by Ana Seymour
“So ’tis not likely that this baron or his duke would have wanted to rob you?” she asked.
Ranulf shook his head slowly. “The duke has more arms than any noble in Europe. I can’t imagine what interest he would have in a poor English knight.”
“I told you the information would be of little use,” Jean said with a shrug. “But I’ll take that fair price you’re offering me on the horse and an extra gold piece bonus for my trouble, as well.”
“Agreed,” Ranulf said, extending his hand once again. The blacksmith invited them into his shed, where soon he and Ranulf were engrossed in the smithy’s collection of armaments. It reminded Bridget of the monks discussing their labors in the work shed and she stood by silently while Ranulf agreed to the purchase of a sword, a small buckler and a leather helmet.
Once the blacksmith had seen Ranulf’s gold, he had become completely agreeable. As they settled the terms, Ranulf spotted an unusual black helmet sitting on a shelf. “What’s that one?” he asked.
The blacksmith smiled broadly. “’Tis a wondrous thing, made of a metal like none you’ve ever seen, I vow.” He lifted the helmet from its place, then smashed it against a nearby anvil. It rang like a church bell.
“You’ve ruined it,” Ranulf exclaimed.
“Nay.” Jean’s big mouth spread in a grin. “See for yourself.”
He held the helmet toward Ranulf, who took it and turned it around in his hands with a low whistle. “Not even a dent,” he said. The black metal triggered a vague memory. “What’s it made of?”
Jean shrugged. “’Tis something new.”
Ranulf turned the helmet over, studying it. “Perhaps I should have this one, then, instead of the leather.”
“I can’t sell you that one.”
“Why not?”
“’Tis promised to another customer.”
“I’ll pay you a higher price.”
The smithy looked uneasy. “I beg pardon, sir, but I simply cannot sell it to you.”
Ranulf studied it a minute more, then reached to put it back on the shelf. “No matter, then. I’ll take the leather.”
“Very good,” the smithy said, relieved. “I’ll get everything cleaned up and polished for you.”
Bridget had been left standing for some time. “Good,” Ranulf said briskly. “I’ll take the horse and saddle now, and be back for the weapons later.”
“Aye, I’ll have them for you on the morrow, mi-lord.” His eyes slid to Bridget. “Be this your lady?”
Bridget flushed. “Nay,” she said before Ranulf could answer.
Ranulf looked from Bridget to Jean with some puzzlement. “Mistress Bridget lives here in Beauville,” he said. “I’m surprised you don’t know each other.”
One of Jean’s bushy brown eyebrows shot up, pushing the skin of his forehead up toward his bald head. “I thought I knew everyone in Beauville.”
Bridget’s chin went up. “I—I’ve only just arrived,” she said. “I’ve come to live with my aunt and uncle, the Marchands.”
The answer seemed to satisfy the blacksmith, but Ranulf shot her a questioning look. It took several more minutes for the transaction to be completed, but finally the deal was struck, Thunder was saddled and they took their leave of the smithy.
Ranulf, leading Thunder behind him, lapsed into silence as they walked down the road. Bridget sensed that his earlier lighthearted mood had changed, and she had a feeling that it had something to do with their final exchange with the blacksmith.
Finally she said, “What a lucky thing that you got your horse back.”
“Aye,” he said.
She waited a minute or two, then tried again. “I suspect you’re eager to ride him again.”
“Nay, the walk is good on such a fine day.”
Bridget frowned. The exuberance of the fine day was fading for her, and she realized that her spirits had more to do with Ranulf’s company than with the bright weather. Now that he suddenly seemed withdrawn, it was as if clouds had covered the sun.
Chapter Six
She was still lying, Ranulf thought with a twinge of sadness. He’d hoped that she had begun to trust him, that whatever secrets she was trying to hide would not interfere with their developing attraction for each other, which she surely must be feeling as strongly as he was. But she’d told him that the Marchands were no relation to her, and she’d just told the blacksmith that they were her aunt and uncle. What possible reason would she have to lie about something so simple? No questions, she had said.
He gave a distracted answer to another of her questions about Thunder, then looked at her in surprise as she stopped, pulled on his arm and asked in a loud voice, “Are you angry with me?”
Her irritation heightened the natural color of her cheeks. “Nay,” he said with a sigh.
“I suspect it wasn’t pleasant to pay good money for a horse that was already rightly yours.”
“I don’t care about the money.”
Her eyes were concerned. “What, then? You looked distressed just now.”
If he told her that his concern was for her, he was afraid their day together would be over. Mustering a smile, he said, “I’m frustrated that I have to wait to speak with the sheriff. I’ve come to Normandy looking for my brother, a quest that has already been delayed by circumstances beyond my control. Now it appears that the search will have to wait even longer.”
As they continued walking down a shady side street in the general direction of the Marchand cottage, he told her briefly about Dragon’s disappearance and the letter that brought him to St. Gabriel.
Comprehension dawned in her eyes. “So it was a dragon you were calling for when you were in the delirium.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” he answered. “Edmund is on my mind most of the time.”
“And the lady—this Diana? You called for her, too.”
Ranulf blinked and had a sudden, hazy memory of calling out to Diana, then kissing her. But it hadn’t been Diana he had kissed. “Aye, she is Edmund’s promised bride.”
In what he was sure was an unconscious gesture, Bridget lifted her hand briefly to her lips. “Is she a fine lady?” she asked. “Like Guinevere?”
Ranulf laughed. “So you know of Guinevere, eh? The beautiful downfall of brave King Arthur. I hope Diana’s not such a one as she. I’d not see my brother matched to such a weak spirit.”
“Nay, Guinevere was not weak. She was a woman who had been given one lot in life and found the courage to seek a greater happiness.”
“She betrayed Arthur.”
“But by staying with Arthur, she was betraying her own true spirit. Her dilemma came because she wanted to find her own path without hurting anyone else, and that’s not always possible.”
Ranulf stopped walking and looked at his companion in wonder. How did a young woman who had been raised in a simple farm village become educated enough to discuss literature and philosophy? “Do you read, mistress?” he asked her.
“Aye.” At his puzzled look, she continued, “The monks taught me. I spend a great deal of time in the library at St. Gabriel.”
Ranulf shook his head. “I’ve only known a few women in my life who read.”
“Is your grandmother Ellen one of them?”
The name made him smile. “Aye, and she would no doubt agree with you about Guinevere, for she’s ever been one to say that a woman should have as much right as a man to determine her destiny.”
“I would like your grandmother.”
“Aye. She would like you as well.”
They lapsed into silence for a moment as each realized the improbability of simple Bridget of Beauville ever meeting the grand Lady of Lyons-bridge. But the discussion had restored Ranulf’s good humor. “Do you have to go back home right away?” he asked. “Will your aunt and uncle be looking for you?”
She didn’t seem to notice his sarcastic tone. “Nay. I told them I’d be back before dusk.”
They’d reached the far end of tow
n where the small weekly market was set up behind the church. “Good. Shall we see what delicacies the good merchants of Beauville have to offer? You must be hungry by now.” He gestured toward the ram-shackle row of market stands.
Bridget hesitated only a moment, then said, with a little grin, “The truth is, I’m famished.”
Ranulf grinned back at her. “We’ll find something for you, too, Thunder,” he told his horse, tying him to the church hitching post. Then he seized her hand and they headed off in the direction of the market.
Bridget knew she shouldn’t risk a trip through the busy marketplace. It was bad enough that she’d had people in the town staring as they walked through, the sheriff’s neighbor looking at her as if she were a ghost and the blacksmith questioning where she’d come from. Now she was faced with more close encounters with Beauville merchants as Ranulf led her along the row of stands.
He was the one who caught their eye first, especially in the case of the women. Tall and handsome, even in the pig farmer’s clothes he carried himself with the bearing of a warrior. But eventually the merchants would turn to look at her, and at each stop they were met with puzzled looks.
They skipped over the butcher’s table with its string of hares dressed and dancing in the breeze and went directly to a row of hot treats where Ranulf pulled out some copper coins to purchase a fruit-filled pastry for each of them. Ignoring the stares of the baker, Bridget bit into the sugary treat with relish.
Ranulf chuckled at her enthusiasm. “You should have told me you were starving, mistress. I’d not thought about feeding you because I figured that angels didn’t require earthly food.”
“This angel does,” Bridget said, sucking air into her mouth to keep from burning herself on the hot filling.
Ranulf made short work of his pastry, finishing it in two giant bites. “That will do for a start,” he said, and reached for Bridget’s hand to pull her farther along the aisle.
Soon Ranulf spotted a leather stand. He walked over to it and picked up a small pouch. “You wear no purse, Mistress Bridget,” he said. “Where do you keep your coin?”
Bridget hesitated. She didn’t keep her coins anywhere for the simple reason that she’d never in her life possessed one. “I wasn’t expecting to need any today,” she said.
“Nor do you,” he assured her. “But ladies like to pick out new things. Let me buy you a purse.”
She shook her head. “There’s no need,” she told him.
He put down the first one he’d selected and reached for another at the back of the table. It was dyed red and had the picture of a rose etched on the front. “This one, I think,” he said, studying it carefully.
Bridget went to stand beside him and looked down at the tiny bag. She’d never in her life owned anything like it, but she shook her head once more. “Really, I don’t need it.”
The young boy who was minding the booth stood at eager attention, conscious that he was about to make a sale. “It be the prettiest of the lot. And the dearest,” he added slyly.
Ranulf handed the boy a coin, then turned to Bridget. “It loops around like this, see?” He reached down to her waist to tuck the flap of the purse around her belt. She had to force herself not to jump at the unaccustomed feeling of a man’s fingers sliding against her stomach.
When the purse was fastened to his satisfaction, Ranulf pulled back to survey his handiwork. “There,” he said. “Do you like it?”
She looked down at the little pouch. “Aye,” she said in a small voice.
He nodded, then seized her hand to continue down the row of stalls. They stopped for a meat pie, then a glass of mulled wine. Finally, at the end of the row, Ranulf stopped in front of an old woman who sat behind a huge wheel of cheese. “Good afternoon, mistress,” he said to her. “Do you think you could cut off a hunk of your fine-looking cheese for this pretty lady and myself?”
Unlike the sellers in the other stalls, the woman had glanced only briefly at Ranulf, then turned her gaze on Bridget. “By the blessed Virgin!” she said, crossing herself.
Ranulf looked down at Bridget, who seemed to be mystified by the woman’s reaction. For a moment no one spoke while the woman continued to stare as though she were, in fact, seeing a vision of the Virgin herself. Bridget shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny.
After a moment, Ranulf asked, “Is the cheese not for sale?”
The woman turned back to look at him. “Be ye one of them?” she asked, her jaw trembling with the weakness of age.
Ranulf and Bridget exchanged a glance. Perhaps the woman was not of sound mind. “One of whom, good mother?” Ranulf asked gently.
“The evil ones,” she croaked. “The baron’s men.”
Bridget moved around the edge of the stall and went on her knees beside the old woman, who was growing agitated. She took one of her blue-veined hands and stroked it. “No one is evil here. Sir Ranulf is a good knight who has been on holy Crusade. He’s here searching for his brother.”
A small stream of spittle started from the corner of the woman’s mouth as she lifted her hand free and touched Bridget’s cheek. “You must find a place to hide, child, for your sake and the babe’s, as well. They’ll kill you both.”
Bridget looked up at Ranulf, who shook his head helplessly. “Perhaps we’d best move on,” he said.
But Bridget stayed where she was. There seemed to be a genuine gleam of recognition in the woman’s faded blue eyes. “Do you think you know me?” she asked.
The old lady nodded and said again, “You must hide from them, Charlotte, and protect the baby at all costs.”
Obviously the woman was confusing her with someone else, but with sudden excitement, Bridget realized that the confusion might have something to do with her past. “Who is Charlotte, mother?” she asked.
But the older woman had become too agitated to make sense.
“Pay her no mind,” said a pleasant voice from behind her. A man was walking up to the stall, a crate full of eggs in his arms. “I’m sorry, I had to step away for a moment,” he said, giving a small bow of his head to first Bridget, then Ranulf. “Just let me put this down and I’ll be happy to serve you.”
Bridget gave the woman’s hand a final pat, then stood and stepped back from the stall. The old cheese seller’s eyes had closed and she was rocking back and forth, crooning tunelessly. “I’m Pierre Courmier,” the newcomer introduced himself. “This is Camille, my grandmother,” he explained. “She doesn’t make much sense anymore, but she likes to come out on market day and see the townsfolk. Even with her memory gone, she can still greet everyone in Beauville by their name.”
“She called me Charlotte,” Bridget said.
Pierre frowned. “That’s odd.” He squinted to see her face. “But you’re not from here.”
Bridget looked at Ranulf, then said, “No.”
Pierre was shaking his head. “I don’t remember anyone in Beauville with the name of Charlotte. Probably someone she knew in the past.” The matter seemed unimportant to him. “Would you like to sample some cheese?”
Ranulf took out his coins and purchased a slice for each of them.
“Where are you folks from?” the dairyman asked with a friendly smile.
Ranulf looked from the old lady to her grandson and finally to Bridget. “That’s exactly what I’m beginning to wonder,” he said.
Pierre looked confused.
“Sir Ranulf is a knight, back from the Crusades,” Bridget answered quickly.
Pierre gave a skeptical glance at Ranulf’s clothes, then shrugged. “Ah. Well, remember if you need any dairy products, come to the Courmier family. Our farm is just out of town, beyond the Marchand place. Do you know them?”
Bridget gave a nervous nod, popped the last bite of her cheese slice into her mouth and said to Ranulf, “I should be getting back.”
Ranulf thanked the dairyman, then followed Bridget without a word down the aisle of stalls and back to the church where they had left Thunder.
He didn’t look at her as he untied Thunder. “Would you like to ride back to your—to the Marchand house?” he asked stiffly.
“I suppose you wonder why you’ve heard different versions of my story today.”
He threw the reins over Thunder’s neck. “If you’ve no desire to tell me, there’s nothing I can do about it. ‘No questions,’ you said.”
“Aye.”
“So would you like to ride?”
She eyed the big horse doubtfully, then said with an attempt at a smile, “I suppose ’tis just like being up on Snail, only higher.”
Making no response to her attempt at lightheartedness, he swung himself up on the horse and reached an arm down to her. “Put your foot on top of mine and let me pull you up,” he directed.
He lifted her easily into the saddle in front of him and settled her in his arms. The sensation was warm and pleasant, but as they rode out of town toward the Marchand cottage, once again she felt the weight of his silence.
“Are you angry, Ranulf?” she asked.
He made no reply.
“You are angry.”
His arms tensed, then he turned her around to face him, and said, “Should I be angry? You told me that the Marchands were no relation. Then you told the blacksmith that you are their niece. You claimed to be from Beauville, then told the dairy-man that you are not. Have I yet today heard you utter a single true thing?”
His face looked angry, but in his eyes she could read hurt, and it was the hurt that was her undoing. She took in a deep, shaky breath and said, “I’m sorry.”
“You admit you’ve lied?”
She nodded.
“Why? Surely you can’t think I would do anything to hurt you. You saved my life.”
“I’m not worried about myself. My concern is for…others who might be hurt because of me.”