by Zelma Orr
“Aye, ‘tis useful she will be but hold thy desires until we are away from this place.”
“Wherefore art taking her?”
“No one will suspect the city of stones as a hiding place. It is thought to house ghosts and evil spirits so pilgrims and travelers avoid it.”
Raucous laughter made Rebecca look up. She had heard of this dreary place, but knew naught about it. She, too, recalled stories about its evil face, its sudden appearance from nowhere. A place known only as Stonehenge where no human beings lived, and no one knew how the stones formed nor for what reason.
They reached the place of stones on the second evening. Rebecca stared at the somber columns standing higher than a house. The taller ones were shrouded in mist, and it seemed evil swirled over the uneven shapes. The stone stood as grave markers, unmoving, lifeless, filled with murky perils, indeed, like a dread disease.
What fate awaited her here in this lonely place?
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* * *
Chapter Twenty-Two
Aubin waited fearfully until the thundering hooves of the highwaymen's horses faded before he jumped from the carriage seat. Stephen lay in the mud between the wheels, bright red blood dripping into his beard.
Aubin choked. He had never before seen his master lying so still. He struggled but could not lift Stephen, so dragged him from beneath the carriage and stretched him against a tree. From the carriage seat, he took the lap robe and as he turned, stooped to pick up Rebecca's black velvet muff. He held it to his wide chest and blinked away the sting in his eyes.
What would they do to the gentle Lady Rebecca? he wondered. There were rumors repeated to all who would listen of the things highwaymen were capable of, especially with women. Should harm come to Rebecca, he could not foresee what his master would do to the guilty ones. It would be a terrible thing to watch, he was certain.
He covered Stephen, then took a cloth from his pocket, wet it in a stand of water, and began to wash his master's face. There was a deep cut from temple to ear, blood matting into Stephen's thick hair. Malvina would have to work with the wound in order to stop the flow of blood.
His face puckered into a worried frown, Aubin worked until Stephen moaned and pushed his hand away.
“Nay, Sir Stephen. Thou art hurt and must needs lie still.”
Stephen's eyes blinked open. “Rebecca? Where is Rebecca?”
“I am sorry, my lord. The robbers ...” Aubin sat back and waited to be yelled at. He would have saved Lady Rebecca if he could, but there had been naught he could do with four highwaymen standing by with clubs and swords.
Stephen sat up quickly only to groan and lean over, retching. Aubin held his head then gently lowered him back to the lap robe. Stephen lay gasping, reached up to touch his face.
“The head wound is deep, my lord. Thou must take care.”
“Aye.”
Stephen's voice was a low murmur. He had acted foolishly in his worry over Rebecca. Aubin was right. If he were to be of any use in finding her, he would have to move slowly. Everything within him urged speed, but neither his body nor mind responded the way he wished.
If the young king or his henchmen dared harm Rebecca, he would take the son's head to his king. That, he meant with all his heart.
* * * *
Rebecca sat on the cold ground deep within the giant circle of stones so big she had not seen any end to them. Fog hung around the tops of the stones, and mists swirled low to the ground. Overhangs afforded protection for the dirty horsemen who had taken her from Stephen's carriage.
Two of them lay snoring in the blackness of midnight. The one she thought the leader stretched out by the fire, a flask of drink in his hand from which he sipped long and often. One other stood guard somewhere out amid the stones.
Rebecca had not slept. Her bound hands were numb from the tightness, and the thin robe beneath her let the cold fill her body. The men did not talk to her, but their muttered words among themselves and loud laughter when they glanced her way served to cause uneasiness. If they chose to use her body, there was naught she could do about it. But, if she could somehow get the leader's sword or the knife .... She had not a notion of what she could do with them, but she would cause injury to some of the knaves should she get her hands on any weapon.
At first light, Rebecca opened her eyes from a brief sleep to see one of the robbers kneeling in front of her, a tin cup of steaming gruel in his hands. He placed it on the cold ground, untied her hands, and sat back on his heels. He was dirty, and she wondered at what filth he carried with him.
“Eat.”
Round black eyes glittered from deep sockets, and his thin lips grimaced over broken teeth. With a thin-bladed knife, he cleaned beneath his fingernails, slowly raking black dirt out and wiping it on stiff leather britches.
She was hungry but the thought of eating what this unclean rogue had cooked was sickening. Rubbing her wrists to restore feeling, Rebecca boldly eyed the man. His gaze ran over her body, but she would not look away. He licked his lips and laughed.
She tilted the cup and took a swallow of the thin soup. It tasted like the water New Sarum's dirtiest dishes were cleaned in, but Rebecca forced it down. If she planned to escape, she must have strength to run. There must be a rock nearby which had not lain in the same place for a thousand years and could be lifted to strike. If they but left her hands untied ...
“Ho, William,” a gruff voice spoke from the dimness. “Dost crave yon tender maiden.”
“Aye, my lord. ‘Tis long we have been without the flesh of woman to satisfy needs.”
“Thou must wait a while longer.” The leader stepped into the dim light afforded by a flare burning on the wall, sending dark smoke down to choke them. “We must send a message to the lady's husband and to our beloved king.”
“Canst wait until our use for the damsel is finished?”
Rebecca cringed, awaiting the man's answer to William. It was slow in coming, and she squeezed the cup of ill-tasting liquid.
“Nay, ‘tis haste we need.”
He knelt in front of Rebecca. He no longer wore the face cover, and she stared at the waxen features, almost as though carved from stone. Light gray eyes were surrounded by red veins, causing a pinkish cast. His wide mouth was without color, almost as the mud on the highway. He looked ill.
“What nobleman is thy husband, my lady?”
“ ‘Tis a manor officer, not a nobleman, sire.”
“Ah, one of the king's favored servants, is it true?”
“Sir Stephen Lambert, my husband, is a friend of his royal highness,” she said.
“Friend?” The man shook his head, and his mouth drooped sadly. “Nay, the king has no friend. ‘Tis a bastard, he is.”
Rebecca eyed the man with disfavor. How dare this ... this highwayman speak thus of King Henry? She was not enamored of him as Stephen was, but this man spoke blasphemy.
“Art such a wonder of a man that thou canst speak evil of the king?”
The man laughed.
“I am known as the young king, namesake for his majesty, King of England.”
Rebecca tried to hide her horror but could not. “Thou art the one taught by Sir Thomas ere he became the archbishop?”
“The same, my lady. Training of the highest caliber was not too good for the young king. As thou canst see, I have been taught by the best.”
“Art sorry for they father to stand so accused by the entire country, even though he had naught to do with the murder?”
“It matters not to me who killed Sir Thomas. I hold captive the wife of one of the king's most trusted servants. And should Sir Stephen not wish to ransom thee, then I shall inform the king he wilt receive thy lifeless body if he dost not deliver that which is asked for thee. There is much money in the king's coffers, and his majesty can share it with his son, can he not? Especially to rescue the wife of one of his most trusted officers.”
The young king rummaged around in his loos
e fitting coat and brought out a silver flask. He tilted it, drank deeply and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. Then he coughed, a thick rasping sound, a cough which caused Rebecca to take a deep breath as though to aid the man in his breathing.
“What plans have thou to get money from the king? Sir Stephen has lands but money is not easily found until lands and sheep are sold.”
The young king smiled at Rebecca in an almost fatherly way.
“Thou wilt write the note, my lady, and when the honorable Sir Stephen sees the handwriting, he will find a way to get money for return of such a lovely body to his bed.” His gaze, sad and, Rebecca thought, most weary, slid over her body and back to meet her questioning blue eyes. He smiled. “Do not worry thyself, Rebecca, the money will be forthcoming.” He lifted his head with an effort. “William!”
William shuffled forth, eyeing Rebecca with glittering desire. “Aye, Henry.”
“Fetch the paper from the bag, and we will fashion a ransom note.”
“We have no nib, Henry. How thinkest to write?”
Henry reached into the edge of the fire and removed a charred stick.
“ ‘Twill do,” he said.
William took the cup, now cold, from her hands and gave a rolled script sheet to Rebecca. Henry passed the burned stick to her.
“Write that we expect one thousand pounds ere we deliver thee to London alive and well,” Henry said.
“Stephen will not be blackmailed for such a sum, my lord,” Rebecca said. “I am not worth that to any man.”
“Methinks thou art wrong. Methinks Sir Stephen or the king will make haste to pay for thee so as not to add another murder to the archbishop's.”
Rebecca was not yet afraid they would harm her, but she did not wish Stephen to pay so large a sum of money to these rogues.
“That is too much,” Rebecca said. “Surely one hundred pounds would be enough to buy food and drink for thy band.”
William laughed.
“But ‘twould not buy favors from ladies, eh, Henry? And our bodies crave such after much delay.” He winked craftily at her. “Unless thou seest fit to favor us?”
Rebecca shuddered and bent to write the note.
When the note had been fashioned to suit young Henry, William hurried from the circle of stones, and Rebecca heard lowered voices, then the sound of horses leaving. Two, at least. That left a man outside to guard and Henry inside with her. He had not retied her hands, and Rebecca sat quietly so as not to remind him. She could do naught with bound hands, but if she could find a knife or even a rough stone, something with which to strike.
The young king moved from her sight, then returned past a tall, rounded stone at her side. He regarded her silently, reddened eyes brooding as he sipped from the silver flask. He turned away, walking with hands behind his back, the flask held between thumb and forefinger of his right hand.
Rebecca's stomach rumbled, and she was reminded of the discomfort of her fluxes while sitting on cold dirt and unable to move. She slid her hand across her stomach, slightly swollen during these vexing times, and felt the pouch she carried with herbs Margaret had fixed for her when she journeyed with the minstrels. If she took double the potion Margaret told her to, she became dizzy, sometimes retching, but it lessened the pain. It was potent when taken in certain ways.
As she watched, Henry drank from his flask.
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* * *
Chapter Twenty-Three
Stephen grumbled as Malvina fussed over him. She bade him drink from the bowl of liquid she had made from herbs to which she had added a potion known only to the old witch who came to New Sarum by dark of moon. To keep Malvina from quarreling so much and causing his head to ache more, he sipped the vile-tasting tea.
“ ‘Twill ease the ache in thy head, my lord,” Malvina said, working quietly to cleanse and examine the ragged wound. The club had cut deeply, and Malvina had summoned Lady Witherstone from a nearby village to stitch the red flesh. Now she bathed the wound, checking the neat threads holding it. There would be a scar but that could not be avoided.
Stephen grew still, knowing Malvina would have her way as long as she thought to soothe his pain. For the first time in a long while, he thought of Mary. It had been long since he'd thought daily of Mary. His thoughts recently had been of his wayward wife, and even before she left, he had gone days without thinking about the woman he'd grieved for so much. Gentle and loving Mary, Malvina's sister. The two were alike in that they wished to serve the ones they loved.
Rebecca was different. Oh, indeed she was. She could be gentle, but sometimes her temper wasn't easily controlled. She seemed sometimes not to care for Malvina, watching her with clear blue eyes, refusing to smile even when she met one of Malvina's own. Questions she would turn on him and he, not understanding, refused to ask the meaning. If he forbade her to argue, she gave him a look that spoke more loudly than words. When they loved, he often thought she returned his feelings, but Rebecca did not speak of such. He had wanted her to, had often thought of asking, but he had never done so.
How he had missed her all those long nights she'd been gone.
“Rebecca is in danger,” Stephen said.
“Art sure ‘tis the king's son who did this?”
“For truth, Malvina, and I wish it were not so, but there is no doubt that is who led the highwaymen. Dost not the king and queen have trouble aplenty without a renegade son to do penance for?”
Malvina gazed at Stephen, noting the tired voice, the deep worry in narrowed blue eyes. Mary had loved this man more than life itself, as did the Lady Rebecca. But the Lady Rebecca had grown cold, had chosen to leave them, for what reason Malvina could not fathom. Stephen did not beat her. Indeed, at times he indulged her as a child, Malvina thought.
Did he not come to Rebecca when he needed a woman? Not all husbands lay only in their own beds, she knew from gossip. Especially gossip about the king and queen. Oh, but Stephen forbade such talk. Still, the Lady Rebecca did forsake them without cause. Her own feelings had suffered, but she hurt more for Stephen who searched for his wife so many months before finding her in Troyes. In a minstrel camp. Rebecca gave no explanation, offered no reasoning. Indeed, she refused to speak of times spent on the road with minstrels and gypsies, would not talk about things she had done, places she had seen. Malvina wanted to hear, she hungered to know of things outside of the villages, outside of Glastonbury and New Sarum. London was a rich and powerful city. Many things happened there that would make wondrous stories. But Lady Rebecca did not allow questions, even refused to talk with Malvina as she once had done. It saddened her, but there was naught could be done about it.
When Stephen first brought Rebecca to Glastonbury, little more than a child, she had not welcomed the confidence of her handmaiden although she had offered friendliness to Malvina for a time. The loss of the baby had somehow changed her back into a little-known person, someone Malvina could not talk woman talk with as they once had done.
“The young king, he would not hurt the Lady Rebecca, would he?” Malvina shuddered to think of the gentle Lady Rebecca in the hands of robbers and rogues. She would be at their mercy, and it would be more than Stephen could bear to have his young wife hurt.
“Young Henry is severely ill from drink and hard living. I do not know his personality. From the looks of his followers, it is a rough group of highwaymen, and highwaymen are sometimes cruel to victims they steal.”
Stephen seemed to be speaking to himself, and as he said the last words, he winced and squeezed his eyes closed. “If he should harm Rebecca, I shall have to kill him, no matter the king and queen's feelings.”
“What dost thou plan, my lord?”
Malvina finished tending Stephen's wound and took the pan of dirty water and bloody wrappings from the floor near them.
“Aubin tells me he heard the young king give orders to ride to the place of rocks two days east of New Sarum. I will take Aubin and three of the stron
g young farmers from the village, those who do not fear danger. I will not tell them they must go but that they canst refuse, and no harm will come to them.”
“Thou art a beloved nobleman, my lord. Thou hast only to ask for help.”
For the first time in days, Stephen smiled. “Thou art a true friend, Malvina, to say such. Mayhap you will find Aubin and have him go to the village and inquire. Tell them we leave two days hence at first light.”
“Nay, my lord. Thou art weak and thou needs be strong for such a task.”
“Aye, ‘twould be foolish at other times but this will not wait. Each day, yea each hour, puts Rebecca more in danger. I do not trust the young king to keep his party of rogues in hand many nights.” Stephen lay back. “Go, then, see to it, Malvina.”
* * * *
'Tis no wonder the king and queen need Stephen's strength, Rebecca thought, as she watched the stumbling steps of the young king. If the other children are as unstable as this one, their problem is multiplied six-fold.
What would Queen Eleanor do in my stead? She is strong, she would not be afraid. She is intelligent—she would use her head to determine a suitable path to follow. For truth, she would not cringe in the dark and do nothing.
Rebecca's hands lay across her unsettled stomach, massaging gently at the deep ache on each side. She fondled the bag of herbs, wondering at their strength if mixed with the spirits in the young king's flask. She must find a way to get some into his drink and pray it would somehow affect him.
The largest of three fires the highwaymen had built burned against two long stones, cornered together, a height to reach Rebecca's waist. Nearby, on a dingy sheepskin, was a pewter cup alongside a leather tankard.
“Dost hate the king and queen?” Rebecca said.
Young Henry did not turn but scoffed gruffly. “'Tis not worth the energy to hate such. Truth to say I do not love them, but to hate? ‘Tis strong language.” His voice became distant as though deciding if he needed to say more. He did not for a long time.
“Dost hate Sir Stephen because he serves the king?”