by Lisa Hendrix
But even as she denied the gift, it had never left her, and as she’d reached womanhood, her skill had stretched to include the beasts beyond the walls of Huntingdon. Practicing in secret, she’d learned to control the power, and even to use it a little. It occasionally proved useful; it was how she’d known that the little white mare was stronger than anyone thought and that the poor beast simply didn’t like pulling a cart.
Seldom did her ability include people, however, and never like this. She could sometimes get a sense of good or evil in another, and it served her well enough. But Sir Steinarr … the raw power of all that longing and lust and … wildness. She’d only ever felt that kind of wildness in the beasts of the forests, never in any creature tamed by man. The very recollection of it made her tremble, even more than what had just happened.
Take her whenever he wanted …
Those words and that kiss were yet more reason she was glad to be away from him. She’d offered him a good wage for a simple task, and he’d refused and then … The Devil take him to Hell. She wasn’t accustomed to people refusing her, especially not someone so clearly of lower rank. And she certainly wasn’t accustomed to men kissing her at will and addressing her like a common wench. The lecherous knave shouldn’t be speaking so lewdly to any woman, much less to one of noble birth.
Of course, he didn’t know she was noble born. She and Robert had gone to great lengths to pass as common folk, and so far, it seemed they had been successful. Even Robert’s occasional slips hadn’t given them away, and thank the saints she’d been too stunned to rebuke Sir Steinarr for his crude offer—a peasant maid would never dare scold a knight, no matter how poor or rude he was.
Still, she wasn’t certain she wanted to appear quite so common as to have to travel with charcoal burners. The colliers who moved their camps through the forest deeps in search of wood to burn had always left her uneasy, what with their soot-blackened skin, rough habits, and unsettled ways, and the word of a priest she didn’t know did little to reassure her that she and Robert would be safe.
From the smile that brightened his face, however, Father Albertus clearly didn’t share her concern. He’d brought them here to the farthest edge of the village, to the brook-side meadow where several wagons of colliers had gathered in preparation before moving on, and was speaking with the leader of the group, a squat, sturdy man who looked to be carved from a piece of coal himself, so deeply was the black embedded in his skin. The man consulted with other men, equally blackened, then nodded, and Father Albertus motioned them near.
Hoping the priest’s faith in the colliers wasn’t misplaced, Matilda shoved aside thoughts of Sir Steinarr and followed Robert over to meet their new companions. There was the leader, Hamo; his son and right-hand, James; James’s wife, Ivetta; and her mother, Edith; a cousin, Osbert; and nearly a score of others, not counting the youngest children. From what Matilda could tell, they were all related to Hamo by either blood or marriage.
Hamo sized up her and Robin as though they were trees to be turned into coal, then nodded. “The priest says you want to travel with us to Headon manor.”
“Aye,” said Robert. “If you have a place for us.”
“Do you bring your own food? ”
“Aye, and a bit to put in the pot,” said Robert, and Matilda had to bite her tongue to keep from protesting. They’d set out with so little, and to have Robert give any of it away …
But Hamo nodded, pleased. “Then you are twice welcome.” He put out his hand, so filthy that Matilda expected Robert’s palm to come away black when he shook it. “’Tis good you came today. Osbert and his finally turned up, so we’ll be leavin’ as soon after first light as we can yoke up the oxen.”
Father Albertus clapped both men on the shoulder. “Good. Good. Then Robin and Marian here are set, and I will be off. The new water in the font is not yet blessed.”
“A blessing here, first, Father, if you will,” said Hamo. “Come, everyone. We want a safe journey.” The whole tribe gathered quickly and knelt. Robert dropped down next to Hamo, while Matilda took to her knees on the edge of the group. As the priest gave his blessing, first in Latin, then in common English, she opened her mind, reaching out to see if perhaps her gift had changed, grown again. But no, there was only the satisfied boredom of the oxen and the alert curiosity of the horses and the mice in the grass—and nothing at all from Hamo or the priest or any of the others.
So why Sir Steinarr? The question hung unanswered as she crossed herself to Father Albertus’s amen and rose to join the others in wishing him Godspeed.
When the priest had gone, Hamo pointed her and Robert toward Ivetta. “She’ll take whatever food you wish to share and see ’tis added to the pot for all. And she’ll put you to work as well. Everyone does their part in this camp.”
“We expect no less,” said Robin. He turned to Marian. “Come, Cousin. Let us give the pot a goodly piece of our ham.”
She glanced up sharply. “Ham?”
“Aye. I got it at the hall.” When she started to protest the cost, he flashed a crooked grin at her. “Rest easy. Sir Matthew had his steward give it as alms to us poor pilgrims. He gave us all the food as alms. I could hardly refuse it—or the two pennies his lady gave. For the sake of their souls, of course. Though I’m not sure about ours, now,” he added under his breath.
“We will pray for them at the Lady Well,” Matilda assured him. “So you came away with food and more money than you set out with?” She laughed delightedly as he nodded and then gave him a quick hug. “Why did you not tell me? Sometimes, you are truly remarkable, Robin.”
“Just not often enough to be remarked.” He said it lightly, but a flicker of pain passed through his eyes, and Matilda’s heart ached for the slights he’d suffered. Father had never been fair to him. Robert quickly shook it off. “The ham is in two pieces. We can share the largest with these good people and still have some for ourselves.”
The ham bought them a great deal of goodwill, first from Ivetta, who quickly chopped some to add to the big pot of barley and wild greens, and then from the others as the aroma of the cooking meat wafted throughout the camp. Matilda and Robert did the simple chores they were asked to do—carrying water and wood and seeing to the oxen and such—and by the time the pottage was dished out, they were firmly part of the group and Matilda was past the darkest of her fears. She was, however, silently grateful that, as pilgrims, they carried their own bowls and spoons, especially when she saw how the colliers set their bowls on the ground for the dogs to lick clean afterward.
While the men plotted the next day’s journey over a morris board, Matilda sat with the women, playing string games with the little girls and sharing the most recent rumors about King Edward, reminding herself all the while that she was a peasant on pilgrimage with her cousin, and hoping that Robert remembered the same.
As darkness fell, each family group moved off toward its own wagons. Old Edith, matriarch by dint of age and temperament, took charge of Matilda. “You’ll bed down beneath my cart, maid, where you’ll be safe. Your cousin will sleep with the other lads ’neath the tree.”
Matilda nodded, then retrieved her bundle and carried it over to the old woman’s wagon. It took some maneuvering and she twice knocked her head against the axle while spreading her blanket smooth, but she soon had a fair bed in the grass. The night was dry and warm enough that she rolled her cloak as a pillow. She lay there, listening to people settle down around her, the older children soothing the younger, the sweet talk between husbands and wives. It wasn’t so different from the sounds of the hall at Huntingdon, she realized; these colliers were much like the good people who served her family. The last of her worries drained away, and exhausted, she drifted quickly into sleep.
Some sound woke her late in the night. It took her a moment to recall where she was and why there was a wagon wheel by her head. The sound grew louder, and she listened more closely, then blushed when she heard the whispered soft words and the creakin
g and moans and realized what it was: James and Ivetta in their wagon, tupping. She rolled away and pulled her cloak around her ears, but it was too late. The sound was in her head.
Then he was in her head, Sir Steinarr and his kiss and his words and his lust and the idea of him taking her. It would be bad enough, having touched his mind, but she also knew how his body felt: hard as iron and full of desire. She pulled her cloak more tightly to her ears, but she could still hear the rhythm of James on Ivetta, and even though she didn’t want Steinarr, not really, she thought of what it might be like to have him whispering to her in the night, taking her in that rhythm, and her body warmed and softened. Ached.
No. She shouldn’t feel this way. She truly did not want him.
But as she told herself that, a tiny voice whispered that even if she didn’t, there was no harm in imagining him in that way. He was miles away by now. She would never see him again. Temptation wrapped its warm tendrils around her, made her recall how he felt against her, how his kiss had nearly made her forget herself, how if she’d said a single word, he surely would have tipped her back into the grass. The ache deepened.
Protected by darkness and distance, she set aside her conscience and the echo of every priest who had ever told her that what she was about to do was a sin and let Steinarr slip beneath the blanket with her. She eased her hand down and pressed her fingers to the ache, pretending he was there, on her. In her. She let him take her in imagination just as he’d asked to take her in fact, let the thought of him seduce her, move her, drive her, until she hung on the edge of the pleasure he’d promised. And then abruptly, she was over, arcing as she gave herself to it, her lips pressed together to hold back her moan, keeping yet another secret from the world.
CHAPTER 3
TWO THICK SADDLE pads, a dozen steel arrowheads, some food, and a willing woman.
Steinarr stood at the castle gate, jingling the newly fattened purse at his waist and savoring the sound and smell and delicious tangle of the busy street before him. He had enough money for everything he needed, thanks to Long Tom, who now rested safely in the sheriff’s cell, and to a foolishly solitary merchant from whom Steinarr had collected a smaller contribution. All he needed to do now was find everything.
He scanned the row of tradesmen’s shops, looking for what he needed, and spotted the last item on his list first. He recognized her easily; she had the look of every whore he’d ever seen, lounging there by her doorway, waiting for a man whose purse would open as easily as her legs. A knowing smile crossed her lips as she recognized him in turn, and she shifted to better show her full breasts, barely contained within a tightly laced gown of some thin stuff. Anticipation tugged at Steinarr’s crotch, and he started forward.
“You there! La Roche.”
The seldom-heard name almost failed to penetrate the lust, even though he’d just used it to collect his reward. He pulled up short as it finally sank in and turned to glower at the approaching serjeant. “What? Did the clerk miscount?”
“No. Lord Gervase wishes a word with you. This way.” The serjeant wheeled around and started off, and Steinarr swallowed back a curse as the prospect of a leisurely tumble faded. He looked at the wench, whose raised eyebrow asked the question he wanted very much to answer yes. Jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the serjeant, he mouthed the word “Later,” and turned to follow, tugging his tunic down and raking his fingers through his hair as he went.
Every muscle was tense as he was led to the solar, where two men stood by the window. He knew the one on the left: Gervase de Clifton, recently named lord sheriff of Nottinghamshire, but familiar to Steinarr from encounters in the previous sheriff’s company. De Clifton smiled easily in greeting, not angry or overly alert, and Steinarr knew immediately there was no trouble there. He quickly sized up the second man: Rich clothes in brilliant red with matching pointy-toe boots. Figured hose of yellow and black. He looked like a rooster, but for the heavy gold chain around his neck. Nobleman. And uneasy, by the way he fiddled with that medallion in his hand. His dark eyes flickered back and forth from Lord Gervase to Steinarr. He wanted something.
Setting aside his immediate distaste for the rooster, Steinarr dipped his head to both men like the common mercenary he was supposed to be for these purposes, then addressed the sheriff. “My lord.”
“I am told you’ve brought another outlaw for the gallows, la Roche. It has been a long time. We thought you might have been killed.”
“No, my lord.” He’d discovered long ago it was best to speak as little as possible around these people. Tell them as little as possible.
“Sir Guy de Gisburne. La Roche. Pour yourself some wine, la Roche.” Lord Gervase waited while Steinarr filled a cup, then said, “Sir Guy came to me seeking aid in a certain matter. When I heard you were among us, I knew fate had sent you. You are the very man he needs.”
Balls. He didn’t want to work for this coxcomb, but neither could he could afford to defy the sheriff just now. His lordship might begin to suspect his favorite thief-catcher was also one of those lightening the occasional purse on the northern road. “Should I take that as praise, my lord? ”
“It is meant as such. I will leave you two to talk.” Lord Gervase set his empty cup on a nearby table and left the room, pulling the door firmly shut behind him.
Interesting. The sheriff wanted him to do this Guy’s work, but wanted no part in it himself. Something not quite within the bounds of law perhaps? Steinarr nursed his cup as he assessed the situation.
Gisburne assessed Steinarr in turn. He nodded to himself as though satisfied with what he saw. “I need assistance with a thief.”
“Your pardon, my lord, but I know nothing of you but your name. Why would I help you? ”
“Because I am the new lord of Huntingdon,” he boasted, then added with somewhat less haughtiness, “And because I will pay you well. Very well.”
Perhaps this would prove worthwhile after all. “What has this thief stolen?”
“My cousin, Matilda, for one. Only daughter of Lord David Fitzwalter. He has lured her away from her home.” Sir Guy turned once more to stare out the window, hiding whatever emotion passed through his eyes. “My uncle let Matilda fill her head with gestes and other such foolishness, and now this knave preys on her fantasies, convincing her that he is on some noble quest and that she should aide him.”
“What sort of quest?” asked Steinarr.
“My uncle hid away a portion of his wealth and left a series of hidden riddles meant to lead his heir to a small treasure. To lead me to it,” he said emphatically, as though Steinarr might not be clear on the subject, then added with a sneer, “I fear he was as enamored of the gestes as Matilda. Robert stole the first of those riddles and is now trying to follow it to the others—and the treasure—with Matilda’s help.”
“Robert?”
“Robert le Chape. The thief. An orphan my uncle brought into his home out of kindness, who now betrays that kindness with treachery.”
“Why don’t you and your uncle go after him? ”
“Sadly, it was my uncle’s death at his estate in Loxley a week past that set these events in motion. I was summoned from Gisburne to his sickbed, but arrived too late. My uncle was gone, and Robert had worked his mischief and stolen off with Matilda.” Guy took a deep breath, then turned to meet Steinarr’s eye. “I will give you ten pounds of silver to stop Robert le Chape and return my cousin to me within the month.”
Ten pounds! All the bounties he’d collected for the last five years would not make ten pounds. Either this fellow loved his lady cousin very much or … “You don’t want this Robert stopped. You want him dead.”
The young lordling’s tight smile never reached his eyes. “I did not say that. If, however, he never showed his face at my gate again, I would not be saddened.”
In other words, yes. Steinarr considered this turn with distaste. He had killed before, of course, both directly, in war or when a murderer with a price on his head fought
too hard, and indirectly, when the outlaws he brought in ended up on the gallows. And then there was what the lion did—not murder perhaps, but killing nonetheless. He was used to it. Still, murdering a simple thief outright for the convenience of some minor English lord was a different matter.
But if he didn’t take the charge, someone else would. Robert le Chape would wind up just as dead and the coin for it would land in another man’s purse. They needed the money. Ten pounds would be enough to buy a new saddle, instead of just a pad, with money left for other necessities. He’d been putting it aside too long, but that foolish girl had drawn his attention to how badly he needed to get the stallion—Torvald—a new saddle. Without saying yea or nay, he asked, “What about the treasure?”
“It is of little concern, unless Robert finds it before you find him.” Sir Guy waved off the matter with a flick of his hand. “If he does, he will surely toss my cousin aside like an old cloth, alone in unknown territory and easy prey for whatever man finds her. She was—is—to be married in one month. If she is returned in time, her future may yet be secured.”
Ah, so that’s why the month. Ten pounds in a single month … Steinarr made his decision quickly. “Then her future will be secured. I will find her and return her to you.”
Relief eased the lines in Sir Guy’s face. “And le Chape?”
“Will neither find the treasure he so desires, nor breach your gate again, my lord. For ten pounds.”
“Ten pounds,” affirmed Sir Guy. They gripped each other’s hands in the ancient pledge of agreement. “And as a further show of good faith …”