White Lion's Lady

by Tina St. John

  Griff had been called many unflattering things in his life, but never a fool. He had no intention of forfeiting any chance at his boon, but still, it didn’t stop him from wondering. It didn’t stop him from wanting.

  He did not know how many hours he remained awake, watching Isabel sleep, contemplating the road that lay ahead of him now that he had turned his back on Droghallow. Griff had let the night pass in thoughtful silence, allowing himself to close his eyes for short snatches of time at most, too restless for sleep, too aware of the precariousness of their circumstances to let down his guard. It was not until the first traces of dawn began to filter in through the cracks in the barn’s warped wooden walls that Griff decided to see about procuring them some supplies for the rest of their journey. Trusting that Isabel would be more secure secreted away in the shed than out in the open with him, Griff buckled on his sword belt and headed outside.

  He had taken with him all the money he saved at Droghallow, collected in a leather pouch he wore on his baldric. A few of the coins were sufficient to bribe the tavern keeper out of bed and purchase food enough to last Isabel and him for at least two days of travel. Griff’s stomach began to growl as he waited for the stout old man to pack up his goods: a full skin of wine, a hank of cold mutton and two loaves of black bread. With a murmured thanks, he took the bounty under his arm and stepped out into the crisp, dewy morning.

  Though he saw no one about, Griff sensed he was being watched. He walked along the road, taking care to look casual, even as his gaze scanned every croft and cottage for lurking signs of attack. He felt movement shift and pause around him, knew with a warrior’s certainty that he was being followed. Immediately, his concern flew to Isabel: Where was she? Had she remained in the barn? Was she safe?

  His protective instincts flared, but Griffin willed his feet to keep moving at an easy gait, forced them to walk in the direction opposite the wool shed once he had stepped off the road and headed for the village outbuildings. He waited for signs that whoever shadowed him was still on his heels, unwittingly following him some yards away from Isabel’s hiding place.

  Confirmation of his suspicions came an instant later, communicated by way of a sword being freed from its scabbard behind him.

  Griff tossed down his bundle of foodstuffs and met the confrontation with equal menace, drawing his blade and wheeling on his attacker.

  “I expected I might find you here, Griff.”

  Odo grinned at him from the other end of his blade, but his weapon remained level, unwavering and poised for action.

  “Where is the rest of the guard?” Griffin asked, trying to ascertain his chances now that it appeared he was as good as caught. He could only hope he was not too terribly outnumbered. “Don’t tell me Dom dispatched but one man out to apprehend me.”

  Odo shook his head. “He’s sent the bulk of the garrison after you, but while they took the road north, I took a shorter path. Figured I’d catch up to you sooner or later.”

  So, it was just Odo he had to contend with at the moment. Griff battened down his instant sense of relief; he had seen the big knight in action on many occasions, often enough to know that Odo was every bit as apt as any three of Droghallow’s other guards put together.

  “You shouldn’t have done it, Griff. This thing Dom’s hatching is serious business. It may even involve London, if the hasty message he sent to Prince John is any indication.” When Griffin did not respond, Odo added, “Dom’s put a thousand marks on the woman’s head—double on yours. A man could do a lot with that much silver.”

  Griffin chuckled, not at all surprised by the news that Dom had offered a bounty for his capture. “Don’t count your reward so soon,” he told Odo. “You’re a long way from collecting.”

  The lieutenant tilted his huge head, his unruly beard splitting with his humorless smile. He took a careful step sideways, his grip tightening visibly on his weapon in preparation for combat. Griffin mirrored the action, beginning a wary circle of move and countermove as each man sized up the other and weighed his chances of winning.

  “Let’s not make this into a war between friends,” Odo said, firming his stance in the mud-slicked yard. “After all, I’ve naught against you, Griff. In fact, I’d be willing to let you walk away. Just give me the woman.”

  Griff snorted. “Forget it.”

  The big knight seemed to consider for a moment. “We could split the money,” he suggested. “What say you? ’Twould be an easy five hundred apiece.”

  “The woman stays with me,” Griffin said.

  “I should warn you,” Odo growled, “I’m in a piss poor mood from riding all night in the rain. I haven’t the head for games. I came here to get the Montborne wench, and I’m not leaving without her.”

  Griffin shook his head. “You’ll have to go through me first.”

  “Very well,” Odo answered with a nod.

  He let his blade relax slightly as if he meant to back down, then, in the next heartbeat, he raised it high and swung at Griffin. The two weapons clashed against each other, the grating sound of metal on metal ringing out and slicing through the tranquility of the waking morn. Odo charged again with lethal force and relentless determination, cleaving the air with his broadsword and hitting Griffin’s blade with a jarring series of heavy, solid blows.

  A few peasants came out of their huts amid the ruckus, opening doors and poking heads out from window shutters to peer about, only to scurry back inside like timid mice when their sleepy eyes lit on the combat underway.

  At first, Griff could only strive to defend against the attacks, deflecting Odo’s thrusts with the flat of his weapon while each hammering strike sent him back a pace, his feet squishing and slipping in the muddy yards of the village. A careless stumble over a rut gave Odo the upper hand and cost Griffin a gash on his arm. It was more of an annoyance than a threat to his life, but the metallic smell of blood and the searing pain of sliced flesh served to bring his senses—and his battle rage—into clear focus.

  Odo was grinning as he came at Griffin once more, driving him backward with a full body press of his blade. Griff pushed against him, then spun away in the next instant, using the big knight’s momentum to his own advantage and sending the guard pitching forward. Whirling to face Odo’s snarling return, Griffin raised his sword and brought it down hard. The two blades crashed against each other, sparking with the contact. Odo’s curse was vivid, a guttural snarl that left no doubt he was out for blood. With murder flashing in his eyes, the bearlike knight barreled forward.

  Though he was a fairly equal match for Droghallow’s lieutenant, it was all Griffin could do to meet the thrusts delivered upon him. For every pace he advanced on Odo, the guard forced him back two more, cleaving and hacking from all sides, relentless in his apparent intent to see Griffin skewered on his blade. Chickens squawked and scattered around them as the fight moved farther into the village commons. Rain spat down in icy needles from the char-gray sky, sluicing off Griff’s brow and dripping into his eyes as he fought to deflect the onslaught of hammering blows. Before he realized it, his spine came up against the unyielding mass of a cottar’s hut. Odo’s blade flashed in the dim morning sunlight an instant before it bit into the wattle-and-daub exterior next to Griffin’s head, only narrowly missing its mark.

  Griff dodged the blow and ducked down low while the guard worked to free his weapon. He made good use of Odo’s momentary distraction, plowing into the big knight’s gut with his shoulder and knocking him to the ground on his back. Without a moment wasted on pity, Griff raised his sword and sent it home, driving the blade deep into Odo’s barrel chest. Odo sucked in a broken gasp of air, then breathed his last through a pained grimace, his eyes wide with shock but still blazing with malice. Griff waited to withdraw his blade until those flinty eyes turned sightless, unblinking as the rain pattered down into them.

  The death of the man who had served with Griff for nigh on a decade brought him no measure of satisfaction, nor did it bring much relief.
The road ahead was a long one, and now that Dom was offering so steep a reward for their capture, they would find little peace along the way. They were on their own as never before, and time would quickly become their enemy.

  With a handful of peasants looking on from the relative safety of their huts, Griff gathered up the bundle of food he had bought from the tavern and headed back for the wool shed to rouse Isabel. He noticed Odo’s waiting mount tethered near the road and freed the brown destrier to take it with him. Now he and Isabel had two horses for their journey.

  Griff had a feeling they were going to need all the help they could get in making it to Montborne before Dom’s machinations—or his royal allies in London—caught up to them.

  Chapter Ten

  Isabel had been awake for a short while, feeding Griffin’s mount a handful of carrots from out of the saddle packs and wondering where its master might have gone. She did not have to wonder long, for in the next instant the door of the wool barn swung open and in rushed Griffin.

  “We must go now, my lady,” he told her in an urgent tone as he strode past her to ready his horse.

  “What’s wrong? What happened to you?” Isabel asked, taking in his disheveled appearance with a quick, worrisome glance. He looked like a ragged tomcat, his clothing soiled and torn, his tawny hair sweat-soaked and tousled, his face marred by grime and fresh bruises. “You’re bleeding,” she gasped when she caught sight of his left arm, the ugly crimson stains and sliced linen sleeve clearly the work of an enemy’s blade.

  He seemed entirely unfazed by her concern or his injuries. Having saddled the gray, Griffin then unhitched the reins and led the beast forward. “We’ve been found,” he told her simply, as he grasped her hand in his and ushered her out of the barn to where another horse stood waiting.

  Isabel saw the Droghallow crest on the brown destrier’s saddle blanket and stopped dead in her tracks, frozen by a sudden jolt of panic.

  Griffin must have sensed her worry, for he squeezed her hand a little tighter and urged her forward. “ ’Tis all right. I took care of the guard who rode it.”

  “Dom’s men have caught up to us already?”

  “Only the one for now,” Griffin answered as he helped her up onto his mount. “The rest of the garrison will follow soon enough, I wager. They have ample incentive, as Dom has sent word of our flight to Prince John and put a bounty on our return.”

  “A bounty? For both of us?”

  Griffin handed her the gray’s reins. “A thousand marks for you, two for me.”

  “Mother Mary,” Isabel gasped, astonished at the price.

  A thousand marks was a small fortune, but twice that sum? She could hardly fathom it. How deeply Dom must hate Griffin for betraying his trust. If he would pay so much to have him returned to Droghallow, Isabel could only guess at what tortures Griffin would suffer at Dom’s hands. Would Dom kill him? It certainly seemed a logical assumption, given the circumstances.

  Isabel watched as Griffin loosened the saddle of the other horse and pulled off the blanket. The square of wool bearing the Droghallow crest was pitched in a heap on the ground. Griffin’s face schooled to a calm, even expression, while Isabel fairly trembled with outright fear at the thought of their being hunted fugitives. “Are you certain you wish to do this, Griffin?” she asked him softly as he readjusted the saddle and mounted up. “I assure you I will understand if you were to reconsider. I have a horse now; just point me toward Montborne and I will go alone.”

  He all but ignored her offer. “We can’t risk taking the direct route to Montborne now that Dom’s guards are in pursuit. I know of an alternate way, but it will mean a longer ride. It will cost us a few more days, but it seems our best chance.”

  Isabel met his serious gaze, bolstered by his confidence. He was going to take her to Montborne, despite the personal risks. Perhaps he was doing so for his own selfish reasons, but in that moment, Isabel could not help feeling somewhat selfish herself. She was terrified now more than ever, and the last thing she wanted was to be left alone, even when the most sensible thing for Griffin to do was to abandon her and instead concentrate on saving his own neck.

  She wondered how many men would do likewise. She also wondered how long it would take Griffin to decide that perhaps she was not worth the trouble after all. Secretly relieved for his companionship, broody as it generally was, Isabel followed Griffin’s galloping mount out of the village and onto the northbound road.

  It was raining again. What had started off as an annoying sprinkle had become an earnest downpour by midafternoon. Griffin’s clothing was soaked, the heavy wet wool a wearisome weight that chilled him to the bone and drew out the ache of old battle wounds he had thought long forgotten. But it was Isabel that concerned him more. She rode along at his side, wrapped in his mantle and shivering from the cold. Twice in the last hour he had asked her if she wished to stop; twice she had refused, stating that she was well enough to continue and wanted to make all due haste for Montborne.

  The news that Dom had issued bounties and dispatched his guards to apprehend them had frightened Isabel, that much was plain. She no longer seemed preoccupied with anger or thoughts of escaping him, but rather focused her energies on cooperation, compelling Griff to press on when even he would have preferred to pause for rest.

  He found her stubborn tenacity endearing, particularly now that it was better aligned with his own interests. Ordinarily, Griff was a man who had no patience for a woman’s willfulness, but he had to admit that with Isabel it was different. Her strength of spirit intrigued him, perhaps more so than the considerable beauty of her person. He looked at her, a convent-raised dove with a falcon’s stout heart, and found himself wanting to know her thoughts. He was curious to understand how her mind worked, to learn what mattered to her.

  Clearly, she wanted to wed Sebastian of Montborne. But why? That the earl was rich, handsome, and well-favored by the king was reason enough for any woman to leap at the chance to be his wife. Was it enough for Isabel? She had said that her vow to God was what compelled her, not any measure of esteem or attraction for her betrothed. She had said Griff would not understand her reasons for wishing to marry the earl of Montborne. What did she seek to hide? Was there a stain on her sterling honor? Would she risk her life merely for a chance to buy her way out of ignominy?

  Griff nearly chuckled aloud on the heels of that thought. How ironic for him to disapprove of Isabel’s motives when he was guilty of the very same intention. Perhaps she was more like him than he might have guessed. One thing was for certain: before their journey ended, Griff meant to find out.

  Up ahead, less than a half league away, he spied the knotted outline of a village and overlooking castle perched at the top of a sloping hill. Isabel saw it, too. She raised her head and stared through the rain, her gaze fixed on the inviting glow of torches that lined the village’s curtain wall and fortress tower. Without direction from its rider, the gray destrier paused on the path. Sensing that Isabel no longer followed, Griff slowed Odo’s mount to a halt and pivoted in the saddle to look behind him.

  “It has been a long day. Shall we stop, my lady?”

  She gave a weak shake of her head. He wondered if the cold rain had robbed her of her tongue, as well as her sense, for her lips were blue, her cheeks sallow and pale. Beneath his drenched mantle, her shoulders shook; her fingers trembled as she tried to hold on to the gray’s reins. When she sneezed, Griff cursed and wheeled his steed around.

  “Come, Isabel, before you fall off the blasted beast.”

  Griffin took the reins from her hands with little effort and led her mount behind him, making sure she remained upright as he negotiated the muddy fields and gullies standing between them and dry lodging. Along the way, he manufactured a lie that he hoped would gain them entrance to the gated town. Getting in would be simple enough for a traveling husband and wife, but Griff knew a woman of Isabel’s beauty and obvious gentility would stir overmuch interest. Even bedraggled and sodden she
could not be mistaken for a common pilgrim. If they were to hide in plain sight as Griff intended, they would have to blend in with the rest of the folk seeking shelter for the evening. And that meant Isabel would have to don some manner of disguise.

  Griff lit on an idea as they approached a tavern on the outskirts of the village. Set away from the other huts and outbuildings, it was clear that the business of this establishment was of questionable character—disreputable, and, Griff hoped, passably discreet. He stopped outside the tavern and instructed Isabel to wait there while he ran in. He returned a few moments later, having made arrangements to purchase what he required. Head down to shield herself from the relentless rain, Isabel scarcely looked up as Griffin took the leads of both horses and guided them around to the back of the thatch-roofed building. A whore of middling age stood at the rear door, holding it open while Griff helped Isabel down from his mount.

  “What is this place?” she asked weakly as he ushered her inside. “Where are we?”

  The whore took it upon herself to answer. “Ye’re at Hexford, love. Four leagues west of Nottingham.”

  Isabel seized Griffin’s arm. “Nottingham?” she gasped. “But Prince John is often in that shire!”

  Griff chuckled, giving Isabel’s hand an indulgent pat when the whore turned a curious look on them. “My lady was raised in the country,” he explained smoothly. “The notion of glimpsing a member of the royal family is a source of great excitement for her.”