Lord Of Danger

by Stuart, Anne

  “Some of your Arab tricks, eh, Grendel? Well, I like ‘em that way myself on occasion.”

  “So you’ll have her released from her captivity?” He made it sound as if it were of the least importance to him.

  “Oh, no, Grendel. I would fear for her life. I’m afraid too many of the servants have been gossiping, and they’re afraid of her. They think she’s been tainted by her association with my wizard, and they firmly believe she killed my wife. They’re afraid of you, but they’re perfectly willing to put her to death.” He smiled sweetly. “Besides, I need guarantee of your good behavior. We’ll take her with us.”

  “You don’t need any guarantee, and I have little interest in what happens to her.”

  “Then why do you keep asking about her?” Richard counted.

  Simon managed a cool smile. “Guilty conscience?” he suggested. “She’s only an innocent.”

  “You have no conscience, Grendel, and I would have said you have no heart. Nevertheless, Lady Alys will accompany us to court, and we will present her case to his majesty.”

  “She’ll be an inconvenience. She doesn’t ride.” He kept the desperation out of his voice, but he doubted Richard was fooled.

  “That’s not a problem, dear friend. She’ll be traveling in a barred cage.”

  For Claire the night had been endless. Somehow she managed to sleep, curled up in a tight ball beneath the fallen trees. Her clothes were soaked from the rain above and the ground below, her wrist was swollen and throbbing with pain, and she was desperately hungry.

  She wasn’t alone in the woods, she knew that much. She wasn’t sure which she feared more—wild boar or civilized men. Both were deadly; neither could be reasoned with. And Claire was beyond reasoning.

  When she awoke it was close to dawn, though the light barely penetrated the darkness of the ancient forest. The rain had stopped at last, with not even a stray rumble of errant thunder. She ducked her head out from her makeshift shelter, and her hair caught on one of the branches. She reached up to release it and gasped with pain. Her wrist was bruised and swollen, throbbing with such pain that she could barely raise it. She yanked her hair free with her other hand, leaving long, silken strands enmeshed in the fallen tree, and moved into the clearing.

  There was no sign of Arabia. At least she was bridleless; there were no trailing reins to get caught in the trees as she ran in desperation. For that matter, Claire was righteously annoyed with her beloved mare. Had it not been for Arabia’s skittishness she would never have fallen, and she wouldn’t be cradling what was likely a broken hand.

  She sneezed, loudly, three times in a row, and her temper didn’t improve. She wanted warm dry clothes, she wanted something to eat, and she wanted her sister to fuss over her, to wrap her damaged hand in herb-soaked bandages to bring down the swelling. She wanted to be taken care of, but there was no one to turn to but herself.

  She kicked her long skirts out of the way and started walking in what she hoped was a north-westerly direction. Back to the Convent of Saint Anne the Demure, back to safety and the stern care of the nuns.

  She found berries to eat, and fresh water to drink. The sun grew hot enough that the rain-soaked forest grew moist and sticky, but still she walked, her wet leather shoes sloshing uncomfortably around her feet. The thought of Alys, trapped with the cruel and heartless wizard, panicked her, but there was nothing she could do but pray that her sister pass through her time of trial and torment with as little pain as possible.

  She prayed for herself as well—that she might stop her endless wanderings and find a clear path to safety.

  She prayed for her brother too, though she doubted that God would grant those particularly bloodthirsty petitions.

  She even prayed for Arabia, ungrateful beast that she was, that she’d find safe shelter, not in her brother’s stable, but someplace where she would be appreciated and loved.

  It was the same that she wished for herself.

  There was one more soul to pray for, one she’d avoided thinking about. Sir Thomas du Rhaymer deserved her prayers, for the loss of his wife, for his stern attention to duty. She should thank God he was stalwart and honorable.

  She tripped over a root and went sprawling, her injured hand taking the brunt of the jarring. She was wet and hungry and miserable, and she lay in the muddy grass and wept, ugly, noisy tears of pain and sorrow and regret. She wept for all of them, for her sins and her selfishness. And in the end she wept for Thomas, wanting him, needing him.

  She was lying in the mud having a temper tantrum, there was no other word for it. Thomas had heard her angry squalls from a long way away, and he’d known with a certain grim humor that it was his quarry. His lady love, his heart’s delight, lying in the mud, kicking her heels and howling like a babe.

  She was a spoiled brat and he knew it. She had spent her short young life getting her own way by dint of her beautiful face and her wheedling charm. Someone should have spanked her lovely little arse when she was a child, but he suspected that no one had had the heart to.

  It was too late for that now, even though it might have done her some good. He’d married Gwyneth, and now he’d buried her, and in her grave he’d buried his regrets and dour soul. He was a free man, and his love lay sprawled in the mud, screeching. In faith, it was a glorious day.

  She didn’t even hear him approach, so caught up in her self-pity that she was oblivious to everything. He slid off his horse and tethered the reins to a nearby bush. Not that Paladin would run off—he was properly trained, unlike her ladyship’s spoiled mount. But Thomas was a careful man at all times.

  He came to stand over her, and even within the shadowy forest he blocked the fitful sunlight. She grew suddenly still, but she didn’t dare look up.

  “You should be glad I’m not a wild boar, or you would truly have something to weep about,” he said in his most practical voice.

  He was unprepared for her response. In seconds she was on her knees, and then she launched herself at him, throwing herself into his arms.

  He was unprepared for it, and he went down beneath her, his arms coming around her immediately, cushioning their fall. She looked a sight—her face was streaked with tears and mud, her nose was running, her hair was tangled and full of snarls and brambles, her once pretty gown was ripped and torn and filthy. And to his smitten eyes she had never looked lovelier.

  “Thomas,” she cried, and there was an ache in her voice that he couldn’t resist. “Thomas.” And that was all she said, as she wrapped one arm tight around him and held him as if he were her only link with safety.

  He should get up and disentangle himself. He should put a distance between them. She was a young, foolish, willful girl who didn’t know her own mind, and he needed to be wise, to protect her from men like himself.

  “Thomas,” she said again, with a sigh of relief that sounded perilously close to love. He put his hand beneath her chin to tilt her tear-swollen face to his, to assure her he would keep her safe, but she looked so lost, so woebegone, that he couldn’t resist her. Leaning down, he kissed her, when he knew he shouldn’t, pulling her damp, bedraggled body closer to his, deepening the kiss as she opened her mouth for him, and he knew that he was lost. Hopelessly, irrevocably lost. And he wasn’t going to let her go back.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  It was a slow, laborious procession northward. King Henry the Third, the boy king of England, was in residence at one of his castles near York, and the trip from Somerset seemed to take forever.

  Not that Simon of Navarre was in any particular hurry to arrive there. He had yet to figure out a way to extricate Alys from her captivity, and each day as they drew nearer he felt his options vanish.

  Richard had seen to it that he’d had no chance to talk to her. She was kept closely guarded in that damned cage that at least resembled a carriage. She had cushions and throws and plenty to eat, her every comfort seen to. Richard had a certain wicked cunning—he knew that if he abused her too sorely he wo
uld lose Simon’s unwilling cooperation. But if he released her he would no longer have anything to hold over Simon’s head.

  Simon kept his expression blank, his gaze forward as they plodded along the rutted roads heading toward the north of England. It was growing colder with each passing day as the winter approached, and his fur-lined mantle was little protection against the bitter wind. He was heading north, for the first time since he’d left, and with each tedious day of travel he felt disaster looming ever larger.

  He was eighteen years old when he left the North of England, young and pious and newly knighted, filled with a crusader’s zeal. He would right the wrongs of this world, he would. Free the Holy Lands and win his place in heaven. He would return, loaded with riches and honors, and win back his family’s place in the world. He would regain the lost manor house and lands that King John had torn away from them and passed to another favorite. He would live in peace and harmony, with justice for those who served him.

  God, he’d been young! Even then he knew there was no bringing back his mother, dead from cholera, or his father, dead from a drunken accident during a tourney that might just as well have been deliberate suicide. And he’d learned in the ensuing years just how ephemeral peace and harmony were, just what a joke the very notion of justice was.

  The only way to survive was to see to your own interests. He’d learned that hard lesson, and all the good men he’d met over the years, the monks of St Anselme’s, the physicians of Arabia, the gypsies of Lombardy, and the ascetic scholars of Switzerland, had failed to convince him there was any alternative. His plan had been simple: amass all the wealth and power he could in the shortest amount of time. And keep himself inviolate from the people that surrounded him.

  Alys of Summersedge had destroyed that notion. He should hate her for it, and part of him did. He was no longer the center of his own life, and that made things damnably complicated.

  Killing the child of King John should never have been a moral issue. King John had destroyed his family on a whim—it was simple justice that Simon return the favor. But he’d been reluctant from the very start, and he wasn’t certain he could blame that on Alys. Even before she arrived at Summersedge Keep, he’d felt unsettled.

  He refused to look back at the traveling carriage that held her prisoner. He hadn’t met her eyes since she was brought forth from the dungeons—if he did he might lose the icy composure that was one of his major weapons. He had no idea what she thought of him, or if she understood what had happened to her. That she would despise him was a given. That she blamed him was also likely. How would she feel when he freed her? If he freed her?

  He huddled deeper into his cloak. She had piles of fur throws in her litter; she had curtains drawn against the wind, and against curious eyes. She would be safe enough for the time being. And if she was sentenced to die he would strangle her himself before he let her endure the torture of being buried alive.

  She was being taken to her death. Alys knew it with calm instinct. The endless days of bouncing over the horrible roads made execution seem almost a delightful alternative. Almost.

  She had no intention of going quietly, however. She had refused to confess to witchcraft and the unholy murder of Lady Hedwiga, despite Richard’s pleasant assertion that her confession was not needed and would only make things easier for her. There were enough witnesses, her husband included. And Alys didn’t know who to believe, who to trust. Or whether, in the long run, she even cared.

  Would they burn her? She hoped not. She had never seen anyone burned, but she suspected it would be the most unpleasant of deaths. Having her head lopped off would be a marked improvement She had seen the severed heads of criminals and found them extremely unsettling, but if it were her own head then she would no longer have eyes to see it.

  Perhaps they’d toss her into the sea. She couldn’t swim, of course, but she’d heard that drowning was not an unpleasant way to die.

  Or would they choose the crudest, kindest death of all? Would they have Simon of Navarre administer the same poison that he’d used to kill Lady Hedwiga before laying the blame on her?

  Would he be merciful? Would he make certain her death was swift and sure? She no longer cared.

  She lay back amidst the fur throws, closing her eyes. Why had he done it? Why had he denounced her as a murderess? For that matter, why had he killed a querulous old woman who was essentially harmless?

  The answer was simple. He had done it for gain. He had done it for his lord and master. Richard had bade him do it, and it was done.

  Perhaps they would hang her. Would Claire come and hang on her body, to speed the process? Or was she safely away, with Thomas du Rhaymer to protect her? Alys tried to summon anxiety but found she couldn’t. For once in her life her own situation took precedence. Claire could fend for herself.

  They had stopped for the night. Alys pushed the curtains aside to watch the soldiers dismount, and Simon of Navarre moved into view. He was muffled in black, his long streaked hair flowing in the wind, and he looked cold and merciless. She could hear her brother, the new-made widower, laughing somewhere out of sight, and she half expected Simon to join him.

  She willed Simon to look in her direction, fiercely determined that he should see what he had done. He was strong enough to resist the lure of her gaze, but he turned anyway, his expression as bleak as the harsh wind that swept down over them.

  Richard came up behind him, slapping an arm around his shoulders. “We need some warm ale and warm women,” he said. “Damn this blasted weather!”

  Simon turned to look at him, and Alys waited, hopelessly, for him to denounce him. To demand her freedom, to threaten him, kill him, if he didn’t release her.

  “I’ll settle for the warm ale,” he said evenly.

  Alys flung herself back against the cushions. Another night in her luxurious cage, huddled beneath the thick fur throws. In truth, she was probably more comfortable than the creature who was her husband, but she felt trapped, crazed by the bars that surrounded her. She had never had a fondness for dark, enclosed places, and day after day of imprisonment was wearing at her soul.

  They were going to see the King—she’d been told that much and little more by the men who guarded her, and by the pale, frightened Madlen who’d been brought along to attend to her needs. She would be brought before the child king and he would pass judgment on her crimes.

  If Claire was safe she no longer cared what happened to her. She would endure, as long as she must, and if she died she would come back and haunt Simon of Navarre like Grendel’s mother—a vengeful hag to drive him mad.

  She despised him. She despised herself, for her weakness, for her futile attempts at discerning a reason for Simon’s betrayal. There could be no reason, no justification.

  And the worst part of all were her dreams. She would dream she lay in his arms, his face pressed against hers, his scarred hand cradling her. She would dream that he loved her, when he never had. And when she woke she would weep silently in her elegant cage.

  Thomas might have lost his head and betrayed everything he held dear if Claire hadn’t cried out in sudden pain. Her mouth was full and sweet beneath his, her damp, bedraggled body warm and irresistible, and she kissed him back with such desperate fervor, and he wanted her so urgently, that he might have forgotten everything and taken her there among the moss and fallen leaves, and she would have welcomed him.

  Her reluctant cry of pain was followed by a strangled protest as he pulled away from her, but sanity had returned, whether he welcomed it or not. She sat amidst the lichen and the leaves, her gown tattered and mud-stained, looking up at him with such soulful longing that he almost reached for her again. And then he saw the swollen wrist she was trying to hide from him.

  “Is it broken then?” he asked, his voice unnaturally harsh.

  She didn’t flinch. “I don’t know. I fell on it when Arabia threw me.”

  “Your horse threw you?” he echoed in astonishment.

&n
bsp; “She’s afraid of lightning.” Claire straightened her back, immediately defensive.

  “I thought you were a better horsewoman.” He said it deliberately, to push her away, when he was so afraid he’d reach for her again.

  “I thought you were a better protector,” she shot back. Her eyes filled with fresh tears.

  “I failed you,” he said evenly, taking her swollen hand in his with infinite gentleness. She bit her lip but didn’t cry out as he slowly, carefully examined it. “I will never forgive myself for that.”

  “Don’t be silly,” she said, immediately contrite. “You had more pressing obligations.”

  “To a woman who had already relinquished all claim to my care, and who no longer needed it.” He set her hand back in her lap. “I don’t think the bone is broken.”

  “It hurts,” she said, faintly fretful.

  “It will heal in God’s time.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I have faith,” he said simply.

  She lifted her eyes to his face, and he wished he could force himself to turn away. He couldn’t. She could see the hopeless love in his face if she chose to recognize it, and he could only hope she would ignore it.

  A foolish hope. She leaned forward and pressed her soft mouth against his in a sweet, tempting kiss. “Will you marry me, Thomas du Rhaymer?”

  He jerked back from her in shock. “What?”

  “Will you marry me?” she repeated. “I have decided that I want no one but you, and I am very used to getting what I want in this life.”

  “Your brother would never allow it.”

  “We won’t ask him. We won’t go anywhere near him. We can sail for France and wander the countryside. You can live by your sword and I’ll cook for you,” she said, growing more enthusiastic.

  He stared at her, bemused. “You can cook?”

  “No,” she confessed. “But I’m certain I can learn.”

  “There is no need, my lady,” he said in a reproving voice. “I will keep you safe, I’ve sworn my life on it, and I won’t fail you again. I have houses and lands of my own. My mother will make you welcome.”