The Saint

by MacRae, Cathy

  Bodies? She instinctively tried to pull her feet up, away from the carnage, but her movements were hindered and she discovered a heavy blanket swaddled her head to toe.

  One of the nondescript mounds groaned and rolled over and Marsaili swallowed a trickle of hysterical laughter that threatened to spill from her throat.

  Men. Sleeping. Abruptly the cobwebs cleared from her mind and she sat upright, shucking the blanket away with rapid flicks of her hands. A blast of chill air struck her skin and she realized she wore nothing more than her thin under dress beneath the blanket. She drew her knees up to her chest and clutched the blanket about her shoulders. The chair beneath her gave a warning creak.

  “’Tis good to see you awake, Milady.”

  She whipped her head around, wincing as a band of pain tightened around her head at the sudden motion. Placing cautious fingertips to her temple, she could find no reason for the sensation, but her head throbbed just the same.

  A dark-haired man stared at her, his gaze assessing. Marsaili drew back slightly, discomfited by the close scrutiny. He touched her head, slid the back of a hand across her brow, cupped her chin in his palm.

  “Would ye care to count my teeth?” she growled, ill at ease with his attention.

  One corner of the man’s mouth gave the tiniest jerk, but failed to become a smile. His eyes remained placid as he sat on the edge of the hearth and dropped his hands to his lap.

  “You appear to be recovering nicely,” he noted. “Tell me what you were doing in our barn last night.”

  Marsaili bristled at his command, though it was spoken gently enough. “Sleeping,” she replied. He continued to gaze at her and she bit her lip. “Freezing.”

  The man sighed. “You have nothing to fear from me. I can perhaps be of some help, however, if you confide in me.”

  He tilted his head, the glow from the fire casting golden tones on his skin, chiseling his features in shadows. Something clicked in Marsaili’s head. Of course! He is the man from the inn. Her eyes narrowed speculatively. He did champion me. Or, rather, my cause.

  “My servant dinnae accompany me beyond the inn,” she admitted, “and when the storm became too severe to continue, I was forced to find shelter. I dinnae know ’twas yer stable.” She peered at him from beneath her lashes, daring him to find fault with her tale.

  “You rode out alone?” A heavy, dark eyebrow surged upward and his lips thinned with displeasure. “Do you not utilize what wit the Lord has given you? There are reasons beyond mere social convention for a woman to not travel unchaperoned.”

  Marsaili scowled. “Dinnae concern yerself with me, Sir. I can take care of myself.”

  “Two sentences more incorrect I vow I’ve not heard in many days. You are now my concern, precisely because you cannot fend for yourself.”

  Marsaili opened her mouth to deliver a blistering set-down, but shut it abruptly as another man approached. His shaggy brown hair appeared to have seen little of a comb in the past few days, but his eyes rounded with kindness and concern.

  “Are you better, Milady?” he asked.

  “He and my man, Wythevede, found you in the stable,” the first man said. “You may state your gratitude and your name to Sir Walter de Ellerton.”

  Marsaili lifted her chin. “My thanks to ye, Sir Walter.”

  “Your name?” the first man prompted when she did not continue.

  “You may call me Marsaili,” she replied stiffly.

  “Just Marsaili? Nothing else?”

  “To a man I’ve yet to meet?” She tossed a hostile look at the dark-haired man. “Marsaili is sufficient.”

  “I beg your pardon for my omission, Milady. I am Lord de Wylde.” He executed a small bow from the waist, not bothering to stand.

  Marsaili arched a brow. “Are ye always stuffy, Lord de Wylde?” she drawled.

  “He’s always right,” a third man said as he crossed the room to join them. “’Tis why we call him The Saint.”

  Marsaili’s mouth clapped shut, jarring her teeth. A shiver slid through her belly. She worked her jaw to loosen it. She’d heard of The Saint, and the stories were enough to frighten grown men.

  “I thought ye needed a couple of miracles and an exemplary life to attain sainthood,” she ventured.

  “Postmortem miracles are required, alas, and Milord is very much still alive,” the third man quipped, a twinkle in his eye.

  “And it seems an exemplary life has yet to come to pass,” Lord de Wylde added.

  “’Twas said after ye killed a thousand men, ye retreated to a monastery to prepare yer soul,” Marsaili whispered.

  “Hardly a true account,” the other man said. His golden, shorn locks curled about his head, making him the better candidate for the appearance of a saint—or perhaps an angel. “My name is Sir Simon de Bretteby. I believe we met at the inn.”

  Chapter Four

  Of course. How could she forget? Marsaili had been desperate for a new mount, heart-sore to leave her own horse behind, angry at the stable man’s inability to look past her sex and simply offer her a new beast. And she’d been rude. Quite rude, in fact.

  “I hope you understand I wasnae angry with ye, Sir Simon,” she said, gentling her voice in apology. “The stable master was not in an accommodating mood, and it tweaked my ire to have my wishes belittled.” She tilted her head and gave a winsome smile. “I dinnae mean to insult ye—personally.”

  “I have dismissed the matter from my mind,” Simon avowed. “The man had earned your animosity, and though we were late leaving the inn, I was not against watching him receive his due from a lady such as you.”

  Lord de Wylde cleared his throat. “If I may interrupt this mutual admiration faire, I would like to question milady a bit more, her actions of yesterday notwithstanding.” He gave Simon a jerk of his chin. “I believe we could all use something warm in our bellies, if you would be so kind.”

  Simon ducked his head in answer and set about rummaging through a pack on the floor. Marsaili gave her attention to Geoffrey.

  “What do ye wish from me?” she asked warily. She would dearly love a warm meal before she left, but she owed the man no answers as to her conduct—now or the day before. If such was the price of her food, well, she’d face the day on an empty stomach.

  “First, let us attend you.” He motioned for her to stand. “Have you any injuries beyond those suffered from the night in the barn?”

  Marsaili snugged the blanket closer. “Nae. I’ve no injuries.” Her gaze narrowed. “And I’d like my gown back, if ye please.” Her icy tone told the meddling Lord de Wylde what she thought of a man who’d divest a lady of her clothing without her permission.

  “That is not possible,” he replied with a nonchalance that irritated Marsaili further.

  “What do ye mean, not possible? What have ye done with my clothes?”

  “Your gown was saturated and the lacings impossible to undo. I simply cut your gown away as it was more important to warm you than worry about what happened to your clothes.”

  “Ye WHAT?” Her shriek drew the two knights immediately to her side, and the door to the hut banged open.

  “Close the door!” Geoffrey barked. Wythevede slammed the wooden panel shut, forcing it to latch as it rebounded on its creaking leather hinges. “And remove yer cap in the presence of a lady.”

  The old man’s eyes bugged at the unwarranted reprimand, but tugged the offending hat from his head, banging the wool on his thigh to remove the dusting of snow. He leaned close to Walter. “Is the wench truly a lady?” he whispered.

  Walter spared him a glance, but did not bother to confirm Geoffrey’s statement.

  “I want my gown—now!” Marsaili demanded, slipping to her feet onto the bare floor. She hopped lightly from one foot to the other, disliking the touch of cold earth on her bare soles. “And my boots—and stockings—and, oh!” She fumbled for words, incensed at her handling at the hands of the English lord.

  “Wythevede, bring Lady
Marsaili needle and thread and her gown.”

  Marsaili stared in disbelief at the dress the old man handed her. Its front was cleaved in twain from the neckline to the waist, rendering it easily removed, though impossible to mend without a jagged seam. She snagged the small mending bag and set about sewing a seam to close the gaping flaw. Sending Lord de Wylde a murderous glare for his part in her struggles, she settled back in her chair and bent to her work.

  Geoffrey jerked a shoulder. Ungrateful wench. I will be glad to send her on her way. Her defiance disrupts the calm life I have garnered for myself these past months.

  His conscience nudged him as he watched her wiggle her bottom to a more comfortable position in her chair. The blanket hid what his arms had held during the long day as he’d waited for her to awaken, his heart thudding ominously each time her breathing slowed. But he remembered every moment—and every curve.

  She should not travel alone. It would be wrong to allow her to leave us unprotected. His decision was easily made. She would travel with them when they resumed their journey.

  Simon handed him a bowl of porridge and a steaming mug of mulled wine. He accepted both with a nod of thanks. “Give milady the same, though water her wine,”

  Marsaili’s head jerked up and she sent a narrowed gaze to Simon. “Ye willnae water my wine.”

  “You need a clear head,” Geoffrey told her. “Ladies drink watered wine.”

  She laughed, and at the soft, sensual sound, Geoffrey forgot to be annoyed with her. “I dinnae know where ye get yer information about ladies and their drink preferences, but I also enjoy a glass of whisky of an evening.”

  “No lady I know drinks to excess,” Geoffrey said, his voice lowering in warning. The young woman ignored his tone and leveled a slender finger in his direction.

  “Och, the ladies ye know—and I ask if lady is the proper term—are the women who follow the armies and likely have a need to drink themselves senseless from time to time. Have a care ye dinnae place me in their category.” She returned to her mending, gripping her lower lip between her small white teeth as she placed each tiny stitch.

  Shocked at her set-down, he reconsidered his original plan. She can learn to lie in the bed of her own making and see to her own safety. I did not ask to play nursemaid to an opinionated woman who does not know her place.

  Simon set a bowl and mug before Marsaili on the hearth. “Thank ye, sir knight,” she warbled, full of warmth and kindness for the man.

  The man who does her bidding. Geoffrey scowled and scooped porridge into his mouth, washing it down with the mulled wine. ’Twill not be me.

  Marsaili set her mending aside and picked up her food, sniffing the wine appreciatively.

  “A lovely combination of spices,” she approved. Taking a sip, she held the liquid in her mouth for a moment before swallowing. “Quite nice.” She grinned at Simon. “And warm. Blessedly warm.”

  “We found you in the stable in a pile of straw,” Walter said, accepting his repast from Simon. “Did you not wish to chance your reception in the cottage rather than risk your death in the barn?”

  Marsaili’s demeanor became cautious, though a slight smile lingered on her lips. “A woman traveling alone? Risk who knows what from strangers who could be less than dishonorable?” She slanted a look to Geoffrey. “I bedded down between the two horses pulling yer wagon and ’twas quite warm for a while. But it dinnae last. ’Twas shelter, but not enough.”

  “Enough to keep you alive, though barely,” Walter noted with a nod. “But ’tis a good thing you arrived here and not at some rogues’ gathering. The Saint will not let harm befall you.” He indicated himself and Simon with a wave of his mug. “Nor will we.”

  “’Tis good to know, Sir. Though I am afraid I will soon be on my way. Your company has been appreciated, as are your efforts on my behalf.” Again she cut a glance at Geoffrey, setting his teeth on edge. “But I am sure our paths are separate ones.”

  “You will ride with us,” Geoffrey informed her, changing his mind once again. Simon and Walter gave him startled looks and his neck warmed. “The Church teaches us to care for women and children,” he reminded them. He returned Marsaili’s furious stare. “And those unable to fend for themselves. ’Tis not safe for you to travel alone, and you will be under our protection until your journey ends or you are passed on to another for safe-keeping.”

  “Here’s a miracle for yer impending sainthood, Lord de Wylde! ’Tis a miracle no one has kilt ye out of a fit of total aggravation for yer interfering ways. I told ye I dinnae need yer care, and I meant it!”

  “I heard you, and you do,” Geoffrey intoned evenly, reining in his building annoyance with supreme effort. Never had anyone—much less a woman—gainsaid him as this woman did. “I am used to having my orders followed to the letter, so let me speak plainly. You will ride with us until we reach my estate at Galewood, which is not far from the Scottish border. At that time, escort will be arranged for you that will take you to your destination. No other options, opinions or attempts to sway a change in my order will be entertained.”

  He paused, waiting for the woman to explode. Her cheeks flamed, her neck arched, and sparks flew from her clear blue eyes. Impressive! The only drawback was the thinning of her full lips, marring their lush perfection. And, of course, ’twas now likely she had a full arsenal of vindictive words ready to hurl at him.

  “Do I make myself clear?” he asked, forestalling her tirade.

  “Ye amadan!” she hissed. “Ye dinnae care what damage ye cause. I have reason to not ride with ye, or any man. I willnae have my journey impeded by such as ye.”

  “Such as me?” he returned, curious as to what specific fault she found with him.

  She waved an arm in the air, encompassing everyone in the room. “Ye have two horses where four would give better service pulling that wagon. Yer driver is elderly and likely not capable of demanding the best of what nags he has. And two men are an impressively small guard for a landed English lord.” She cast a look at their booted feet. “And, ’twere it not for the gold spurs ye wear, I’d find myself wondering at their abilities.”

  Stung, Walter rose to his full height. “The three of us are completely formidable, milady,” he informed her, his voice rising with each word.

  “Everyone knows the might of The Wolfe rides at our back,” Simon added with a nonchalant shrug. “It has been quite some time since anyone was foolish enough to challenge us.”

  Marsaili drew back, a chill coursing up her spine at the thought of these men aligned with the formidable baron, Lord William de Wolfe, the king’s champion.

  She suppressed a shudder. “Nevertheless, there are but two of ye now, unless milord fights from his chair. Though he has a commanding presence, I have yet to see him without his cane.”

  “Despite our grievous faults, the fact remains you are safer with us than without us,” Geoffrey clipped. “Make yourself presentable and begin your sojourn with our lackluster party by helping with a few of the chores. We will bide the night here and leave at first light.”

  Marsaili swept her gown into her arms, brandishing the needle as she would a sword. “I will finish my mending and take my leave, Milord. Sleeping the evening and night away is a luxury I can ill afford.”

  “Upon my word, she is not to leave the cottage,” Geoffrey commanded, feeling a vein in his forehead throb.

  Mutiny fouling her brow, Marsaili bent to her work, her needle flying in and out of the fabric. She bit the thread below the knot and turned the gown over in her lap to address the laces.

  A tear fell from her cheek, a dark spot marking the green hue of the bodice. Geoffrey rose and limped to her side. Placing his fingers lightly over her small hand, he stilled the furious pluck at the tangled strings.

  “Pardon, Milady, but I do not perceive why you do not wish our protection. I admit I have always known and valued the security being the nephew of Lord William de Wolfe affords. Mayhap you have never realized the luxury of c
ertain safety?”

  Marsaili sniffed and made a quick swipe at her cheek with the back of a hand. Geoffrey’s voice softened. “What, besides your pique at me, causes you such distress? We swear to protect you, and yet it angers you?”

  His heart tripped in his chest as she lifted her watery gaze to his. Her skin glowed in the firelight, but only the flames lent color to her thin, pale cheeks. Gone was the defiance, the anger, the contempt. In the depths of her eyes, he saw only fear.

  She made no further effort to wipe the tears that tumbled down her face. “Ye amadan,” she whispered, “For all of yer posturing and telling me what is right or wrong, ere this is over, ye will have likely cost me my life.”

  Chapter Five

  The creak of the enclosed wagon ground out a cadence behind them.

  Plod, plod, creak, jangle. Plod, plod, creak, jangle.

  Marsaili shrank deeper into the hood of her cloak. Sunlight sparkled on the snow, trees, and ground alike as though covered in the costliest white silk and encrusted with diamonds. But the sun’s warmth and brilliance did not find its way into Marsaili’s heart.

  Damn, damn, damn! ’Twould have been simpler had I succumbed to the cold. At this slow pace, ’tis only a matter of time before Edmund’s men catch up with me.

  Every rustle in the forest, every crack of an over-loaded branch caused her to jump in her saddle, sending her mount sideways to bump against one or the other destriers Walter and Simon rode on either side of her. With such heavily muscled horseflesh and mounted armored knights at her side, she should have felt safe. Instead, she felt trapped.

  Plod, plod, creak, jangle. Plod, plod, creak, jangle.

  She cringed and tugged the tip of her hood lower. The noise it makes could alert scoundrels all the way to Lancaster!