by Sahara Kelly
Mechele blushed. She realized she’d been doing that a lot lately.
“Come on, Linnet. The day is wasting.” Gilles held out his hand to Linnet who was staring at the horse and the man and back to the horse.
“Umm…”
Gilles huffed out a laugh. “Use that block and give me your hand,” he ordered, pointing at the mounting block nearby.
After several mis-tries, and giggles, the women found themselves seated before their lovers, held fast by strong arms, and at a height that felt like miles from the ground.
Mechele smiled. “I’ll wager these cart horses are not what you’re used to,” she said as Guy clicked his heels and turned the lumbering beast towards Lymington.
“Their size is not far off that of our destriers, Mechele. Warhorses need to carry a man in full armour. It’s no light weight, I can assure you. Although these lads…” he clicked his heels again and flicked the reins, “Well, they will perhaps need more encouragement than my usual mount.”
Linnet rested back against Gilles, glad that they’d decided to use sheepskins for saddles this day. A pommel thrusting up where she was sitting right now would have been untenable.
In spite of herself, lurid thoughts crept into her mind and she flushed, forcing them away. “Well, it should not take long to reach Lymington,” she said, trying to control her errant thoughts. “Will we meet Lord Benstede, do you think?”
“You will most certainly meet Lord Benstede,” answered Guy, energetically urging his placid mount alongside the other couple.
For a while they rode two abreast, silently enjoying the day, and each with their own thoughts of what awaited them at Lymington.
In spite of the lethargic, stolid progress of their mounts, it took no more than thirty minutes before the first signs of habitation met their eyes, and a few minutes more brought them to Lymington’s front door.
“The place has changed,” murmured Mechele, looking around her.
“And not for the better,” added Linnet.
Two very surprised stable boys found themselves holding the reins of two giant plough horses as the men dismounted and caught their companions as they slid into their arms.
As one, they turned to the steps of Lymington’s home and walked slowly up the broad stone staircase.
The doors were open, and they entered, finding a servant and asking for Lord Benstede and the Baron himself.
They were directed to a sunny room to await the arrival of the two gentlemen.
Mechele grasped Guy’s hand, and he squeezed it. “Not to worry, love. We have things well in hand.” He smiled down gently at her, giving her hand an additional squeeze to reinforce his small joke.
The door opened and Lymington stalked into the room, followed moments later by Lord Benstede himself.
“What’s the meaning of this?” huffed Lymington, glaring at the two women as if horrified that they were in his presence.
“You dared bring those two…two…sluts into this house?”
Guy’s mouth tightened. By the Saints, he was ready to skewer this brute.
Gilles stepped forward. “They come as our guests, my Lord. And of course, seeing as we ride for Lord Benstede, that makes them his guests as well.”
Lymington subsided with a grunt, glowering at Mechele and Linnet.
Guy smiled coldly. Already, Lymington was unsettled. Good.
Lord Benstede moved to the group and lightly touched Gilles’ shoulder. “I am glad to see you both well, lads. Will you make these ladies known to me?”
Gilles performed the introductions quietly, introducing first Mechele as Sir Dunstan’s niece, and then Linnet, her cousin.
“Faugh, my Lord,” interrupted Lymington. “I apologize for this. These wenches are the ones who have caused so much trouble. They certainly should not be here, and especially not in this room. They should be back at their cooking fires, where I judge…” he held his nose in disgust, “They’ve been spending most of their time. They stink of it.”
He turned away and opened a window.
Guy’s bile threatened to rise and choke him, but a little tremor in Mechele’s hand which was still buried in his overrode his fury and brought out his need to protect her.
“If you would, my Lord,” he said calmly, beckoning Lord Benstede nearer.
Curious, Benstede drew closer.
“They do indeed smell of smoke,” finished Guy, raising an eyebrow at his liege.
Benstede drew in a breath, paused, then leaned even closer to the two girls and sniffed again.
His eyes narrowed. “‘Tis not the stink of cooking fires, I smell. Ladies, you have suffered through a fire of another nature, I would guess.”
“Unfortunately, yes, my Lord,” nodded Linnet politely.
“A fire? At poor Maltby Abbey?” Lymington turned from the window. “What a pity. I shall, of course, send my men over immediately. Perhaps something can be saved?”
Gilles turned to him, blue eyes icy. “That will be unnecessary, my Lord. There was little damage. The fire was extinguished quickly and thoroughly.”
“Thanks to your two knights, Lord Benstede,” added Mechele shyly.
“I am glad they were of service, my dear,” he answered.
The gazes of the three men met, and understanding flashed between them.
Lymington sagged.
“And fortunately our presence enabled us to make a thorough investigation of the matter.” Guy’s words were colder than icicles in December. “We found much evidence to point to the culprits.”
Lymington blustered and snorted. “Evidence? Some local lads up to mischief, I’ve no doubt. Happens all the time in these godforsaken farmlands.”
“Lads who rode horses, Lymington,” snapped Gilles. “One of which suffers the misfortune of having a cracked shoe.”
Benstede looked at him, expression enigmatic. “Might you know of such a horse, Sir Gilles?”
“I do indeed, my Lord. You’ll find one just like it in the stables here at Lymington.”
“Utter rubbish.” Lymington spat the words out. “Why any one of a hundred horses might have a cracked shoe. ‘Tis the most common thing in the world.”
“It is indeed,” agreed Guy. “But the use of Greek fire is not.”
Benstede’s eyebrows snapped together. “Greek fire? Are you sure?”
Guy nodded. “Without any doubt. The local cleric, Father Michael, will attest to it. In fact, it was his sharp eyes and nose that first alerted us.”
Benstede turned his gaze on Lymington, frowning now.
“A country cleric?” Lymington snorted. “What can he possibly know of such things? He’s good for naught but boring sermons. Really, my Lord, I must insist…”
“You must insist nothing, Lymington. I suggest instead you hold your tongue until we are finished here.” Lord Benstede’s rebuke was clear.
Lymington’s smile was a sickly thing against the pallor of his cheeks and the chin that wobbled nervously beneath.
Benstede turned his back on Lymington. “Can this Father Michael be trusted?”
Gilles met his gaze. “Father Michael has not always been a priest, my Lord. Both Guy and I fancy he has a long history of warfare to his credit. The man still walks like one accustomed to armour.”
“For what it’s worth, Sir,” interjected Linnet. “I believe his last name is Warwick?”
Benstede’s eyes widened. “By the Saints. Michael Warwick. I always wondered what happened to him.”
Gilles tilted his head curiously. “You know the name, my Lord?”
“Indeed I do, lad. Michael Warwick was a legend to many, myself included. His arm never failed, he had the sharpest mind ever to plan a battle, and his exploits were told for years around our campfires. I’d not be averse to sitting down with him and sharing some memories.”
He looked questioningly at the four assembled before him.
“I believe he’d enjoy that too, Sir,” said Mechele, shyly meeting his eyes.
> Benstede nodded, and turned back to Lymington. “If Michael Warwick, cleric or not, says it was Greek fire, as do my own knights, then I have no reason to assume otherwise, Lymington.”
“But, my Lord…” blustered the man.
“And another thing, Lord Benstede. The matter of the tribute.” Guy interrupted the hurried excuses and calmly overrode the protests.
“Ah yes, the tribute,” said Benstede, calmly waiting.
“Would you please tell his Lordship the sum you were assessed by Lord Lymington this past year?” Guy turned to Mechele and Linnet.
The girls glanced at each other and named the sum.
Benstede’s eyebrows snapped together in a frown of shock. “You jest, ladies.”
“Indeed not, Sir,” said Linnet raising her chin. “That is the exact sum demanded of us by…by him…” she jerked her head in Lymington’s direction.
“Nonsense, girl. Nonsense,” spat Lymington. He stared at Lord Benstede. “My Lord, I doubt this wench can read and write, let alone handle the mathematics involved in assessing a tribute. Now were Sir Dunstan present, he’d give you the correct accounting.”
Mechele moved slightly. “You are incorrect in that assumption, Sir. Both my cousin and I read and write, and keep the accounts at Maltby Abbey. Uncle Dunstan has graciously allowed us to do so for the past several years now. The amount is quite right.”
Her gracious response drew a grunt from Lymington. “A mistake. That’s what it is, a simple error in figuring.”
“A mistake indeed,” said Lord Benstede thoughtfully.
At that moment two men at arms entered the room, and stopped short as they noticed the people within.
“Beg pardon, my Lord,” they stuttered, looking helplessly at Lymington.
He motioned with his hands to shoo them away and they began to back out the door.
“Hold, there.” Lord Benstede’s voice halted them in their tracks. “What is your business with Lymington?”
The two men glanced from one man to the other, and recognized exactly where the power in the room lay.
“With respect, my Lord,” said the shorter one, bowing to Benstede, “We have come to tell Lord Lymington that his men are ready to ride to Maltby.”
Silence fell as his words echoed through the room.
Benstede’s cheek twitched, and only his knights knew this was a signal that their liege Lord was battling a deep fury.
Linnet and Mechele watched the scene with a nervous kind of interest.
Linnet was fascinated by Lord Benstede—his power was obvious, yet there had been a kindly look in his eyes and a rare affection as he’d met the glances of his two knights. It seemed that the three shared a sort of unspoken communication, which, knowing Gilles as well as she now did, went a long way to allaying her fears about the outcome of this visit.
She watched as Lymington deflated beneath the stare that was now growing ever colder.
“I…um…er…” stuttered the man as five pairs of eyes watched him with an assortment of emotions that ran the gamut from disgust to raw fury.
“Your men are ready? How fortuitous. Especially since we’ve only just learned of this misfortune.”
“My Lord, I can explain…” began Lymington.
“I doubt it.” The abrupt words stopped Lymington’s tongue in his mouth, so coldly were they spoken.
“Some of my men are in the paddock. Fetch them to me.” Benstede ordered the two nervous men who were sidling towards the door as attention was lifted from their presence.
“At once, my Lord,” they said, rushing from the room, nearly stumbling in their haste to be gone.
“Lymington, I would see your accounts.” Benstede’s voice was a bark of command now, and Linnet could clearly see the warrior beneath the facade of a nobleman.
“Of course, my Lord. I was just about to suggest the very thing.” He moved to his desk and withdrew a hefty tome.
“Both sets.”
Lymington betrayed his fear with a twitch of his mouth. “My Lord, I don’t…I didn’t…I haven’t an idea what you mean…”
Benstede never moved, and Linnet watched with interest as Gilles and Guy slipped quietly to either side of their Lord.
The three of them together were formidable. She was sure none could withstand the amazing power radiating from them.
And sure enough, Lymington couldn’t.
With a sigh, he reached back into his desk and retrieved another, equally hefty, tome that he laid beside the first in a gesture of defeat.
Sounds behind them attracted Linnet’s attention and several strong young men appeared at the door, looking inquiringly at Lord Benstede.
“You have need of us, my Lord?”
“Indeed I have, lads. Please escort Lord Lymington to his chamber and secure him there.”
“But my Lord,” whined Lymington. “Let me explain. I’m a peer of the realm, you can’t…”
“Yes, I suppose you are, aren’t you?” Benstede hissed the words and Linnet’s hair stood up on the back of her neck.
Truly, Lord Benstede was in a terrible fury.
For a few moments she almost felt sorry for Lymington, until she saw his eyes. There was no sorrow or penitence for what he’d done lurking within their depths, only an overwhelming fear for his own skin, and a greedy desire to save it.
But it was too late for that.
And Lymington knew it.
Chapter 15
Mechele glanced over at Linnet, and the two women exchanged nervous smiles. It seemed as if they’d been vindicated, but they weren’t quite sure what was to come.
Benstede glanced at one of his men. “Pass me Lymington’s sword, if you will,” he said, nodding at the broadsword that took pride of place on one wall.
He turned it over in his hands, studying the hilt thoughtfully.
Then he grasped the blade near the tip and with one forceful move snapped it clean in two across his knee.
Mechele gasped.
“By my right as Liege Lord of this Shire, I remove all titles and properties associated and assigned to the name of Lymington. Such decree to commence henceforth.”
Lymington’s jaw dropped and he whitened.
Good God, thought Mechele to herself. The man’s going to faint.
But he held himself together, and looked away from Benstede’s accusing eyes, meeting Mechele’s and Linnet’s.
The two women stood together, slightly behind their champions.
“‘Tis all your faults, you bitches,” he hissed, his previously pale face flushing with intemperate anger. “You spoiled it all. And then you probably went and spread your legs for these two cocks and fucked them into taking your side against me…”
His filthy accusations were the final straw for Gilles and Guy.
As Mechele and Linnet involuntarily backed away from the man’s fury, Gilles’ arm moved like lightning.
A solid punch landed in Lymington’s solar plexus, knocking the air from his lungs, and doubling him over.
As his chin fell, it met Guy’s fist, traveling upwards with all the force of his broad shoulders behind it.
His head snapped up, his teeth clashed together with an audible clack, and he subsided onto the floor where he lay, moaning and writhing in pain.
“Well, I think that should take care of things,” said Lord Benstede, calmly, turning his back on the moaning man.
“Now, we have other matters to attend to.”
“What will happen to him, my Lord?” asked Linnet.
“I too would be interested to know. There’s no likelihood he might return some day…?” Mechele’s voice trailed off.
Guy and Gilles smiled, their anger diffused now, by the quick and satisfying punishment they’d meted out.
“Not a chance, my dear,” grinned Benstede. “My next stop will be Chester Hall, where I am meeting the Earl of Danesfield. He’ll be holding several judicial courts there. Lymington will be brought up on charges before him.”
Linnet nodded. “Of course. Those books. He falsified the tributes, didn’t he?”
Benstede raised an eyebrow. “That is of minor matter next to the charges I shall level against him. Those of attempted murder.”
Mechele’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Murder?”
“You value yourselves too lightly, ladies. Lymington’s plan to burn Maltby Abbey would have surely murdered you.”
Mechele and Linnet looked at each other, suddenly realizing the truth of these words. It was comforting to feel the touch of their lovers’ arms as this revelation seared its way into their benumbed brains.
Benstede also noted the protective move of his knights and hid a grin behind his hand.
He stroked his chin. “It would appear that my deeds have now left us with rather a problem, though,” he said thoughtfully, ignoring the groaning body of Lymington that his men were now dragging awkwardly from the room. “Let’s make ourselves comfortable and see if we can find a solution.”
Guy led Mechele to a small bench and snuggled her next to him, refusing to allow her to put any distance at all between them.
Gilles seated Linnet in a chair and perched himself on the arm, letting his hand rest on her shoulder in a comforting and warming fashion.
Benstede’s eyes twinkled, and he turned his chuckle into a cough.
“We are now faced with the following situation. Since Lymington has resigned his post as liege Lord of this shire, there is no one to tend its estates or gather its tribute. Its fair tribute,” he added.
Both girls nodded, wondering where this conversation would take them.
“And Maltby Abbey, fair and fine estate though it is, has a master who is elderly, and has been forced to rely on the strength and courage of two rather extraordinary ladies.”
Guy and Gilles nodded their agreement, while the women could do nothing but lower their heads.
Benstede stared at his knights.
They were two of the finest men he’d had the pleasure of knowing, and their presence at his side had provided strength, wisdom, and the occasional solid right hook.
He hated to lose them, but he was, himself, a wise man.
He squashed his disappointment and looked at the four faces opposite his chair. How he envied them the pleasures that lay ahead. And yet, he’d had his own fair share of such joy.