Dark Warrior (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour)

by Julie Shelton

  The three of them were joined at the foot of the stairs by Jamie Fordyce and a very anxious Harold Gordon, one of the two pages Nicholas had assigned to assist Sir Simon. The little group hurried through the great hall, across the cobblestones of the bailey, through the inner gate, across the vast expanse of the outer bailey, through the outer gates and into the barbican. Both Kathryn and Jamie were out of breath from having to run to keep up with the men’s longer strides.

  The barbican enclosure, surrounded by crenellated walls and four corner guard towers, was full of people—the six knights assigned to search all comers, a dozen pilgrims, half a dozen blind and crippled beggars, Eric Fordyce, John Mortimer, Sir Simon’s other page, and Sir Richard. There was also a rickety cart. Harnessed to it was the most pitiful specimen of horseflesh Nicholas had ever seen.

  The elderly Sir Simon was lying on his back on a pile of straw on the ground, an arrow protruding from the fleshy part of his upper right thigh. Oozing blood stained his coarse, homespun robe.

  “Richard, how does he fare?” Nicholas asked breathlessly as he came to a stop at the feet of the injured man.

  With a swirl of skirts and cape, Kathryn knelt at Sir Simon’s left side and took the old man’s bony hand in hers.

  Sir Simon’s eyes were closed. An expression of agonizing pain stretched his pale skin tightly across the bones of his face, making him look more like a skeleton than ever.

  “Simon, old friend, I’m so sorry.” Nicholas knelt beside the old man, near his head. “Richard, how bad is it?”

  The physician had a small knife and was using it to cut a groove all around the arrow’s shaft about six inches above the bleeding wound. He was trying to move it as little as possible, since each movement sent excruciating pain through the white-faced almoner’s thigh. “It’s nearly a clean through-and-through.” Sir Richard snapped the arrow in two at the notch he’d just made. He handed the feathered end to Nicholas.

  “Run fetch me a mallet from the carpenter’s shop,” he ordered Jamie Fordyce.

  The boy took off at a run and Sir Richard looked up at Nicholas. “I’m going to push the arrow the rest of the way through the leg far enough to grab the barb and pull it out. There’s not enough protruding right now for me to grab a hold of.”

  Almost immediately Jamie returned with a wooden mallet.

  Glancing down at the pasty-faced man lying in the straw, Sir Richard said, “Sorry, old friend, but this is going to hurt. I’ll try to be as quick as I can.”

  “I’m ready,” the old man gasped in a thin, reedy voice laced with pain.

  Holding out two linen pads smeared with a foul-smelling herbal paste, the physician looked over at Kathryn. “Your Grace, when I’ve pulled the arrow through, would you please place these pads against both wounds, front and back, and press hard?”

  “Oh, aye, Sir Richard.” Rising gracefully, she took the poultices and moved around to Sir Simon’s other side, positioning herself beside Nicholas.

  Sir Richard carefully lifted the almoner’s robe up off the arrow’s shortened shaft and pushed the rough cloth out of the way, high up on the old man’s thigh. “Your Grace, if I may borrow your knife…?”

  Nicholas withdrew his wide-bladed knife from its sheath, flipped it, and handed it to Sir Richard. He placed the flat of the blade against the cut end of the arrow shaft.

  The entire enclosure went quiet. Everyone’s attention was riveted on the capable, steady hands of Sir Richard Martin.

  He gave the blade a solid whack with the mallet and sent the arrow barb piercing the rest of the way through the flesh on the back of Sir Simon’s thigh.

  The elderly man gave an agonized cry and went rigid with pain as Sir Richard grabbed the bloody barb and quickly pulled the shortened shaft through the flesh. Immediately Kathryn pressed the poultices over the bleeding holes and held them firmly in place.

  Sir Simon hissed an agonized breath between his teeth, releasing it with a cry of pain.

  The physician began winding a strip of linen around the old man’s thigh to hold the poultices in place. For his part, Sir Simon was trying not to moan, but with little success.

  Nicholas turned to Eric Fordyce. “What happened here, Eric? Where did that arrow come from?”

  “It wasn’t just the one arrow, Your Grace. It was a whole barrage that came from the edge of the forest.”

  Nicholas looked around. “Was anyone else hit?”

  “Nay, Your Grace. Just Sir Simon. Our archers sent a covering barrage while we brought everyone inside the barbican. We sent for you immediately.”

  “Where did all the other arrows go?”

  Eric shrugged. “I know not, Your Grace.”

  Nicholas scanned the group assembled inside the relatively small enclosure of the barbican with assessing eyes.

  There were around a dozen men and women holding crooked walking staffs and wearing the cloth badges that identified them as pilgrims on their way to the shrine of St. Thomas a Becket at Canterbury Cathedral. Some of them also displayed the clamshell badge of St. James of Compostela in Spain.

  One of the pilgrims, shrouded in his cloak and voluminous hood, was standing apart from all the others, leaning on his sturdy walking staff. He was much taller than the others and carried himself with a quiet dignity that was almost regal.

  Half a dozen others were simply poor beggars and cripples, all there for the food and ale Sir Simon Morecombe had been dispensing. Food that was now scattered all over the ground outside the barbican as a result of the attack. Standing in the middle of the barbican and taking up most of the space, was a rickety horse-drawn cart full of hay that some of the cripples had been riding in.

  “Have all these people been searched?” Nicholas quietly asked Matthew Vyne.

  “Aye, Your Grace. None had any weapons.”

  “How about the cart?”

  Matthew turned his head to look at it. “Nay, Your Grace. There was no time.”

  “Do it now.”

  At Matthew’s nod, the six knights drew their swords and advanced on the cart. They began thrusting their long, lethal blades through the hay until the solid thunk of each thrust told them they had hit bottom. After several minutes, they sheathed their weapons. “Nobody hiding in there, Your Grace,” Matthew said. “At least,” he grinned, “nobody alive.”

  Nicholas nodded. “Fine. We’ll put Sir Simon in the cart to convey him up to his quarters. Afterward, one of you,” he said, indicating his knights, “see to it that the horse gets water and hay and a place to bed down for the night.”

  He eyed the animal in question. It was a poor specimen of horseflesh to be sure, with prominent rib bones and a swayed back. His hair was coarse and falling out in clumps due to rain rot. His knobby knees and ragged hooves bespoke of abuse and rampant neglect. “And have the farrier trim his hooves and fit him with proper shoes,” Nicholas added. He gave the driver a sharp look. “Yours?”

  “Nay, Your Grace. I just ’ired ’im t’ take some of these ’ere pilgrims t’ Canterbury. Unfortunately, ’e’s all I could afford.”

  Nicholas just grunted. He looked up to the allure atop the barbican’s outer gate. “Latest report on the siege engines!” he barked to one of the archers.

  “They’re lining up along the high street through the village, Your Grace, more still entering the valley.”

  Turning back to Matthew Vyne, Nicholas placed his hands on the young man’s shoulders, bending his head close and keeping his voice low so as not to be overheard. “Matthew, run up to our new solar. In the tall cupboard just inside the door, you will find a large red flag. Carry it to the top of the tower and fly it from the highest flagpole. The tower entrance is through an iron door behind one of the tapestries. And hurry, lad, hurry. Our victory over Walford depends upon that flag.”

  As Matthew took off at a run, Nicholas turned to look at the tall pilgrim. “You there, may we call upon your assistance, please?”

  The pilgrim tossed his crook-headed staff into
the wagon. Stepping to the side of the crude straw pallet, he bent down, put his arms under Sir Simon’s knees and shoulders and scooped him up. The old man was naught but skin and bones and was practically weightless. His eyes fluttered and he grimaced in pain, but he made no sound.

  The pilgrim carried him around to the open back end of the cart, lifted him up and laid him gently in the straw, trying not to disturb his injured leg any more than was absolutely necessary. He then vaulted himself up and sat down beside the elderly man.

  Nicholas turned to address the group assembled inside the enclosure. “As I am sure you are all well aware, there is an army gathering outside these walls, getting ready to attack this castle. ’Tis an army led by Robert Walford, Duke of Pemberton.”

  A whispering murmur rippled through the group, like wind through a wheat field. “The way I see it, you have two choices. You can leave now and take your chances that Walford will not take you hostage and hold you for ransom. Or you can remain here for the duration as our guests. We are fully provisioned for a lengthy siege. However, I do not anticipate one. If you decide to stay, however, I must insist that you remain here until the outcome has been decided. I cannot take the chance that some of you might be spies. The decision is yours to make, but you must make it now.”

  After a brief consultation among themselves, four men stepped away from the group. A woman stepped forward and curtseyed low. “Your Grace,” she said in a cultured voice, “I am Lady Margery Salton, the Countess of Wendover, making my annual pilgrimage to Canterbury. We have agreed to remain here—all save these four. And we thank you for your kind offer and your hospitality.”

  At Nicholas’s signal, there was a clanking of gears and the outer portcullis began to rise, just far enough for the four men to duck under it before it fell again with a resounding thud! Some of the pilgrims assisted the crippled beggars back up into the cart. Kathryn watched in fascination as one man with a badly disfigured face and no legs, his torso resting on a wheeled, wooden platform, scrambled nimbly up into the cart using naught but the prodigious strength of his heavily muscled arms and shoulders. As he settled himself in the hay, another man picked up his wooden platform and placed it in the cart beside him.

  “Open the gate,” Nicholas commanded and the inner barbican gate began to grind upward. The driver of the cart clucked his tongue, flapped the reins and the spavined horse stumbled, sending the cart lurching forward.

  Nicholas, Kathryn, Rolf, and Sir Richard walked along beside it, its iron-rimmed wheels creaking and wobbling dangerously on the rutted dirt road. The rest of the group took up the rear, some of the pilgrims assisting the two blind beggars.

  The group made its way up the hilly road between the outer and inner walls, past the pond, mill and fruit orchards on the right, the parade grounds, tiltyard, barracks and stables on the left. The place was bustling with activity, as both knights and archers were being put through their paces. The air reverberated with men shouting, broadswords clanging and the solid thwack of arrows striking their targets, followed by the soft clink of falling pot shards.

  As soon as the cart passed through the inner gate and pulled up in front of the chapel, the tall pilgrim leaped down to the ground and once again lifted Sir Simon in his arms. There was no sound from the elderly man. He had passed out.

  Kathryn followed the pilgrim and Sir Richard down the steps and into the small, cell-like room that was Sir Simon’s Spartan quarters. Besides a small fireplace and the prie-Dieu on one wall, the only furniture in the tiny, windowless room was an iron bed with a thin mattress and a small bedside table with a tortoise-shell lantern on it. Two thin sleeping pallets leaned against one wall.

  Harold Gordon lit the candle in the lantern with an ember from the fireplace as the pilgrim laid the injured man gently on his bed. Sir Richard bent to inspect the bandaged thigh and straightened, looking pleased. “The bleeding has stopped. He will heal nicely, Your Grace,” he informed Kathryn with a smile as he covered the unconscious man with a thin woolen blanket. “’Tis a miracle the arrow didn’t hit the bone, considering how little flesh Simon actually has on his skinny legs.”

  Nicholas, who had entered the room last and was standing on the threshold, said naught. Rolf stood outside the room, just behind him. Nicholas was studying the shortened arrow thoughtfully, twirling the still-bloody shaft in the long fingers of his right hand.

  “Why Sir Simon?” he asked of no one in particular, as if he were thinking out loud. “Out of all the people at the gate, why him? It would have been obvious to anyone spying on us, who he was and what he was doing. He posed no threat to anyone. So, why him?” He paused, his mind grappling with the pieces of the puzzle, trying to make sense of the strange series of events. “And why only him? Why not one of the armed knights? Why not all of the armed knights?” He raised his head, looking directly at the tall pilgrim standing in the shadows, who immediately lowered his gaze.

  Nicholas’s eyes raked over everyone in the room. They were all looking at him, hanging on his every word, anxious to see where his train of thought was leading.

  “Let us look at this strategically.” His hand came up to stroke thoughtfully across his jaw. “We have a barrage of arrows, which could easily have killed everyone outside the barbican. In fact, it should have killed everyone outside the barbican. But it didn’t kill anyone. In fact, only one man was injured. An elderly man. In the leg. Which made it impossible for him to walk.”

  He still seemed to be musing out loud. “So, what happened as a result of this shooting?” He paused, but didn’t seem to be expecting an answer. “Everyone outside the barbican was brought inside, including a very convenient horse cart. And all of a sudden we have an injured man incapable of walking and a handy means of conveying that man inside the castle walls.”

  “But, Your Grace, everyone was searched,” Eric Fordyce pointed out. “The cart was searched. Anybody hidden beneath the straw would have been killed by all those sword thrusts.”

  The tall pilgrim lifted his head and looked straight at Nicholas. “Peut-etre,” he said slowly, “we should take another look at that cart. A much closer look.” He spoke English with effort—and a French accent—as if English were not his native tongue.

  Without another word, the two men left the cell and climbed back up the stairs. Joined by Rolf, they strode purposefully toward the cart. It was still there, but the horse had been unhitched. Neither it nor the driver were anywhere to be seen.

  Without a word passing among them, Nicholas, Rolf, and the blond pilgrim put their shoulders to the wheels and, with very little effort, rolled the rickety cart over on its side, spilling the straw out onto the cobbles.

  What they saw made all three mouths slash into grim lines. A trap door had fallen open, revealing a space beneath the floor of the cart large enough to hide a single man. Although, considering how fat Walford was, it must have been an extremely tight squeeze.

  “Walford,” Nicholas said harshly, fisting both hands and looking frantically around as though by merely speaking his enemy’s name aloud, he could conjure him up before them.

  It would be getting dark soon. There were a million places the man could hide.

  “Eric!”

  The handsome young knight, hand on the hilt of his sword, came at the run. ““Aye, Your Grace?”

  “Bring Her Grace out here to me.”

  “Aye, Your Grace.” Eric raced back into the chapel and came back out with a very puzzled and reluctant Duchess. “Nicholas, what is going on?”

  “Prithee, my love, go with Eric back to our solar. He will stay with you until either Rolf or I come for you.”

  She came around the cart to speak to her husband, but he didn’t look at her. He was still staring at the false-bottomed wagon. “Why am I being sent to my room like a naughty child? I need to stay at Sir Simon’s bedside, so I can be here when he wakes up…” Her voice trailed off as she turned to see what Nicholas was staring at.

  She grasped the implication
s immediately. Her hand went to her throat, her heart squeezed in her chest. She looked up at her husband. “Walford.” It was not a question.

  “Aye. I’d be willing to lay a sizeable wager on it.” He was having difficulty grappling with the sheer audacity of such an unexpected move. Why would Walford do this? Why would he risk being captured, possibly even killed? What could he possibly hope to accomplish by executing such a dangerous maneuver?

  Their eyes met, and Nicholas pulled her almost desperately into his embrace. “God’s blood, beloved. I am sorry. I should have anticipated something like this. I tried so hard to make you safe.”

  “You have made me safe,” she assured him. “This is not your fault, my love. You could not possibly have anticipated anything like this. No one could have.” Her voice was impassioned. “I cannot wait for you to find him and put an end to his miserable existence.”

  He smiled against her head. “Bloodthirsty little wench, aren’t you?” He grabbed her upper arms and pushed her back far enough to look into her eyes. “’Tis obvious that you cannot remain with Sir Simon. I will assign someone else to see to his care. Go with Eric, beloved. He will search our solar, then stay with you until Rolf and I return.”

  “Cannot Rolf take me back and stay with me?” she asked plaintively.

  “Nay, yndling.” Rolf lifted a hand to stroke her cheek. “I must help search for Walford. Thou wilt be perfectly safe with Eric.” He smiled encouragingly. “Fear not, kaereste. We will find him in short order.”

  “I will send two additional knights with you,” Nicholas said, “to stand guard at the foot of the stairs.” He made a summoning motion with his fingers and two knights stepped forward. “Beloved, this is Jack Montague and Geoffrey Sanford. They will stand guard at the bottom of the stairs leading up to our solar. I want you safe while the three of us”—he nodded curtly toward the tall pilgrim—“search for Walford. We’ll find him, beloved, before he can do any harm.”

  “But, Nicholas.” Her voice was perplexed, her eyes losing none of their worry. “Why this particular gentleman? How do you know you can trust him? You know naught about him.” She looked at the mysterious, enigmatic pilgrim, still half-hidden within the voluminous folds of his hood, then back at her husband. She drew in her breath at the evasion she saw in his eyes. “You do know him!” she said accusingly. “Who is he? Is he here to help us?”