sketched another half-bow, then turned briskly about to survey the room, his black cloak whirling like a great bat. He pulled free the sword protruding from the pavilion. Her precious blue cloth dropped to the ground like a dead beast. “I fear your goods have been damaged beyond repair, my lady.”
She knew that, but somehow hearing it spoken aloud made it all the more horrible. Her reputation would be destroyed now. Her weavers couldn’t possibly fulfill all the orders she’d taken, even if there was the faintest hope she could lay hands on that much raw wool. And that didn’t even allow for spinning, carding, and dyeing. Her first year as a femme sole was ruined.
The Guild wouldn’t let her go hungry, of course. Woolmakers always took care of their own. But the compensation she’d get from them would be nearly as difficult to accept as the smug, pitying looks that would accompany the coin.
; “I’ll have to go home to Avedon,” she murmured.
The gentleman stepped forward at once. “Then I insist on sending my guard with you. So beautiful a lady should not travel without protection.” With a snap of his fingers, he summoned a servant to assist her.
She gave him a bleak smile, too stunned by loss to be more gracious. Then, with the help of Harold and the gentleman’s servants, she morosely collected her possessions for the journey home.
It was mid-morning when Linet clucked to her horse to start the heavy-laden cart forward. Even in the noble company of Don Ferdinand’s mounted escort, it was all she could do to hold her head high, ignoring the prying stares of her fellow woolmakers as she departed the fair a full fortnight early.
Don Ferdinand, bless his gallant heart, had provided well for her. Not only had he sent four well-armed knights to accompany her, he’d also included a basket of bread and a bottle of wine for her breakfast.
Not that she had the stomach for it.
But Harold took to the food eagerly enough. In fact, when his wine was half gone, Linet noticed her servant lolling drowsily beside her on the cart seat like a too-well-fed pig. He slumped against her, and annoyed, she tried to push him away. But instead of awakening, Harold keeled over sideways, out of the cart, toppling into the waiting arms of one of the riders.
Still he didn’t rouse. Dear God! What was wrong with him?
The guard hissed something in Spanish to his cohorts. Then they all looked at her. Linet blanched. Had their eyes been so black, so flat, so scheming before? A lump of sickening fear rose in her stomach as she began to ask questions she should have asked all along, questions she would have asked had she been thinking straight. Who was Don Ferdinand? How had he appeared at just the right time to come to her rescue? Why was he being so generous with his aid?
Before she could answer, someone’s hairy hand closed over her mouth, and she was dragged backward by an arm around her waist.
Suddenly, every sense came alive. She fought against the human bonds as the guard lifted her from the cart like a basket of laundry. She kicked and struggled with every ounce of her strength and chomped down hard on her captor’s hand.
The man screamed. She tasted sickening blood. Then something landed heavily at the back of her head. There was a brief flash before she slipped into dreamless oblivion.
CHAPTER 5
Duncan stood up in the stirrups atop his galloping steed and swung the studded mace over his head. His great helm was suffocating. Sweat dripped down his forehead, and his shoulder ached, but he hadn’t yet exorcised the demons that cursed wool merchant had set upon him. A twist of his arm, a splintering crash, and the wooden target was demolished. He turned the horse and hauled off his helm, tossing the mace to the ground.
From the corner of the list came a smattering of applause.
“Well done, Duncan!” Robert called. He shook his head and elbowed Holden, who’d come up beside him. “Your brother’s generosity knows no bounds,” he quipped sardonically. “See how he bashes apart the target just to give some poor soul employment tomorrow building a new one?”
Duncan dismounted and gave his horse a dismissive swat on the flank. He wasn’t in the mood for Robert’s sarcasm. Neither, apparently, was Holden. Holden’s eyes darkened as he strode across the field toward Duncan.
“Where’s the wool merchant?” Holden demanded, scowling.
Duncan spat in the dust. God forbid Holden should waste time on a polite greeting.
“Where is she, Duncan?” he repeated.
“I don’t know, and I don’t—“
“Duncan!” Holden caught hold of his shoulder, his eyes steely. “Sombra…travels on the Corona Negra.”
“What?” Robert exclaimed.
Duncan’s heart skipped a beat. Surely his brother was jesting. But Holden didn’t crack a smile. “Sombra…is alive?”
Holden punched his fist against his palm. His nostrils flared. “I don’t know how he did it. I saw the bastard myself. No one could have survived that beating.”
A sickening knot formed in Duncan’s belly. Sombra, the notorious whoremonger, the woman-killer, had certainly deserved to die, if half the stories about him were true. It was fitting that his brutal beating had been at the hands of a man who’d lost his only daughter to the monster. No one would have condemned the man for Sombra’s murder.
But if Sombra were alive…
The thought chilled Duncan. Sombra had earned his nickname by working as a flesh merchant in the shadow of El Gallo. While El Gallo intercepted ships to steal their goods, Sombra boarded the vessels to see what human treasure they offered. There were nobles who would pay a considerable sum for Sombra’s discriminating taste in women and his effective methods of taming them.
Holden’s eyes were haunted, remembering. “I helped hide the body. We left Sombra in the bracken near the shore where no one would find him.” He ploughed a hand through his dark hair. “By God, I should have buried the bastard beneath twenty feet of rock.”
“We can correct that oversight now,” Robert said grimly, joining them. “The Corona Negra is still in port. Sombra’s bound to be close.”
Holden nodded. “Duncan, your merchant wench is safe, aye?”
“Safe?” He snorted. “Aye.” Linet was safe. Safe in another man’s arms. A nobleman who’d swept her off her feet with honeyed flattery and dripping wealth…
Duncan’s gut twisted as a horrible possibility wormed its way into his head. It was too awful to contemplate, but…
“Holden,” he barely breathed, “describe Sombra.”
Holden frowned. “The last time I saw him, he was a bloody mess. Thin as a lance, dark beard, dressed like a damned lord, all in black.”
Duncan’s breath froze in his chest. Linet’s nobleman…
Everyone gathered at The Pike’s Head. Within the crowded alehouse, gossip was exchanged, bargains were struck, and impoverished crofters rubbed elbows with wealthy merchants. One had only to wait to learn any piece of news. Including the whereabouts of a missing wool merchant.
Duncan had found nothing all day. No trace of Linet’s pavilion remained. All the other wool merchants could say was that she’d left at dawn in the company of four guards.
Robert, Garth, Holden and he had ransacked the surrounding forest and waded for miles along the banks of the treacherous river nearby. They’d searched till the last of the sun’s rays dwindled and turned the woods into a hopeless tangle of murky gray. To no avail. She’d simply vanished.
He’d failed. He’d promised Linet protection, and he’d failed.
Robert bid him let it go. Garth tried to absolve him of blame. Only Holden understood. Duncan would die before he’d give up the search.
So now, pulling the threadbare wool cloak tighter about his shoulders, he discreetly summoned the alewife for another cup, and then sank back into the shadows of the darkest corner of the pub. He watched, waited, and listened.
The room was alive with chatter. Two velvet-clad youths conversed in gently indignant voices about the price of silk. A wheezing old man clad in a bundle of filthy rags huddled beside the fire. A sailor regaled the serving wench with bawdy roundelays. A reeking leather merchant calculated his day’s earnings by candlelight, rapidly scrawling figures across a ledger. But Duncan was only interested in the Spaniards.
The black-bearded fellow in the middle of the room had drunk far too much. His red-haired friend told him so as Black-beard tipped his ale back yet again, sloshing it over the rim of his cup and onto his crudely bandaged hand. Before he could begin to wail in pain, another Spanish mongrel stumbled into the alehouse, distracting him. The red-haired man made a grand gesture of welcoming the new arrival to their table.
Most of their talk was idle chatter—boasting, ribbing, shared obscenities. Duncan supposed if he wanted informative conversation, he was going to have to prod it along.
Taking one last swig of ale from his cup, he wiped the foam from his mouth with the back
of his sleeve, and then sprinkled the brew generously over his garments. Tousling his hair into wisps over his forehead, he pulled the hood of the cloak forward to conceal his face and staggered to his feet. Hiding his hands in the folds of worn wool, he hunched and tottered toward the trio of Spaniards.
“Your pardon, gentlemen,” Duncan croaked in the cracked, feeble voice of an old woman.
Black-beard frowned at the intrusion. Red-hair made a show of waving away the odor of ale wafting from Duncan’s garments.
“What do you want, you stinking crone?” Red-hair snapped.
Duncan pretended great secrecy, bending close to Red-hair’s ear and whispering. “El Gallo has sent me.”
“Sent you for what? To polish my boots with your wrinkled backside?”
The Spaniards laughed uproariously.
When they’d settled again, Duncan resumed. “He wishes me to find the one called Sombra.”
The three reivers gaped at this piece of news.
“Sombra?” Black-beard murmured.
“Shh!” Red-hair looked nervously about, and then bunched the front of Duncan’s cloak. “El Gallo told you to go to Sombra?” he whispered.
“Aye,” Duncan said. Then he emitted a nasty wheezing cough that made Red-hair snatch his hand back in revulsion. “He said I might find employment.”
“Employment!” the third fellow barked.
The three Spaniards looked quizzically at Duncan’s huddled form, then at each other. At last, Red-hair nodded, smothering a snort of laughter behind his hairy knuckles.
“Ah, now that I think about it, si, Sombra might have room in his employ for a pretty young thing like you.”
The other two snickered into their ale.
Duncan had guessed correctly. It probably wasn’t the first time El Gallo had played such a jest—sending a withered old crone to Sombra.
Knights of de Ware 01 - My Champion Page 8