by Sandra Lee
GAVARNIE AWAITED his groomsman’s assistance to mount his destrier, Rime. Though the rain had ceased, the smell of wet horse and leather lay thick in the humid air. Somewhere down the quay, an argument erupted between a man and a woman, their voices tinny and distant above the clop of horses’ hooves against cobblestones.
The sound reminded Gavarnie of the cracked, angry voice he’d heard above the commotion in the alehouse. It had seemed to come from nowhere. Who had been the speaker, he wondered? Like the argument down the quay, he’d not been able to distinguish actual words. Yet the meaning had been clear. Fool! the tone accused. Golde will die at your instigation.
“Here, mi’lord,” the groomsman, Trelle, broke into his musings.
Gavarnie reached out until he felt Rime’s damp saddle. Grasping the pommel, he placed a foot in Trelle’s cupped hands and swung up.
Like as not, it had been his own inwit he’d heard, Gavarnie decided while adjusting his seat. Indeed, he had been a fool.
An agent of the king. He snorted. Golde was no more than a fake soothsayer, a woman who preyed on others’ hopes and dreams for the coin it could bring her. Doubtless, her great passion for him was but a ploy to fleece him out of a few silver pieces. Not that he could excuse his actions. She had not deserved the beating he’d incited.
Settled in the saddle, he commanded, “Henri, you will carry the witchwife and ride on my right. Lund, on my left.”
Guilt prickled his flesh at Golde’s groan. “Christ’s blood, Henri. Have a care with the wench.”
“I’m doing my best, mi’lord.”
Gavarnie hunched his shoulders. Despite her dishonest nature, regardless of her acid tongue, he could think of naught but Golde’s good deeds. Had she not saved Nicolette’s life? Mayhap she could restore his sight. And what of her wit? Spindleshanks, of all things! When had he last laughed with such complete abandon?
Chagrined, he directed his attention to the matter at hand. “Nigel?”
“Aye, mi’lord,” the steward answered from near Rime’s left flank.
“You will take the lead. Stephan and Bogo, the rear.”
Boots scraped against cobblestones as his men moved to do his bidding. He lowered his head, unable to staunch the flow of his thoughts.
Not only was he a fool, he was a spineless worm. How soothing it had been to believe Nicolette’s claim that Golde had lied; much simpler to torture Golde into admitting she’d concocted the entire story.
It took no great intellect to see Golde had spoken the truth. His children’s furtive actions were proof.
He rubbed the back of his neck. Would that he’d had the courage to consider such before tearing into New Market like a demon from hell. But, as always, he’d allowed rage to rule his reason. And his rash conduct could have cost Golde her life.
As it had Isabelle’s.
He winced. Judging from Golde’s responses to his questions, her ribs were severely bruised, mayhap cracked. ’Twas imperative he get her to the keep where she could be properly cared for. Once she was healed, he would send her on her way, with a stem reproach for her false practices.
Saddle leather creaked, drawing his attention, and he surmised his men were mounted. He motioned with his left hand for the groomsman to mount behind him. “Come, Trelle.”
“Beg pardon, mi’lord,” Stephan spoke. “Mayhap Trelle would best serve seated in front since ’tis dark.”
He gritted his teeth. Witless get of an idiot. His men must think him an imbecile to not realize it was night. ’Twould be difficult for Trelle to direct him, as the groomsman had earlier when it was daylight.
Yet he’d be butchered before he’d ride double behind Trelle. ’Twas unseemly.
He rubbed the damp, slick reins between his fingers. “Trelle, you will ride behind and I will pass the reins about my waist.”
While the groom mounted, he turned his attention to Henri. “The wench. She is settled?”
“As well as possible, sir.”
“A pox,” Golde panted, “on you . . . son of a . . .”
He interrupted before she could finish, his flagging spirits raised by her display of anger. “If you would shut your flapping mouth, you would feel less discomfort.”
Her heated little hiss further improved his humor. Knowing her wounds had not destroyed her sour tongue was of great relief, though God knew anyone else would be most content to hear naught but silence from her.
“Ahead,” he ordered Nigel.
He gripped the pommel and raised his elbows so Trelle could hold the reins closer. The groomsman spurred Rime’s flanks and the horse pranced forward, anxious to reach Skyenvic’s stables and a bin of oats.
Golde moaned, and Gavarnie opened his mouth again to admonish Henri, then decided against it. There was nothing the liegeman could do to make the trip more comfortable for the wench.
Within a short time, the cobblestone clatter was replaced by the duller sound of earth. Muddy earth, judging from the sucking noises made by Rime’s hooves. New Market had been left behind for the lane that ran through the forest surrounding Skyenvic.
Rime dipped beneath Gavarnie, and uneasiness crept into his head. He could fair smell the ink of darkness, could feel the crowded closeness of the trees that lined the lane. He clutched the pommel more tightly. ’Twas foolhardy to be riding at night, no matter the urgency. ’Twas doubly so, considering de Warrenne’s presence at Skyenvic, and the message warning of betrayal.
He grimaced. “Henri, did someone think to bring a lamp?”
“Aye. Sir Nigel and Bogo each have one.”
Gavarnie clamped his legs about Rime as the horse swayed. The oil lamps would provide no more than feeble light and were of little comfort. The lane was rutted and he would never remain seated if Rime stumbled.
Why had he not listened to Sperville? The chamberlain had implored him to send someone else after Golde. But nay. Gavarnie gritted his teeth. After searching for her half the night and all morn, he’d near been frothing at the mouth. When he’d heard reports of her activities in the village, he’d greatly anticipated fetching her himself.
“At least ride a mount less spirited than Rime,” the chamberlain had persisted.
“I could hold your reins,” Nigel had offered.
His lip curled. Did both men think he’d allow himself to be led before the village like some doddering old man? He silently congratulated himself for having solved the problem. It had been his idea to have Trelle ride double behind him and tell him where to guide his mount.
Still, he wished he’d taken Sperville’s advice and worn a hauberk instead of the simple leather coat he sported.
He was pulled from his thoughts as Rime’s gait grew choppy. “Have a care, Trelle. You go too fast. Henri will be unable to keep pace.”
“Your forgiveness, my liege, but Sir Nigel—” He bumped Gavarnie’s back. “He is outstripping us.”
“Why did you not say something, man? Nigel! Hold.”
Trelle slammed against his back, near unseating him. “God’s blood!”
Gavarnie started to yell at Nigel again when the groomsman clutched his waist and hauled him sideways.
“The light!” Stephan’s panicked voice crawled over his flesh.
Even as Trelle pulled him from Rime, a vast icy emptiness consumed Gavarnie. They were under attack! In the same instant he hit the ground, he heard a masculine scream of pain, then a thud. One of the men behind him had fallen.
“On your feet,” he commanded Trelle, who sprawled half atop him.
When the groom did not respond, he shook his shoulder. “Tre—”
His hand met a shaft, then another, and he slid his hand upward to the feathered end of an arrow.
The groomsman was dead.
Shoving the limp body aside, Gavarnie drew his sword and clambered to his feet.
How would he die? An arrow to the breast? Gutted by a sword? At this very moment, someone could be aiming a mace at his head.
The thought turn
ed his insides to slush. He was naught but a hindrance to his liegemen. Men who would fight to the death on his behalf. Men who’d been led, at his direction, to their doom.
And what of Golde? She, too, would likely die.
From nowhere, a disgruntled voice hissed, She had best not, boy.
Gavarnie spun about. ’Twas the same voice he’d heard at the alehouse.
A wisp of mist darted in the corner of his vision. He turned toward it, but all he could see was Rime’s . . .
His heart skipped, stealing his breath. He blinked.
Was that the vague outline of Rime’s flank?
“Sir Gavarnie!” Henri’s frantic cry jolted him.
His heart began to pound with a vengeance. He jerked his gaze heavenward.
Stars. Glittering jewels in the sky.
By the Blessed Virgin. He could see.
He could see!
He adjusted his grip on the sword. Let the attackers come. Let them come in droves. By all that was holy, none would take his life this night.
He could see!
“SIR GAVARNIE!” Henri bellowed again, and fair threw Golde from his horse. ’Twas a miracle she landed on her feet.
“Henri!” a man shouted to Golde’s left. “The baron—”
“My liege!” Henri shouted a third time.
An ache welled in Golde’s chest that had naught to do with her injuries. She’d seen the two arrows protruding from the groomsman’s back; had seen the baron go down. Then the lights had been extinguished.
Sir Gavarnie was dead, else he would have answered. The empty ache swelled and she choked for breath. To never see his dark face again, to never hear his rumbling voice, to never feel his touch. Though he’d admitted to killing his wife, Golde knew better. She could feel it in her bones. He had not done it, and—
“Form up.”
Her heart paused, then hammered at Gavarnie’s sharp-honed command in the darkness. Her knees near buckled, so great was her relief.
She gulped air, then bent double, clutching her ribs. Why had he not answered sooner? The great oaf. She should have known no arrow would be sharp enough to pierce his thick hide.
The ground vibrated and she smelled horse, heard the sound of mud sucking at hooves, the blowing breath of the animal. If she did not move quickly, she would be trampled. She staggered forward, widening her eyes in a effort to see.
“Call off,” Sir Gavarnie ordered, and she followed the sound of his voice.
“Lund,” a man reported. “Henri,” the liegeman who’d been charged with her care snapped. “Bogo.”
When no other names were offered, Henri urged, “Mount up behind me, mi’lord. Let us begone.”
“Silence,” Sir Gavarnie hissed.
His voice sounded near, and Golde made straight for it. The thought of an arrow sinking between her shoulder blades lent her impetus. Abruptly she bounced off a horse’s rump and her feet slipped. Gasping, she stumbled sideways and crumpled to her knees. She’d scarce hit the ground before a hand bumped her forehead, then slipped to grasp the neckline of her tunic. Cold steel pressed against her throat.
“Nay,” she pleaded, trying to shield her neck with her hands.
The grip on her tunic loosened and the sword was withdrawn. “Quiet,” the liegeman Lund whispered.
Praise God it was one of the baron’s men. She started to stand, but Lund’s hand stayed her. Wet, grainy mud had already seeped through her tunic and chainse to her knees. Now it began leaking into her boots.
She clamped her teeth together as a shiver produced tearing pain in her ribs. Yet the wretched ache was preferable to being skewered by an arrow.
Unable to see, she strained to hear any sound that might indicate their attackers yet lurked about. Crickets whirred, but other than that, all was still. No brush rustled, no twigs snapped. The air did not stir.
She felt like a blind insect wrapped in a giant cocoon. No wonder the baron was so often dark of spirit. ’Twas maddening to have no sight.
“’Twould appear we are safe for the moment,” Sir Gavarnie said at last. “What became of Nigel and Stephan?”
When Lund made no attempt to help her up, Golde clutched his forearm and pulled herself to her feet.
“Stephan went down at the same time as Trelle,” Bogo intoned.
“Nigel was a good space ahead of us,” Henri offered.
Lund moved away from her as he spoke. “I saw Nigel look back and extinguish his lamp.”
“Bogo, a light,” Sir Gavarnie ordered.
“Are you certain, my liege?”
“I’ll not leave our dead lying about. Dismount and hold the lamp low, that none can draw a bead on you.”
Sparks flew as a flint was struck and a small pool of yellow light flickered to life. Golde’s gaze immediately latched onto the baron where he stood encircled by horses and the remaining liegemen.
Her heart leapt upward to clog her throat. Sword drawn and legs braced, it appeared he looked directly at her. A lusty, pagan barbarian. A savage who would enjoy a contest between himself and the devil. A powerful chieftan of yore who would embrace her unholy eyes as a sign of good fortune, not evil.
His gaze shifted away . . .
She sighed, ignoring her discomfort at the slight exhale. Would that the baron could see, and that his fearless heated look was meant for her.
THIRTEEN
GAVARNIE LEANED over the small bed, holding a rushlight nearer Ronces’ and Alory’s sleeping forms. What changes three months had wrought. Ronces had thinned considerably. Gone was the child he remembered, replaced by a boy on his way to manhood.
Alory, on the other hand, appeared to have gained every bit of weight that Ronces had lost. And he was sucking his thumb, a habit Gavarnie had thought long dead. With his chubby body and his thumb in his mouth, Alory appeared to have regressed from boy to babe.
Gavarnie smiled wistfully. Would that his sons were yet infants and he could hold them, to once again see their innocent toothless grins while he played with them. To blow on their soft, rounded bellies ’til they squealed with laughter.
He fought a sudden urge to reach out and touch them, if only to smooth the hair from their brows. But he dared not. Were the boys to wake, they might guess he could see, a secret they would be hard-pressed to keep. '
And he wanted none to know he’d regained his sight. Better to let his enemies think him incapacitated. Mayhap they would grow careless and, perchance, reveal themselves.
His thoughts ran to Golde as he straightened. Look to your own house for betrayal.
He’d been right yestereve. Golde was the betrayer in his house. After tempting him beyond endurance with her body, she had known he would follow her to the village. ’Twas she who’d lured him from Skyenvic’s protection, that he could be killed.
Turning, he crept to the boys’ chamber door, which he’d left ajar. Though he’d devised orders that would carry everyone away from the upstairs corridor, he made certain it was empty before stepping into the hallway. Then he hurried toward Nicolette’s chamber at the opposite end of the hall. Once inside, he tiptoed to the girl’s bed, where he studied her features.
Light brown hair, curly where it wasn’t matted, a square little jaw beneath a stubby nose; though her coloring was yet shaded by her recent illness, ’twas more pink than pale.
He frowned. Whatever had made him think Nicolette looked like Isabelle? In no way did the child resemble his wife’s sleek, Nordic appearance.
The girl coughed, startling Gavarnie. He’d best return the rushlight to its sconce before he was discovered. ’Twould be difficult to explain why a blind man had need of a light.
No sooner had he closed Nicolette’s door behind him and replaced the light in its holder than his bedchamber door swung inward. Hesper appeared, a troubled crease in her brow. She glanced in his direction.
“Mi’lord, ye are alone?”
“Eustace is making his rounds,” he grumbled, masking his features with blankness. “
I would see to mistress’s comfort before I retire. What is the delay?”
Hesper winced and kneaded her back. “Yer forgiveness, sir. The poor dearling cannot get herself from the tub, and I am not much help. I’ll fetch Eustace and have her a’bed a’fore ye can blink.”
The woman shuffled toward the stairs, and Gavarnie scowled. Despite the fact that Golde should be put to the whip for her treachery, he could think of naught but the sights Eustace would see.
Her breasts, her thighs—
“A moment,” he called after Hesper. “I would not have you disturb Eustace.”
The servant turned back toward him and he looked at a rushlight behind her, careful to keep his gaze unfocused. “I will help with the maid.”
From the corner of his eye, he could see Hesper’s features cloud. “Mi’lord! ’Tis not yer place to be fishin’ women from yer tub.”
Again he thought of Eustace viewing Golde. She of the night-and-day eyes, of raven-black hair, of smooth virgin flesh. Sperville’s description of her “striking” looks was an understatement of immense proportion. ’Twas like calling a diamond a clear piece of stone. Never had he beheld such beauty as that he’d witnessed in the lane when Bogo had lit the lamp.
Gavarnie beckoned to Hesper, who was eyeing him with no little puzzlement. “I’ll not have my liegeman disturbed in his duties. I am to blame for mistress’s condition. ’Tis my obligation to see to the matter.”
Hesper frowned. “If ye insists, sir.”
She hustled back to him. Touching her fingertips to his elbow, she led him toward the bedchamber.
’Twas not just his lust that prompted his actions, he assured himself. Had he not planned this show of concern by insisting Golde recover in his comfortable chamber? Was it not his intent to pretend affection for Golde that she would relax and grow careless? Then he would learn who had masterminded the ambush.
Upon crossing the threshold, Hesper paused to close the door.
Gavarnie’s gaze flew to the tub, where the curtains were drawn away. Candlelight haloed the area. It reflected off Golde’s wet, black hair where she sat with her back to him. He inhaled deeply. The room was fragrant as the forest after a summer rain.