The Saint--World of de Worlk Pack

by Cathy MacRae

  Perhaps he could stall a few days more. If he had some indication their attraction had not been a passing thing and she’d grown weary of him in the past weeks. He smiled, determined to let her know he would welcome her thoughts later—in private.

  “Milady, might we—”

  The door to the hall opened, interrupting his words. A soldier bustled in, angling for Simon. “Sir—” Catching sight of Lord de Wylde, the man checked and bowed low.

  “Milord, a group of men approached the gates. The leader wishes to speak with you. What do you command?”

  “State his name and business.”

  “Lord Edmund de Ville. He declares you harbor a wanted criminal in the castle.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Marsaili’s heart stopped. She gripped the knife she held in her fist tight, her fingernails biting into her palm. Chills bristled the hairs along her arms, filling her skin with the buzzing sensation of danger. Her vision dimmed.

  “Put Lord de Ville in my solar. His men can cool their heels outside the gates,” Geoffrey rapped, his voice hard. His gaze slammed into Marsaili’s and she gasped with sudden insight.

  “’Tis what ye waited for!” Her heart regained its beat with a vengeance, tripling its pace, creating a roaring in her ears. Marsaili fought through the fog of disbelief that threatened to paralyze her.

  “Ye held me here, waiting for Edmund to attend ye!” She leapt from her chair, her arms and legs trembling. “Ye bastard!”

  She fled the room as shouts rose, piling about her head, urging her to greater speed. Snagging the corner post in one hand, she whirled about, flinging herself down the back corridor to the kitchens. Her skirts whipped about her legs and she reached low and grabbed the heavy fabric, hoisting it above her knees as she freed her legs to a faster pace.

  The kitchen was ablaze with warmth from the cooking hearths and the chatter of the women who busied themselves with preparing the meal. A young lad tended the pig carcass roasting over a low fire while another carved slices onto a platter. Marsaili entered the room at a sedate pace, her pulse racing. She smiled briefly at a couple of women who sent her curious looks, and they quickly returned to their duties.

  Slipping out the back door, she plucked a cloak from a hook near the entry, its fabric stained and faded, creating a dappled appearance that lent excellent cover in the gloaming. Behind her, voices rose excitedly and she knew she remained only a few steps ahead of Lord de Wylde’s men. She bolted across the yard, keeping to the lengthening shadows as much as possible, skirting the outbuildings until she reached the edge of the stable. Lounging against the stone wall, a stable boy idly held the reins of a blood bay horse with tall white stockings, its blanketed covering blue, edged in a wide golden border.

  Edmund!

  She’d recognize his horse and trappings anywhere. Marsaili flattened herself against the side of the building, thinking furiously. This time of day, her horse would be fed and stabled for the night. The last time she’d visited Hew, the stable master had watched her closely. Lord de Wylde’s men would undoubtedly expect her to flee on her own horse. She eyed the bay who nibbled lazily at his reins.

  They would not expect her to take Edmund’s horse.

  On silent feet, Marsaili slid to the far door to the stable and entered, noting with alarm the knight who already stood watch at Hew’s stall. Keeping to the shadows, Marsaili slipped into the room the stable boys shared, lifting a tunic, pair of breeches and short coat from various hooks. Aware the lads were eating dinner at a low table in the hall, she quickly stripped out of her gown, pulling on the rough breeches and shirt. Leaving her braid trapped beneath the tunic, she shrugged her shoulders forward, letting the drape of the coat hide the bulge of her breasts.

  She shoved her gown and surcoat behind a pile of straw and strolled nonchalantly down the hall of the darkened barn as she yanked a knitted cap over her head, too intent on escape to worry about what vermin likely nested in the woolen strands. She shuffled through the front door and approached the lad holding the horse.

  “Go get yer food.” She wiped her nose on her sleeve with a loud sniff and slid one hand around to her backside, giving it a vigorous scratch. “I’m new and get the worst jobs,” she added, disgust in her voice. “Does he bite?”

  The lad’s stomach rumbled loudly. He straightened from his post against the wall and handed her the reins. “Naw, but he kicks somethin’ fierce.”

  “Damn beast,” Marsaili muttered, flipping the leather strips to make the horse toss his head. The lad’s laughter quickly disappeared as he scurried away to his dinner.

  The instant she lost sight of the lad, Marsaili stripped the saddle and blanket from the horse’s back. Damn! He still looks good. Pulling her dagger from the sheath at her leg, she hacked at the horse’s mane until silky black strands lay in a pile at her feet. Doing a similar service to the horse’s tail, she kicked the shorn hair beneath some hay scattered a few feet away. For once glad of the results of the melting snow, she scooped some mud in her hands and smeared it on the horse’s legs, dimming the brilliant white stockings, then added a smudge to her face to complete their disguise.

  With a quick hop, she managed to land on her stomach atop the horse’s back. She wiggled into a seated position and draped the worn cloak about her and the horse. Slouching, she urged the beast to a walk. Tired from his long journey, the horse plodded along, and Marsaili joined a few straggling peasants leaving through the castle gates. Guiding the horse down the middle of the road leading to the village, Marsaili garnered scant notice from the guards at the gate. From the corner of her eye, she saw Edmund’s band of soldiers, their banner flipping idly in the evening breeze.

  She clenched her hands on the reins, quelling the urge to spur the horse into a run, holding back the fear and anger. She refused to think about Lord de Wylde’s betrayal, knowing it would rob her of the ability to think straight. And right now, her very life depended on clear thoughts and precise planning.

  To lessen her chances of attracting attention, she dismounted, leaving the cloak bunched across the horse’s back, and trudged toward the village, weary horse trailing behind her. People passed them, but likely anticipating a hot meal and an early bed, none spoke to her or gave her more than a glance.

  Thundering hooves approached from behind and Marsaili shuffled quickly to the side of the road, her body tense with apprehension. Four knights, their armor glinting in the moonlight, rumbled past. A grin edged across her face. They were still looking for Lady Marsaili, not a woman dressed as a stable boy.

  To give them a trail to follow should they realize their mistake, she continued along the road through the village. Drawing even with the blacksmith’s forge, she walked the bay through the mud, mingling his hoof prints with those already on the churned ground. Then, avoiding the softer ground as much as possible, she dodged the fenced area behind the small barn and led the horse deep into the forest.

  * * *

  Geoffrey flung his cane across the room and sank into his chair. “Tell me you did not lose a vocal, angry woman. Tell me you did NOT let her slip past the guard at the gate. TELL ME she is under guard in her room, awaiting my questions.” His voice rose to a roar, but he didn’t care.

  “Damn!” He slammed his fist down on the arm of the chair, ignoring the shock that raced up his arm at the force of the blow.

  Simon waited the space of a heartbeat before speaking. “The men have not yet returned from their search of the village. ’Tis dark—”

  “I know ’tis dark!” Geoffrey snapped. “Send others out at first light. I do not want her getting away.”

  “You believe her guilty?” Simon asked, surprise in his voice.

  “No!” Geoffrey lowered his voice. “Though I haven’t spoken with Lord de Ville nor read the writ I requested of him.”

  “Do you suppose he actually has one?”

  Geoffrey leveled a harsh look at the knight. “’Twould be foolish of him to waste my time.”

&
nbsp; A tap sounded at the door. At a nod from Geoffrey, Simon opened the panel. The steward stood there, making no move to enter the room. Geoffrey’s estimation of the man’s intelligence increased slightly.

  “Milord, Lord de Ville still awaits in your solar and grows restless.”

  “He can grow roots as far as I am concerned. Until I speak with Lady Marsaili, I do not wish to hear from him.”

  “Very good, Milord. Shall I have him rest here the night, or suggest he return to his camp and await your summons?”

  “Keep him here. He will get into less mischief isolated from his men.”

  De Langton bowed deeply and hurried away. Simon closed the door.

  “You cannot keep him waiting forever, Saint.”

  Geoffrey quirked his brow. “Then find Marsaili.”

  * * *

  Marsaili huddled against the horse’s side, her face pressed against his shaggy shoulder. She pulled her cloak about her more closely and prayed her feet would not freeze.

  ’Tis a good thing I preferred my short boots to the slippers in Lady de Wylde’s belongings. But I would pay dearly for a set of woolen stockings right now. I’ve become too used to life inside Belwyck’s sturdy walls. Too accustomed to basking in Lord de Wylde’s smiles instead of seeing his true intent.

  Her body shook. She tried to tell herself the reaction was from the cold, now that night had fallen, but it was a reflection of the dead spot inside her to realize he’d merely played a waiting game with her. A spot filled with unforgiving heartbreak and misery.

  Though I suppose he dinnae break his leg simply so I’d feel sorry for him. She shuddered harder to remember their passionate embrace—and what it could have led to had Lord de Wylde needed a ploy other than her sympathy and kindness to keep her at Belwyck until Edmund arrived.

  She clenched her fists. Damn him! He isnae a saint, but a devil, preying upon those weaker than him. How he must have laughed as I attended his bedside, allowing him to direct my future. She gritted her teeth, her self-pity dissipating beneath growing anger.

  “He willnae control me again,” she firmly addressed the horse. “’Tis a hard day’s ride to the Border if I dinnae stop.” She patted the animal’s shoulder. “Ye’ve been a good beast and I will push ye as hard as ye can go. But I won’t be safe until I am home. I can promise ye a bucket of oats and a warm stall once we’re there.”

  Marsaili glanced at the sky. The pale, slivered moon cast little light on the ground. “I hope ye are rested. We’re going to ride through the night.” The horse gave a snort as Marsaili mounted, but did not fight the bit as she urged him forward.

  Mountains loomed to her right as a dark stain against the night sky. “We dinnae need to go there,” she informed the horse. “I cannae think of a thing I’d rather avoid than a climb into the mountains.” A furry ear twitched in her direction. “I dinnae suppose ye’re looking for a hike through the hills, either.” Marsaili sighed. “I wish I remembered more of my journey into England five years ago. ’Twould help me know which way to go. As soon as ’tis light, I can be sure we’re headed north.”

  They plodded forward, the horse’s easy gait lulling Marsaili. The consuming fright and anger faded, leaving exhaustion behind. She weaved side-to-side atop the horse’s broad, shaggy back. Pulling the animal to a stop, Marsaili dismounted and stomped her feet, wincing at the tingle in her toes. Deciding to keep active in order to help stay warm, she walked beside the horse.

  Morning broke at last as a thin pale line of gray above the horizon. Marsaili’s spirits soared, anticipating the warmth of the day as winter faded into spring. She struggled atop the horse’s back again and kept the rising sun on her right. The dark glassy surface of a lake drew her to the water’s edge for a drink. The horse pawed the thin film of ice, then drank his fill.

  Marsaili let him rest, staring at the path before her to take her mind off her stomach’s need for food. “If we can keep going, we’ll be home in a day or so.” She took a deep breath, savoring the heady expectation. Giving the horse a pat, she prepared to mount.

  “I will be free in Scotland,” she assured him. “Beyond the reach of both Geoffrey and Edmund.”

  Aiming for a low ridge, she sought to put the miles between Belwyck and Lokardebi behind her, drumming her heels on the horse’s sides as morning light flashed off metal on the hill behind her.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Geoffrey entered his solar, his pace unhurried, hiding the hitch in his gait. Simon followed a mere step behind. Inside the room, a bulky man, his tunic rumpled and untied at the neck, bolted to his feet.

  “You cannot keep me here as a prisoner!” he snarled. “I demand you release me at once.”

  With no more reaction than a raised brow in admonition, Geoffrey continued his path to the desk near the window. He sat, then clasped his hands on the desk’s surface, turning his attention to the irate Lord de Ville. Simon stood a pace behind Geoffrey’s chair, unobtrusive, yet alert.

  “You are, of course, free to go.” Geoffrey gestured to the door. Edmund glanced from Lord de Wylde to the door and back. He took a step toward the closed portal. Geoffrey leaned back in his chair, stretching his right leg beneath the desk to ease a sudden cramp.

  “You will not be accorded entrance to Belwyck again.” He hoped the man was idiot enough to leave.

  Edmund returned to his seat.

  An insolent grin creased his face. “I will leave as soon as you hand the wench over to me.”

  Geoffrey sighed. “I fear I cannot do that.”

  Edmund’s leer broadened. He reached inside his cloak, thrown casually across the back of his chair. Geoffrey followed his actions closely. The man withdrew a rolled parchment. “I believe you told my man I was to bring a writ from the king.” He offered it to Geoffrey. “’Tis a bit damp.” He shrugged. “The weather was unkind.”

  Geoffrey stared at Edmund’s hand for a moment before leaning forward to accept the scroll. Trepidation skittered through his bowels as he anticipated the writing within.

  What have you done, Marsaili? We could have worked through this together. Why did you doubt me?

  Breaking the wax seal with a flick of a finger, he unrolled the parchment, scanning the poorly scribed and water-marked contents.

  By letter wryten as sworn this day . . . and at the bidding and commaundment of King Henry III . . . of England . . .

  Thys proclement to release Lady (Dowager) Marsaili de Ville into the custody of Lord Edmund de Ville . . .

  For the purpose of standing trial for the murder of the late Andrew de Ville . . .

  Signed this day . . .

  Henry III

  By the Grace of God, King of England, Lord of Ireland, and Duke of Aquitane

  With a shake to still his trembling hand, Geoffrey placed the parchment carelessly on his desk. He would have liked nothing better than to drive his fist into Edmund’s mocking face. Silence lengthened between them.

  “She is not here.”

  Edmund bounded to his feet. “You defy the king’s order?”

  Simon rose onto the balls of his feet, his weight tipped forward, poised should Edmund be foolish enough to raise a hand in anger. Geoffrey’s level stare belied his simmering temper.

  “I was under no orders to detain her.”

  “My man told you—” Edmund blustered.

  Geoffrey waved a hand in the air for silence. “He gave me some garbled story of returning her to Bellevue. As her husband is dead, she has the right to choose where she lives, and she wishes to live in Scotland.”

  “You had no right to let her go! Furthermore, I have been stuck here for the past two days, and you . . . you . . . you knew!” Edmund’s face darkened alarmingly.

  “I have been inconvenienced of late.” Geoffrey shrugged. “My steward has kept you fed?”

  Edmund whirled about, muttering under his breath. Geoffrey waited until the man gained control of himself, then continued.

  “As soon as you and your men are r
ested, I ask that you vacate my lands. I care not where you go, but I do not want reports of you lingering beyond the morn. Do I make myself clear?”

  Edmund’s murderous gaze met his. “Very clear, milord. We will leave at first light.”

  Geoffrey nodded to Simon and the knight crossed the room to open the door. “I suggest you inform your men of your plans. They await you outside the gates.”

  Edmund snatched his cloak and tossed it about his shoulders as he stomped from the room. “You haven’t heard the last of this!” he proclaimed. “I will have her!”

  Geoffrey gave no answer as Edmund stormed down the hall. A pair of guards fell into step behind him, escorting him from the castle.

  “You lied to him,” Simon murmured.

  “She is not at Belwyck,” Geoffrey pointed out.

  “You could have told him she is but two days’s ride from here.”

  Geoffrey scowled. “I do not like the man.”

  “He now has the king involved. In case that gives you pause.”

  Geoffrey tossed the rolled parchment to Simon. “It is not the king’s signature.”

  * * *

  Geoffrey watched from the steps of the great hall as Edmund joined his men beyond the gates. His attention was drawn further afield as four mud-encrusted knights rumbled up the road into Belwyck. The setting sun glinted off the scant areas of armor not covered in dried muck. In their midst trotted a rangy blood-bay horse, his mane and tail in tatters, his coat besmeared with filth. His rider, a slim lad in a faded cloak, sat upright on the horse’s bare back.

  Damn! Geoffrey glanced sharply through the gate at the riders, then to Edmund’s camp. Two men rose from their cook fire and strode to the side of the road.

  “That’s my horse!” Edmund shouted. “I want that boy hanged!”

  “Get her in here now!” Geoffrey ordered. Walter and Simon, already in motion, quickened their step.