by Bale, Leigh
He glanced at the woods behind the peasant where a small lad peeked out from behind a tree, then cleverly disappeared. At least one of the assailants wished to remain alive.
The peasant’s lips curled in a snarl. Then, he flinched and horror filled his eyes. He dropped the knife and bowed his head.
“Lord Nicholas,” the man choked with surprise. “Forgive me. I didn’t know it was you. I thought perhaps the English had arrived.”
Looking about, Nicholas scowled. “Where is Lady Ysabelle?”
The boy came out from behind the trees, his forehead furrowed with concern as he drew closer to his father’s leg. The man lifted his arm and pointed to a thin trail leading deeper into the woods. “She is there, my lord.”
It would be difficult for Nicholas to ride the gelding through the dense underbrush. Instead, he slid off the horse. “See to my mount.”
Cautious of a trap, Nicholas lifted one arm to push aside the heavy branches as he hurried down the path. The boy dodged in front of him and Nicholas barely stopped in time before he plowed over the top of the child.
“What are you about? Would you kill yourself?” Nicholas barked as he stumbled in an effort to avoid collision.
The boy’s cheeks reddened, his eyes filling with tears. He faced Nicholas bravely, his little chin quivering. “You won’t hurt Lady Ysabelle, will you, my lord? She’s gentle and kind and can’t protect herself from you.”
Even this child sought to defend her. Looking down, Nicholas saw the boy’s small face contorted in an expression of dread. It took great courage for a mere peasant child to challenge the fierce Scots Ram. Other lords would kill the boy for daring so much. But Nicholas respected courage.
“Be at ease,” Nicholas assured the lad. He couldn’t fight off a grim smile. Ysabelle would surely feel no pain once he throttled her senseless.
The boy stepped aside.
For several minutes, Nicholas moved through the birch trees, until they gave way to a small clearing. A crude hut stood in the center of the glade, a thin stream of smoke rising from a single chimney in the thatched roof. He caught the bitter scent of wood smoke.
Night was coming on, black and thick. Vague light penetrated the heavy shroud of clouds overhead. Nicholas glanced about at the rough dwelling. A tree stump with an ax imbedded in the top rested in the middle of the clearing. Several cords of firewood had been stacked to one side, waiting for carts to haul it away.
A piercing scream filled the air. Without hesitation, Nicholas barreled through the rickety door of the hut.
Chapter Seven
The door to the hut banged open and fell of its rawhide hinges. Ysabelle whirled about in surprise. The door landed on the hard packed floor with a loud thump. A cloud of dust filled the air. Nicholas stood in the threshold, his eyes hard, his expression lethal.
So, he’d found her. Not surprising. When she’d snuck out of the castle, she’d known it would be just a matter of time. Somehow, she no longer feared his anger. She was beginning to understand him. It had been the same with her father. Though fierce in battle and quick to deal justice, Maston’s blustering wrath aimed at her had merely been a show to hide his soft emotion when he’d been worried about her. And Nicholas was very much like Lord Maston, in looks as well as actions. Perhaps that was why her father had betrothed her to the Scots Ram.
With a sigh of dismay, Ysabelle decided to treat Nicholas’s wrath as she would have done her father.
She ignored it.
Turning, she continued to sprinkle dried herbs into a crockery dish. She poured boiling water into the mixture and set it aside to steep. A heavy aroma filled the room, thick and pungent.
“Please replace the door with haste. The draft is not good for the child.” Ysabelle spoke without turning around.
She heard Nicholas lift the door back into place before he drew near. He peered over her shoulder at the little girl of no more than three years lying on a pallet in a dark corner of the room. The child wore only enough clothing for modesty’s sake. Her eyes were closed. Covered with cuts and scrapes, her small body was badly bruised and broken. Ysabelle had wrapped her right arm in a splint.
“What happened?” Nicholas asked.
“She ran in front of a horse and was trampled. Her arm is broken and I fear she is seriously injured in the head. Though she cries, she has not regained consciousness. I have just finished setting her arm.”
Nicholas grunted. “And where is her mother?”
“She died last winter.”
“And her father?”
Dipping a clean rag into a basin of tepid water, Ysabelle wrung it out and began to gently wipe Sara’s face. She pushed lank tendrils of blond hair away from the child’s pale cheeks.
“Sara is a bastard.” Ysabelle’s voice wobbled as she spoke. “She lives here with her cousin and uncle, the woodcutter. No one knows who her father is.”
Glancing up, Ysabelle saw Nicholas’s brow darken, his eyes filled with sympathy.
“You’re frowning again,” she remarked. “It’ll mar your face and make you an old man before your time.”
The heat of the fire fanned her face. She wiped her damp hands on the plain apron she wore. Still dressed in her black linen dress, she rolled up the long sleeves and loosened the neckline.
“Did you plan to run away again?” he asked.
She blinked. Dare she confess she had deliberately waited inside her chamber, testing his word, wondering when he might break down her door and drag her to the chapel? Running away had been a tempting notion, but she had nowhere to go. No matter what, she could never abandon Sutcliffe. She couldn’t leave, even to save herself.
“I won’t run away,” she said.
A flicker of doubt passed his brow. She half-expected him to threaten her and lock her up in the future. Instead, his next words surprised her. “It is a most inopportune time for you to be here, my lady. For your safety, we must return to the keep.”
“Sara will die if I leave her now.”
“We’ll take her to Sutcliffe and you may tend her there.”
His consideration touched her like nothing else could.
Nicholas moved to pick up Sara, but Ysabelle interceded. “She mustn’t be moved now. It could do her more harm.”
“If the king’s army arrives, they could kill her. They won’t be happy with your people for defying the king’s will. It’ll only take a few moments to move Sara to the keep and then I’ll leave you to care for the child to your heart’s content.”
She studied him, wondering if this was a ruse to win her
acquiescence. “You would postpone your own plans and allow me to care for Sara instead?”
Ah, he didn’t like that. He heaved a sigh of impatience. It was another test, though she hadn’t planned it. To see if he would sacrifice the child in order to reach his own selfish goals.
If he did, she would never, ever agree to wed him.
“Our marriage can wait until the morrow,” he conceded. “The girl will be moved now, and you both will return to Sutcliffe where you’ll be safe.”
A nervous tick pulsed at his temple. Though he’d agreed, she knew he feared the consequences of delaying their marriage. But his agreement won her respect.
“All right, Nicholas. We’ll return to the keep.”
He flinched and she realized it was the first time she’d spoken his name. Stooping so he wouldn’t strike his head on the low ceiling, he stepped back to let her pass. Gathering her basket of herbs, she bundled up Sara. When she would have picked up the child, Nicholas brushed her hands aside and lifted the child as easily as a fluff of wool. He cradled the girl, holding her battered body against his chest. When he lifted a hand to brush the blond curls away from Sara’s brow, Ysabelle noticed his eyes crinkled with concern, his mouth curved with compassion.
“I don’t think you’re as cruel as you would have everyone believe,” Ysabelle remarked.
He frowned. “Who did this to her?”
&
nbsp; As she led the way outside, Ysabelle shrugged. “It was an accident and the man feels terrible for the deed. Sara ran in front of him and he couldn’t stop his horses in time. It was no one’s fault.”
Nicholas’s brows darkened as he looked at her face. She could tell he didn’t like her evasion, but she wasn’t about to tell him that one of his own men had done the deed as he’d hurried about his task of taking a wagon filled with grain inside the castle walls to prepare for siege. The man had already been to the woodman’s hut several times within the last two hours to check on the girl. Each time, his face had been pale, his eyes filled with guilt as he asked if Sara would live. It hadn’t been his fault that Sara was playing along the side of the road and darted into his path.
“He must atone for his deed,” Nicholas growled as he led the way quickly along the forest path.
“He already has,” Ysabelle assured him. “He gave Madoc many coins, though it won’t replace Sara’s life if she dies. It’s obvious he feels remorse. I wouldn’t torture him more. If Sara dies, he will be forever haunted by the deed. That’s enough.”
Leading Nicholas’s horse, Madoc and Donal did not question the Scots Ram as he emerged from the forest carrying the bundled child. Ysabelle followed, wondering why Nicholas would care so much about a peasant child.
“Hold the girl for a moment.” Nicholas handed Sara to Madoc.
Staring dumbly, Madoc obeyed while Nicholas helped Ysabelle mount the gelding. Once she was situated, Nicholas reached to take Sara and carefully handed the girl up to Ysabelle. Pulling himself onto the horse’s back, Nicholas sat behind, taking the reins in a practiced grip.
Alex and a party of armed men dressed for battle soon appeared, racing their horses toward them in a flurry of hooves. Madoc’s mouth hung open and his eyes widened with fear as he scurried to pick up his son and move away from the trampling war horses.
Clouds of dust billowed around them, choking Ysabelle’s throat. She pulled the blanket over Sara’s head to protect the child’s face. Nicholas tapped his heels to the gelding’s sides and they hurried toward the keep. No words were spoken, but Ysabelle was conscious of the warriors drawing their swords and watching with vigilance until they clattered over the drawbridge and arrived safely inside the bailey. Skirting herds of cattle and flocks of sheep being gathered for the anticipated siege, they moved ahead of peasants who sought sanction within the castle walls. Soon, the grating of the portcullis filled the air as the guards secured the gatehouse.
Nicholas dismounted, reaching up to take Sara as Alex helped Ysabelle down. People stood around and gawked as Nicholas passed through the yard carrying the girl, with Ysabelle close behind. He didn’t stop until they reached the great hall, then he waited for Ysabelle to precede him up the spiral stairs so she could direct him where to take the child.
By the time Nicholas deposited Sara’s pale body on a comfortable pallet, Ysabelle was out of breath and had to wipe the moisture from her brow. The Ram was not winded at all as he leaned over the child. In the dimly-lit room, his fingertips caressed the tiny girl’s cheek for just a moment before he drew away and looked at Ysabelle. “Tend her well. I’ll return later to check on her progress.”
The Ram left and Ysabelle could only stare after him with amazement. His compassion for Sara was not in keeping with the brutality he’d been accused of. Surely he’d never killed a child before. Instead, he’d offered to postpone their marriage so Ysabelle might care for the girl. His generosity astonished her and she didn’t know what to make of this development.
Maybe this was why her father had betrothed her to the Scots Ram. Because Nicholas was fierce enough to hold Sutcliffe, yet gentle enough to care for their people. It was something to consider.
Turning, Ysabelle saw Ada standing by the door. The handmaiden threw a hateful glare at Nicholas as he passed. Her dislike for the Scots Ram was obvious and understandable. Ada was protective, the only mother Ysabelle had ever known.
The two women set to work, tending Sara’s wounds, applying a compress to the vicious gash on her forehead. Father Edward came an hour later to check on the child’s progress and Ysabelle was grateful for his presence.
“I will pray for her,” he promised.
“Pray for us all, father,” Ysabelle murmured as she pulled the blankets higher about Sara’s chin.
“Your betrothed is an unusual man,” the priest observed.
“Oh?” she remarked, thinking the same.
Ada snorted. “He’s a heathen.”
“Hush, woman. Don’t speak such words,” the priest scolded.
With a disapproving glower, Ada stepped away, but she remained mute.
Moving to the table, Ysabelle adjusted the tallow candle so she could see better in the dark room. The sun had set, bringing with it a decided chill in the air. She lit a fire in the brazier.
Father Edward went to stand by the washbasin. “Lord Nicholas could have forced his hand, yet he allowed you to care for Sara. I don’t know many men who would have offered such clemency.”
Ada harrumphed, throwing a sullen frown at the holy man. The handmaiden wasn’t about to be swayed by the priest’s words.
Ysabelle rinsed her cloth in the basin of water, her thoughts on the man who sought to be her husband. She stared as droplets of water fell from her hands.
“He hasn’t earned a place at Sutcliffe. His birth gives him no rights here,” Ada exclaimed.
Father Edward threw a warning scowl at the woman. “Would you contradict Lord Maston’s will? He always knew what Nicholas Ramsay was, yet he chose him to be Ysabelle’s husband. It is for God to judge what is in each of our hearts.”
Ada looked away, suddenly contrite. Ysabelle didn’t know what to make of this exchange. It seemed there was more to their conversation than she understood. But surely she was imagining things. “Sutcliffe will belong to my husband and, one day, to my son.”
Would her child also be Nicholas’s son? She shivered with confusion. She didn’t want to give Nicholas so much power over her. He might leave her with a babe and, once the king’s army defeated them, abandon her in the end.
Bowing her head, Ysabelle gazed at the flickering candle. How she wished it could illuminate Nicholas’s soul so she might know for certain what was in his heart.
Ada huffed with exasperation. “The Ram is as cruel as those heathens who set upon Lady Alys so many years ago. Surely you don’t want him to use Ysabelle in the same way.”
“Ada!” Father Edward rebuked. “This situation is entirely different from what happened to Ysabelle’s mother. You must not speak of that now or ever again. You gave your vow of silence on the matter.”
Ada clamped her mouth shut. Guilt filled the woman’s eyes and she shook her head with shame.
Ysabelle stared at the two. Confusion fogged her mind. “Is there something more I should know? Have you told me everything?”
Father Edward smiled kindly as he patted her arm. “There is nothing more to tell, my dear. Your father rescued Lady Alys and brought her here for their wedding. Though she didn’t live long, your father loved your mother deeply. You brought him solace. When Lady Alys died, her joy was full. Never forget that, child. Always remember how much your parents loved you.”
Clenching her eyes closed, Ysabelle moaned with grief. “I wish father were here now. I don’t know what to do.”
“What does your heart tell you?” Father Edward asked.
Ada huffed with impatience and left the room. Ysabelle blinked her eyes and reached to touch her lips, remembering Nicholas’s warmth and passion. She couldn’t forget his gentleness as he carried her to and fro even as he denied her shoes so she couldn’t escape. Yet, now he’d offered her a choice. Though he said they must be wed, he gave her the option of declining.
“I tested him,” Ysabelle confessed.
“I don’t understand.”
“Last night, Nicholas came to me and said he would wait for me. I didn’t believe him. To test his word
so I might know if I can trust him, I waited and waited, expecting him to break my door down at any moment. I wanted to know what he might do.”
She looked into the priest’s eyes, feeling deceitful for what she’d done. But she had needed desperately to know if the Scots Ram would keep his word. It was more than important that she understand from the beginning if he was a man of honor.
“He never came, until he heard that I’d gone to tend Sara,” she exclaimed with wonder.
“Ah,” Father Edward smiled. “Now, I understand. When I asked if we should send for you, Lord Nicholas declined and said you were still making up your mind. He seemed most nervous.”
A soft laugh rose from her throat. “Nervous is not a word I would use to describe the Scots Ram. Impatient would be better, don’t you think?”
A wide smile split the priest’s face, his eyes crinkled with merriment. “Yes, my lady, I believe you are correct. Yet, I sense so much goodness in him.”
The smile slipped from Ysabelle’s lips and she frowned. She also sensed his decency.
“In the morning, what will you do?” the priest asked.
With a sigh of frustration, Ysabelle sank down on the wooden chair sitting next to the bed. She didn’t speak for some time, not knowing what to think. If Nicholas had smashed through her door and dragged her to the altar, she would have fought him to her death.
A choice! How could she fight him, or defy her father’s will and continue to reject the Scots Ram?
She couldn’t.
Ysabelle stared at her hands, not knowing when the priest left the room. Frustration and fear waged a silent battle within her. Looking toward the bed, she saw that Sara rested peacefully now. The herbs Ysabelle had given the girl to reduce her pain must have taken affect. If only she would regain consciousness, all might be well.
In the soft fire glow, Ysabelle curled her legs up in the hard chair, but she found no rest.
Chapter Eight