by Deborah Hale
Fulke’s man towered over her. Cecily’s heart galloped like a stag beset by a pack of baying hounds.
“Where are ye bound, leper?”
Fearing her voice would give her away entirely, she hesitated.
Before she could think what to do or say, a shout from behind drew the guard’s attention away from her.
“Damn you to hell, Maud!” Her father charged into the bailey with his sword upraised.
What madness was he talking?
“Who let you in?” he roared. “I’ll show you the welcome you can expect at Brantham from now on!”
In his grief-addled mind, did he think these were the Empress’s men entering the keep?
Cecily opened her mouth to call out to him, even though it would expose her identity.
One of Fulke’s bowmen was quicker.
An arrow tore into his shoulder, spinning him around. The guard who had been questioning Cecily forgot all about her, running toward the wounded man.
Though she longed to follow, Cecily dared not.
In his present state of mind, her father was more than likely to give her to DeBoissard with his blessing, to spite the Empress. Once he had wed the heiress, Fulke would not hesitate to kill her father. While she was at large and might wed some other man, Fulke would see her wounded father well tended.
The best service she could do him was to keep on walking out the gate. Why, then, did it feel like a betrayal?
Cecily shuffled past Fulke DeBoissard with her eyes downcast, even though she reminded herself he could not see them through her mask of sacking. To her relief, the ambitious coxcomb took no notice of a humble leper. Instead, he demanded loudly to know what was going on.
The last voice she heard was her father’s. Still fulminating against Maud, in spite of his wound. To Cecily, it felt like his bitter denunciations were aimed squarely at her.
She lagged behind the lepers until she was out of sight from Brantham’s walls. Then she dived into the hedgerow and began peeling off the mask and bandages.
Her father’s outburst would not buy her much time. Once in possession of Brantham, Fulke would demand to see his bride. After a brief search for her, they would surely guess the manner of her escape. Then they would set out to hunt her down.
Cecily quailed at the thought.
Could she hope to evade Fulke’s hounds and horsemen long enough to reach help? Again the question of where to run reared its thorny head. Would Maud still be at the Devizes? And if she was, could she spare arms and men to retake Brantham?
Conscious that she must move, no matter where, Cecily set off through a familiar stand of forest. Hopefully she would gain a little time by going northeast and doubling back, rather than heading due west as they would surely expect her to do. As she moved through the trees, keeping one ear cocked for sounds of pursuit, she reluctantly decided upon her goal.
Ravensridge. The DeCourtenay stronghold in Gloucestershire.
With luck, Rowan DeCourtenay might also have received the Empress’s marriage edict. Cecily would barter herself in exchange for his help in liberating Brantham from Fulke. Though the idea of marriage appealed to her as little as ever, she acknowledged the unpalatable truth that an heiress needed a husband.
If she must accept the yoke of matrimony, she might do worse than a warrior newly returned from the Holy Land. The Christian kingdoms there were under increasing pressure from the powers of Islam. It would take but a word from the Pope, or a few inflammatory sermons from some charismatic preacher, to touch off another Crusade. Which might lure DeCourtenay back to the Holy Land and leave his wife her own mistress once again.
What would he be like, this Rowan DeCourtenay? From the deepest recesses of her memory, Cecily recalled hearing his name spoken at Brantham. She tried to summon up the details, but they would not come. All she could remember was that it had been long ago—before the war. And whatever was said had been in low, scandalized tones.
So engaged was her concentration that Cecily did not hear the sound of voices ahead until it was almost too late.
“Where have ye come from, traveler?”
She recognized the baiting contempt underlying this inquiry. Freezing in her tracks, she peered through the leaves into a small clearing.
Two roughly clad men confronted a third, somewhat better dressed. The late morning sun glinted off a wicked looking knife in the hand of one. His partner, almost a head shorter, tossed a small pouch in the air and caught it again. A modest chink of coins issued from the purse.
Bandits.
Indignant wrath swelled within Cecily. During King Henry’s reign, parasites like these would never have dared to venture so near Brantham. During Stephen’s lax tenure, they had become insufferably bold.
“I’m bound for London from Shrewsbury,” said the thieves’ victim, as good-naturedly as if he was talking over a flagon at the local alehouse. “Now that you’ve relieved me of my purse, may I be on my way?”
Oddly lacking in fear, the voice sounded familiar, though Cecily could not place where she had heard it before. Who did she know from the distant Welsh border town of Shrewsbury?
It hardly mattered, she told herself, gingerly picking her way through the woods to circle the clearing. This was no affair of hers. She could not afford the time to stop and intervene. Nor did she dare risk drawing attention to her presence.
The smaller thief continued to toss the pouch of coins. “It’s a very light purse, to carry a man so far.” The tone of menace sharpened his words.
“So I told my master.” The purse’s owner chuckled, still uncowed. “I expect he didn’t trust me with more.”
Sparing only a crumb of her attention to the exchange, Cecily smiled, in spite of herself. If the bandits believed their mark was a simple hired messenger, they were fools indeed. It was a good try on his part, though, aiming to solicit some fellow-feeling from them. At least they might spare his life.
Just then, some trick of the light or scent of the woods rekindled her memory of another noontide encounter in another forest clearing. Cecily recognized the voice belonging to the traveler she’d met in the convent garden. Could it be only six weeks ago? It felt like several lifetimes.
Though she tried to force her feet forward, the stubborn appendages would not cooperate. She tried to reason with herself. Their brief acquaintance gave this man no claim on her. She had already run one small risk to help him. Any debt incurred between them was not hers. Besides, if he had come from Shrewsbury, he must be Stephen’s man. After what Fulke DeBoissard had done today in the King’s name, Cecily felt a distinct lack of sympathy with any supporter of Stephen.
None of this excellent logic succeeded in convincing her to skulk away.
The bandits were making noises more overtly threatening.
Perhaps it was her resentment that such outlaws should flourish on Tyrell lands. Perhaps it was her bone-deep compulsion to help anyone outnumbered and in trouble. On no account was it the urge to renew her clandestine association with a man who must be her enemy.
So Cecily insisted to herself as she hefted a club-size stick of deadfall and advanced stealthily into the clearing.
Chapter Three
As he faced the pair of footpads, Rowan cursed his uncharacteristic lapse in concentration. He’d assumed that caution was an ingrained, unquenchable facet of his nature. What had made him lower his guard just when he needed it most?
It must be that woman. Cecily Tyrell. His intended bride. He had never laid eyes on the creature and already she was causing him trouble.
He’d been so preoccupied with misgivings about his impending forced union that the bandits had him at knifepoint before he realized what was happening. The large one with the weapon looked none too swift of thought or reflex. If he’d been alone, Rowan would have taken the fellow on without a qualm. But the little fox who taunted him and tossed his purse Rowan recognized for a wilier and far more dangerous character.
Though he shrank from the p
rospect of turning up penniless for his own wedding, Rowan was content to surrender the paltry sum in his money pouch. What troubled him was the possibility of the bandits guessing his true station and holding him for ransom.
Stalling for time in which to plan his escape, he noticed a stripling boy slip from the cover of the woods. If the other pair had stolen upon him as soundlessly, Rowan would not have reproached himself for being taken unawares. A flicker of admiration for the boy’s skill stirred within him. He assumed the lad must be a confederate of the other bandits, until the young fellow raised a finger to lips shadowed by his deep cowl.
“I swear to you, good men…” Rowan pitched his voice louder to cover any sound of the boy’s approach. “My master wouldn’t spare a crooked farthing to ransom my life. He’d pay more to get back that spavined old nag I ride. To speak plain, I’d sooner throw my lot in with you than go back to his service, anyhow.”
With a flick of his thumb, the boy indicated the burly, knife-wielding bandit. In what he hoped was a subtle countersign, Rowan nodded toward the smaller man. If he read the pair correctly, the big fellow would take a moment to react when the boy clubbed his partner. In that moment, Rowan was confident he could disarm the thief. Besides, he doubted a clout on the head would have much effect upon such a great ox.
Bobbing his unspoken agreement, the lad stepped forward, raising his stout stick.
A twig snapped under footfall.
Both the bandits turned at the sound.
Without the instant’s hesitation that might have cost Rowan and him their lives, the boy smashed his hunk of wood down on the smaller bandit’s pate. The blow landed with greater force than Rowan expected from so slight a youth. Before the slow-witted thief had a chance to react, Rowan plucked the knife from his hammy fist and raised it to the man’s throat.
He flashed the boy a grin of gratitude.
Before they had a chance to savor their victory, a cry rose in the distance. “How now? What’s going on there?”
The boy spun around. “God’s teeth! It’s Fulke’s men.”
Fulke? It was a common enough name among the Normans. Still it struck Rowan like a sword-thrust to the belly.
In one fluid stroke, the boy raised his club again and hammered the big bandit. Rowan barely had time to twitch the knife aside before the man fell senseless to earth.
“Come on!” Clutching Rowan’s wrist, the boy hauled him into the woods.
Behind them came the muted thud of horses’ hooves pummeling the soft ground. It took every scrap of concentration for Rowan to keep from pitching face first into the underbrush as the boy pulled him farther into the forest.
Suddenly they were up to Rowan’s waist in water and wading deeper by the second. Still the lad did not let him go, and for reasons he could not explain, Rowan had no wish to break free. Did he sense that the youngster knew this area and would lead him out of harm better than he could manage himself? Or was he simply curious to make the acquaintance of this stripling who had appeared, as if by magic, to rescue him?
“Over here,” whispered the boy, towing Rowan toward a sheet of trailing foliage that hung from the jutting riverbank above.
They slipped behind it, into a brief, secret space. Rowan started as a fish wriggled past his ankle.
No sooner had they gained their refuge than pursuers burst noisily from the trees on the opposite bank. Through the dense curtain of greenery, Rowan could just make out a trio of armed men. They did not look to be confederates of the bandits, yet some warrior’s intuition advised him to stay out of their sight. Realizing the boy had let go of his wrist at last, Rowan reached around to draw the lad back and cover his mouth.
The men-at-arms beat the bushes across the stream, loudly inquiring of each other where their quarry could have gone. Beneath his fingers, Rowan felt the lad’s lips curve into a wide grin. At the same moment, he became aware that his other hand rested not on a boy’s bony chest, but upon the softly rounded breast of a young woman.
“By Our Lady!” The words broke from Rowan before he could check them.
Fortunately, the searchers were making such a din they took no notice. Realizing he still cupped her breast, Rowan wrenched his hand away. The young woman turned toward him, pulling back her cowl. Even in the emerald dimness of their hideaway, he knew her in an instant.
The novice from that tiny priory in the Cotswolds. The one who’d given him vegetables and behaved less like a nun than any woman he’d ever met. The one who had hovered on the edge of his thoughts ever since, no matter how he had tried to banish her.
Once again, her eyes held him in their mischievous, challenging gaze. Trapped, Rowan had no choice but to drink her in. Those features—delicate, yet lively. That hair, like threads of chestnut silk shot with filaments of gold. The lips that parted in a smile of such radiance it lit her whole face from deep within.
Though he tried to buffer himself against it, his heart lurched within his chest. A hundred long-suppressed emotions kindled to life with the searing pain of frostbitten extremities thawed too quickly. Rowan could scarcely restrain himself from breaking out of the thicket and throwing himself on the mercy of their pursuers. What could they subject him to more hazardous than the sweet peril of proximity to this bewitching creature?
“It’s no good,” panted one of the searchers just then. “We’ll never find them in this thick brush without the hounds.”
With general grunts of agreement, they lumbered back toward the clearing.
The girl let out a long, quivering breath. “I hope the thieves have come to their senses and made away with the horses.”
Rowan tried in vain to keep a sober face. Before he could voice any of the questions that warred in his thoughts, the girl slipped out of their hiding place and waded farther downstream.
“I shouldn’t wait for them to come back if I were you,” she called over her shoulder. “If they do catch you up, please don’t tell them which way I’m headed.”
Defenses he’d labored years to erect momentarily prevented him from following her. An overwhelming curiosity made him scale the barricade.
“Please wait!”
She spun around, continuing to wade backward. “I can’t. Those men will return with their hounds. I have to get as far away from them as I can.”
“Let me come with you then.”
She hesitated, and for an instant Rowan could see his own doubt, suspicion and intrigue mirrored in her face. Her searching gaze weighed him in the balance. He shrank from the prospect that she might find him wanting.
“Very…well,” she said at last, with audible reluctance. “You might be of some use. Only, try not to slow me down.”
Slow her down? Rowan almost snorted with contempt at the notion. Never had a woman challenged him so. Yet he sensed it was no idle boast. This strange, compelling creature might well put a man to the test.
Rowan stirred from his musings only to realize that his companion had turned away and widened the gap between them. By the time he closed it, he was panting so hard he could scarcely gasp out the first of many questions that piqued him.
“Since…we’re…going to be…traveling together…don’t you think you should…tell me your name?”
As they scrambled onto the riverbank and set off through more woods, the girl cast him a sidelong glance in which he read amusement mingled with exasperation. “I’ve come to your aid twice now, sir. The forest garth at Wenwith Priory, in case you’ve forgotten.”
Forget her? Rowan could scarcely imagine it.
“If one of us owes the other an introduction,” she continued, “I believe it is you.”
Though his pride bristled at her suggestion, he had to admit the justice of it. “Very well.” He drew a long breath. Could he trust such a creature with the truth of his identity? One minute posing as a nun, the next a thief. Pursued by figures of some authority—to what end?
“My name is…John.”
Perhaps she recognized his hesitation f
or a lie. “John of Shrewsbury?” Jesting skepticism textured her words.
For reasons not fully clear to him, Rowan felt he owed her something nearer the truth. “John FitzCourtenay of Ravensridge.”
The girl stopped so abruptly, Rowan was several steps past before he realized it.
“Then…you are kin to Lord…Rowan DeCourtenay?”
The sound of his name on her tongue sent a shiver through Rowan. He dismissed the idea as nonsense. Surely it was no more than the cool dampness of his clothes.
“Aye. His bastard half brother.” The outrageous claim almost made Rowan laugh aloud. The bones of his haughty, pious father must be twirling in their tomb! “Do you know him?”
The girl grinned ruefully and set off walking again. “I shall soon know him very well. My name is Cecily Tyrell. By Empress Maud’s command, I am Lord DeCourtenay’s intended bride.”
Rowan walked smack into a tree.
The impact stunned him less than Cecily Tyrell’s revelation.
“Have a care!” she scolded. “If you injure yourself, I shall have no choice but to leave you behind.”
“It’s nothing. I’m…I’m fine.” And so he was. Apart from the wild dance his heart jigged in his chest. Apart from the pulse singing in his ears like a chorus of a thousand bees.
Apart from the all-but-forgotten sensations that stirred in his loins. “You took me by surprise, Lady Cecily.”
Inwardly, Rowan chided himself for not guessing earlier. They’d scarcely met, yet already Cecily Tyrell wreaked havoc with his wits!
“So you know about me! Did his lordship send you to Brantham to fetch me?”
“Yes.” Rowan grasped the suggestion like a lifeline. “I…he spoke with Empress Maud at the Devizes. I was sent to bring you to Ravensridge for the wedding.”
Cecily Tyrell swiftly crossed herself. “Our Lady must be looking out for me. This is the best of good fortune that we should meet.”
Strangely, Rowan found his own spirit resonating to her words. For all she turned his world on end, meeting up with her at this time and in this place did feel like good fortune. “I thought…that is, I wondered if…you might have run away to avoid marrying…my brother.”