Wildewood Revenge

by B. A. Morton

  At the exact moment that Philibutt of Mayflower turned and set eyes upon her, Grace’s face lit up with a beautiful smile and she descended the last of the stone steps in a ruffle of linen. Miles groaned inwardly. What now? - What was she up to?

  “Aha!” Exclaimed the bishop’s aide, “My missing nun no doubt?” He noted her state of undress with a shudder. “I trust she has not been compromised.”

  Grace fairly skipped across the stone flags. “Good morrow,” she trilled, offering her small, pale hand which the man snatched and kissed wetly. Grace smiled, looked at the drool and then wiped her hand delicately on her sheet.

  “My dear child, I have come to rescue you from the clutches of this wayward knight.” He huffed and puffed with the excitement of having outwitted Miles. “His Eminence the Bishop has kindly provided the required ransom; you will soon be safely, back at Kirk Knowe.”

  Miles looked questioningly at Grace and shrugged.

  “I see,” replied Grace as she rearranged her coverings, rather inexpertly observed Miles, as the swell of her breasts was clearly visible. She shuffled on the cold floor balancing one foot on top of the other in turns. “I’m sorry. Miles is remiss as a host and has clearly failed to introduce us.” She glanced at Miles and he was sure he caught the ghost of a smile.

  “This is Philibutt of Mayflower,” said Miles. “He comes on behalf of the Bishop of Durham with a ransom which he claims I have demanded in return for a nun, whom I don’t have.”

  Grace arched one delicate brow. “How very thoughtful of the bishop,” she cooed and Miles swallowed his disbelief. She was playing the man. Some innocent!

  “I am Lady Grace, niece of Sir Hugh de Reynard of Normandy, no doubt you will have heard of him.”

  Both men stared at her open-mouthed.

  “I am a guest in the home of my uncle’s favourite protégé. He is such an honourable man.” She turned to bestow a grateful smile on the bewildered Miles. “Like you, I too am here on Gods business, you might say.”

  She took a seat opposite the bishop’s aide who also reclaimed his seat with an alarming creaking of wood under considerable stress. Grace leaned forward provocatively, and the man went a peculiar shade of puce.

  “I seek funds for the benefit of the orphaned children of Normandy, poor children. Without an orphanage and the strict care of the church I fear they will all be lost to the devil. The bishop will no doubt share my concern.”

  Mayflower wrung his hands, his face a picture of confusion.

  “Perhaps word of my arrival and my charitable undertaking to secure funds for these poor children has become confused in the telling. We all know how peasants love to embellish a tale. Do we not, Philibutt?” she inclined her head coyly, “May I call you, Philibutt?”

  Mayflower spluttered and Miles shook his head in disbelief.

  “I see a solution to this confusion, if I may suggest it?” Grace continued.

  The bishop’s aide dragged his protruding rheumy eyes from her flesh. “Of course, my dear, any confusion must be hastily clarified.”

  She gently weighed the ransom bag in her delicate hand. It was heavy, rather too heavy for one nun. “It occurs to me that His Eminence the Bishop, would think highly of anyone who could recover such a delicate and embarrassing situation; and you must agree, Philibutt, you’re coming here and making scurrilous accusations against a fine and honourable knight, a knight who has fought at his king’s side; is embarrassing for his eminences reputation?”

  “Yes of course,” muttered Mayflower. “I can see how this situation could be perceived.”

  “Then I suggest that as the bishop has already allowed for the giving of these funds on behalf of the church, that we do not deny his generosity but allow their donation to the orphan children of Normandy.”

  Miles stared at her in growing wonder; Mayflower, merely stared.

  “Are we in accord?” She drew the bag towards her, “Of course if you do not have the authority?”

  Inner turmoil was written all over the man’s face. “Madam,” he snorted. “Take the bag. I will inform the bishop of your gratitude.”

  He struggled to his feet and knocked over his seat. Miles bent and set it to rights. As he brushed past the bishop’s man, Mayflower caught his arm and held him fast with an icy glare.

  “This is not finished,” he spluttered.

  Miles returned his glare with one of his own. “Then I look forward to our next meeting.” He took the man by the arm and frog-marched him out of the hall.

  John was waiting by the gate.

  “Have Edmund saddle the horses. Our guests are leaving.”

  John nodded and went in search of Edmund who waited by the kitchen and watched the men at arms who supped at Martha’s table. They had far too much of an interest in Belle. She fluttered her eyelashes and swished her skirts, enjoying their attentions. Edmund kept out of sight, but near enough should he be needed. He had to speak to Miles.

  The bishop’s aide and his escort left Wildewood shortly after, the gate soundly barred behind them. Edmund caught up with Miles as he crossed the yard.

  “Those men, I recognised them, my lord.”

  Miles stopped and looked at Edmund. He too had thought them familiar but could not place them, “From where, Edmund?”

  “Normandy, my lord, they are Guy’s men.”

  Miles hand went subconsciously to his side where he carried the mark left by Guy’s sword. “How did I not remember them?”

  “Yer did not recall much after ye suffered yer wound, but they were the ones who robbed ye when yer lay bleedin’ from Guy’s sword.”

  Miles did not recall much from that episode. He had spent many weeks recovering before their journey home could be resumed. If Guy’s men were in Northumberland then it seemed apparent that Guy was in league with Gerard. If Philibutt of Mayflower was in fact the Bishop of Durham’s aide, then he must be currently in the employ of Gerard and it was therefore Gerard’s money lying in a velvet bag in the great hall.

  “Good lad.” He patted Edmund’s shoulder. “Keep your wits about you, and make sure no one comes through that gate.”

  Chapter Twenty Three

  The velvet bag was still on the table when Miles re-entered the great hall. Snatching it up, he crossed to the stairs and taking them two at a time, he went in search of Grace.

  “I didn’t send for him,” he announced as he entered her chamber, to find her dressing in the clothes in which she’d arrived.

  “I believe you.” Grace buttoned her trousers and turned to face him. Her breasts barely covered by lace. She reached for her vest laid on the rumpled bed and began to pull it over her head.

  Miles found himself distracted by her state of undress, the soft glow on her skin, and the glimpse of indigo butterflies, that fluttered tantalisingly as she stretched. He shook himself. “Where are you going?” He gestured at her clothes.

  Grace smiled and crossed the room. Reaching up she placed her palms against his chest and planted a long, wet kiss on his lips. He tried to prolong it, instantly and shamelessly distracted, but she pulled away with a grin. “I’m not going anywhere; I just want to be comfortable when I ride the filly.”

  Miles stood perplexed. She’d just schemed her way into a fortune and she was going riding? She was far too sure of herself.

  “How much is there?” Grace reached for the bag.

  “Enough for more than a few orphans,” replied Miles holding the bag aloft. “What do you know of Hugh?”

  Grace grinned.

  “Just what Martha told me. His was the only name I could come up with on the spur of the moment. That awful Philibutt creature, what an arrogant little man, he needed taking down a peg or two, and now you have the money for Wildewood.” She paused at Miles expression, “What’s the matter, did I do the wrong thing? I thought you’d be pleased.”

  “Pleased? Stunned is the word I’d use. I didn’t realise you were so accomplished an entertainer.” He recalled how well he’d be
en entertained in this very room. His eyes strayed to the bed, a wicked smile spreading slowly across his face.

  He should be pleased. He now had the money for Wildewood. Money to pay for the renovations, to restock, and do all the things he wanted. Unfortunately, he also had more trouble than he cared to have. If Gerard had Guy and his henchmen on side and was willing to pay out the kind of money Mayflower was carrying, then he’d be unlikely to give up and go away. Particularly when he realised he’d been bested by a girl. Gerard was not a good loser.

  “That was Gerard’s man you just fleeced. He won’t be pleased about it and neither will he believe your story, anymore than Mayflower.”

  “Philibutt believed me. Why else did he give me the money?” exclaimed Grace. “That was the whole point; to make him believe I was someone else, not the nun he was looking for.”

  “He wasn’t looking for a nun. He was looking for the king’s spy. He gave you the money because you outwitted him, it doesn’t mean he believed you. Do you really think the bishop cares about orphaned children?” He cocked his head and studied her. “The bishop cares for naught but spreading the word of Christ. If you’d asked for coin to further the Crusade and crush the Saracens, then, Mayflower would likely have swallowed your tale. But he’d not sully his hands to save one child, let alone a litter of parentless Norman brats. You did, however, confuse him by mentioning Hugh. He likely believed that, no reason not to, I suppose. But he’s not going to return to Gerard and admit he gave the ransom to a pretty girl because he couldn’t keep his eyes off her flesh.”

  Miles paused, his gaze also drawn to her flesh. His grin widened when he caught her raised brow. He shrugged his apology. Temptation and imagination...twin sins...and he was guilty of succumbing to both.

  “I don’t know whether bringing Hugh’s name into this has made things better or worse.” He closed the door behind him and stepped closer to the bed. “By all accounts Hugh is back in favour with the king and that may well play into Gerard’s paranoia. If he continues to believe you’ve been sent by Edward, he may think all three of us are in collusion. I may resort to using Gerard’s money to pay for our own defence.”

  “Have I made things worse?” asked Grace. Concern flitted across her face.

  Her sense of alarm affected him, in ways he couldn’t explain. His first response to hold and protect, was fuelled by their closeness the previous night, and his continuing desire for its repeat. But deep in his gut, caution warred with passion and together they churned mercilessly.

  “No, not worse, just more complicated.” He reached out a hand and let it play down her bare arm, caressing gently. She’d been so convincing, as she played the coquette with Mayflower, it unsettled him. Aware she had secrets, he wasn’t sure whether they should concern him or not. Truth was, he’d more than enough to worry about without adding Grace to the list. He watched her eyes widen as he let his fingers stray to the nape of her neck and she inclined her head with a soft sigh. He still didn’t know the full truth about her, wondered whether what she’d told Mayflower was in fact the truth and she was in some way connected to Hugh. He thought it unlikely, sure he would have known of her, would perhaps have met her in Normandy and he was sure he’d never had that pleasure. He lowered his hand and hooked a finger in the front of her vest.

  “Come here.” He pulled her gently and she placed her arms around his waist, her head on his chest. “We just need to be careful,” he whispered hoarsely as he pressed a kiss on the top of her head. Very careful he added silently.

  He moved his mouth to her ear, “Tell me Mademoiselle; are you...well this morning?”

  Grace smiled. “You mean did I survive that incredible night of wild passion with yours truly?”

  “Yes, but more particularly did you enjoy it?”

  “Mm I suppose so,” she pondered with deliberate slowness. “I expect I’ll need to repeat it though...just to be sure.” She squeaked as he grabbed her.

  “We’ll see what we can do about that later, but first I have things to do.”

  “You always have things to do.”

  “I need to be ready for Gerard’s next move.”

  “No, we need to be ready for his next move,” replied Grace.

  Miles sobered, restrained his imagination with difficulty and concentrated on what he needed to do rather than what he wanted to do. She really had no idea, and may well have been brought up in a convent for her alarming lack of common sense.

  “Ever killed a man, Grace?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Do you suppose you could if it were necessary?”

  “No I don’t.”

  “I think you could,” said Miles. He stroked her cheek gently with his palm.

  Grace swatted his hand away. “That’s rubbish. No one is going to get killed, least of all by me. I’m just a girl, not a soldier, I couldn’t kill anyone. And I wouldn’t want to.”

  “Not even to save your own life?”

  “No,” replied Grace determinedly.

  “Not even if it meant saving someone close to you?”

  “Absolutely not.” She pushed at him. “You don’t need me to save you!”

  She’d thought of him first as the, someone close to her, he liked that. “You’re correct I can look after myself. I was thinking more of Linus or Edmund; could you kill to save them?”

  Grace shrugged. “No - I don’t know. Who would want to kill a babe like Linus?”

  Miles sobered instantly. “Hmm, you would be surprised.”

  “I wouldn’t know how to,” continued Grace

  “You could use the knife you took from Edmund.”

  “How did you...?”

  Miles shook his head.

  “Grace, Grace I know all your little secrets.” He caught the almost smug look that flitted across her face and accepted reluctantly that his statement was probably far from the truth. “What did you plan to do with it?” he asked.

  Grace stared at him, guilt colouring her cheeks in an alluring way. He was momentarily distracted by the notion of how interesting it would be to persuade the truth out of her. He cleared his throat and continued. “The knife, what did you plan to use it for?”

  “I don’t know, I just thought it was a good idea at the time,” replied Grace hesitantly.

  “You took it because you feared for your life and thought you might need a weapon to protect yourself...yes?”

  “I suppose so.”

  Miles smiled. “Maybe you had a mind to protect yourself from wayward knight’s...and that’s how I know if you really had to, you could kill. All I need to do is teach you how.”

  “Are things really so serious?” Grace asked. “Can’t you just talk to Gerard, explain it’s all a mistake?”

  “It’s gone beyond that I’m afraid. I have a score to settle with Gerard. I’ve waited a long time and he knows I must have my revenge. He’ll use any means possible to avoid it, including using you to get to me. If he didn’t believe you to be a spy, then he would manufacture some other reason to involve you. As I’ve said he’s a dangerous man, and now he has some equally dangerous allies.”

  “Who, Philibutt?”

  Miles shook his head.

  “Mayflower may have the ear of the church, which carries some element of risk, but the only thing in real danger from him, is his pony which is at risk of being crushed beneath his incredible bulk. No, Gerard has Guy of Marchant and his entourage on side, Guy’s men escorted Mayflower this morning and no doubt they are at this very moment discussing their next move.”

  “Tell me about Guy?”

  “It’s a long story. I’ll give you the abridged version.”

  Miles stepped away from her and leaned casually against the back of the door. “Guy is a bully. His family own half of Lincolnshire. I first met him in Palestine, we didn’t get on. We are not cut from the same cloth. There’s something about him, that’s difficult to explain. He’s not quite right; he has a predilection for cruelty particularly where
small boys are concerned. We had a difference of opinion over Edmund, and settled our disagreement at the tournament. Guy was well and truly beaten.”

  He smiled at the recollection. The picture of Guy, unseated from his horse and humiliated, was one to savour. “Did I mention, he’s also a poor loser? The king was present at the tournament. Guy was therefore honour-bound to hand the boy over, but he was not enamoured. He festered for over a year until he could stand it no longer. On our return home through Normandy he and his merry band ambushed us. Took everything I’d earned and the few treasures I’d managed to collect.” He recalled the amber necklace; it would have been perfect around her neck. “He thought he’d killed me, would have too, if it weren’t for Hugh. That man always manages to be exactly where he’s needed, thank God.”

  “Is that how you got your scar?” Grace asked. Stepping close, she smoothed his shirt away from his warm skin and he felt her fingers gently trail across his puckered flesh.

  “Guy’s sword. The cowardly son of a she-devil attacked at night. He didn’t give me the chance to draw a weapon. He would have skewered Edmund also if the lad hadn’t the presence of mind to hide. Edmund sought help, sent a message to Hugh. Hugh is remarkably skilled in the healing arts.”

  Grace paused to consider. “Okay, so on the one hand we’ve got Guy, the child molester who made the mistake of trying to kill you, and on the other Gerard who hates you because...?”

  Miles sighed. “Gerard is a complicated person. He doesn’t like to think a bastard could have him hanged. He killed my mother, I saw him do it and I intend to have my revenge.”

  “Will you kill him?”

  “Eventually. One way or another he’ll pay for what he’s done. He’s worried now I’ve acquainted myself well with the king, Edward will concur when I proclaim his guilt. He sees the fact the king has given me title of Wildewood as a sign of his own disfavour. He’s deranged.” He tapped his head. “A little touched, and by all accounts he hasn’t matured as he’s got older. There are probably a fair few people who would enjoy the sight of him dangling at the end of a rope.”