To Catch the Candid Earl: Regency Historical Romance

by Eleanor Keating

  The dagger in her right hand, Sorcha leaned low over the mare’s flowing red mane, concentrating. The man’s sword swept downward the instant the two horses converged. Sorcha plunged the dagger deep into his chest a fraction of a second before the steel missed her head by a hairsbreadth.

  His mount carried him onward, past the other three locked in battle before the agent collapsed, and toppled from the saddle. Breathing hard, Sorcha once again urged the chestnut into a charge, turning the mare into her weapon. Howard’s mount was broadside to her, Howard’s attention focused hard on trying to get a stroke in to kill Griffith.

  At the last second before the mare struck the other horse, Sorcha hauled hard on the reins. The mare reared, hooves flailing, plunging into Howard’s head and torso. The horses tangled together, the other mount crashed to the ground.

  Fighting hard to keep her seat as the mare floundered, trying to win free of the other’s thrashing legs, Sorcha gave the mare her head. Now balanced and free, the mare leaped clear of the other horse. Spinning the chestnut around, Sorcha was in time to see Griffith plunge his sword into his man’s throat, and yank it free on a gush of bright blood.

  The agent choked and gurgled, dropping his blade to the ground as he tried to stem the flow of life from his throat. Then he fell to the heather, his mount kicking free of him, and cantering on the heels of the other loose horses.

  Griffith eyed Howard on the ground, either dead or unconscious, but not moving. “Your two to my one?” he commented, panting lightly. “I owe you my life, my lady.”

  “It was the right thing to do,” she replied, dismounting. “I would do it again.”

  Griffith also swung down from his saddle and cleaned his blade on the dead man’s cloak. “What will you do now?” he asked. “You killed the queen’s men.”

  Leaving her mare, Sorcha walked across the grass to the man with the dagger in his chest and worked it free. She wiped it clean, then handed it to him. “I expect I must go with you.”

  Griffith frowned. “Your father will not be pleased.”

  “If I remain, I will be arrested when they come for me.”

  Oddly, Sorcha felt that what had happened was supposed to happen. That she was intended to go with him into exile, to ride beside him, to cleave to him with her loyalty. And perhaps even to love him.

  “Our destinies are now linked,” she said softly, gazing up into his green-brown eyes. “For good or ill, we must stay together.”

  Griffith caressed her cheek with his fingers, smiling, but it was a sad one just the same. “I dragged you into my troubles, my lady, when that was the last thing I wanted. I cannot see you die because of me.”

  “I made my choice,” Sorcha informed him softly. “I could not stand by and see them kill you, not when you are innocent. Whatever happens is not your fault, but mine.”

  “That will hardly comfort me if I must stand over your corpse.”

  Sorcha smiled. “I do not feel my death approaching, Griffith, nor yours. While we are not safe, nor are we yet condemned. I must ride with you, I feel the winds of fate blowing us. Do not fight against it.”

  At last, Griffith chuckled. “I will abide by your wishes, lady seer. Though your father may kill me the moment we return to the castle.”

  Taking his hand, she grinned. “He will not, for he, too, knows what must be, must be. Come, let us ride.”

  Bending, Griffith kissed her knuckles. “As you wish. And I cannot imagine a better fate than riding beside you into our future. Whatever it may be.”

  Her father stared at the pair of them in anger and horror. “What happened?”

  Sorcha stood proud, refusing to regret fighting beside Griffith. “John Howard and his men attacked without provocation, Father. I asked for, and received, Griffith’s dagger, and fought beside him.”

  “They are dead?”

  “Two are, my lord,” Griffith answered. “I fear we did not check Howard for signs of life before returning to the castle.”

  After turning the horses over to stable boys, Sorcha had brought Griffith straight to Henry, who stood with Sir Richard in the bailey. Sir Richard shook his head with regret as his eyes met Sorcha’s while Henry paced away from them, his head down. Sorcha waited, calling upon her witch’s sight to know what her father was thinking.

  Her sight failed her.

  At last, Henry turned, his expression bleak. He glanced first at Griffith then looked long into Sorcha’s eyes. “Your fate is now tied to his, is it not?”

  His soft voice held little that she could read, yet she doubted he was angry. She nodded.

  “Yes, Father. I knew it was so the moment I saw him ride in.”

  “Then I must bow to the fates,” Henry concluded. His smile, both sad and wise, yet also afraid, made Sorcha long to remain at his side. Though she knew she would see him again, it did not make her parting from him any easier.

  Henry touched his fingers to her cheek in affection then asked, “You will guard her with your life? Protect her?”

  Griffith flung his cloak back, baring his sword, and dropped to his knee in obeisance. “My lord, you have my sword oath. Lady Sorcha will return to you safely.”

  “Then I am satisfied.”

  Henry, not usually demonstrative, impulsively hugged Sorcha. “I will miss you, my daughter.” He smiled. “And believe me when I say I am damn proud of you. No son could act with such honor, or bring me honor, as you have done.”

  “It is because you have taught me well.”

  Henry bent to kiss her brow. “Then you had best hurry. I will have Sir Richard obtain provisions for you.”

  Dipping into a curtsey, Sorcha rushed from the bailey. In the castle proper, she ran up the deep stone stairs to her room. After gathering together some clothing and stuffing it into a saddlebag, she hung on a thin leather belt around her narrow waist. and slipped a jeweled dagger into its sheath. Her hand flew to her throat, feeling for the thin thong that held a small pouch of softly tanned doeskin. Satisfied the pouch hung in its usual place in her bodice, she glanced about to find her bow. Unstrung, it stood in a corner with a full quiver of arrows finely fletched with swan feathers to maintain accuracy over a long-range.

  She also seized a light cloak, woven of fine wool and dyed with heather, and swung it over her shoulders, pinning it at her throat with a brooch. of silver oak leaves. Another cloak, of heavier wool with a deep hood, she would roll and tie behind her saddle when she returned to the bailey.

  With a final glance around at the stone walls brightened with tapestries, the burned beeswax candles, and a carved wooden chest for storing linens, Sorcha left her chamber. May God grant me the grace to return here again, to my father, she thought and felt a chill of fear at what the days ahead might hold for her. She swiveled quickly on her booted heel and returned to the bailey. Henry stood talking with Griffith while servants loaded a stout mule with the promised provisions. Another servant led a big bay with a white-blazed face from the stable, hooves ringing on flagstones.

  Her own mare, Camlith, stood nearby, a groom holding her bridle and stroking her nose. She gave the servant her extra cloak, quiver, and bow, and saddlebag to tie to her saddle. Turning, she found both Henry and Griffith watching her.

  “I am ready,” she said, striding toward them.

  Griffith offered her a small courteous bow and a smile. “I do not think I have ever had a more beautiful traveling companion.”

  Henry eyed him sidelong. “I am trusting you with her innocence, as well, my lord.”

  Sorcha half-expected Griffith to express indignation at this rather rude comment from her father, but Griffith merely bowed again. “I swore an oath to protect her, and that included from me and my men as well. None shall touch her.”

  Henry nodded, satisfied. “I did not like mentioning it but felt it necessary. You are an honorable man, and I am trusting you with my daughter, my only child.”

  “I will guard that trust with my life.” Griffith beckoned forward the ser
vant holding the big bay. “We ride to the Marquess of Dunstable, in Cumbria. Will you inform my men of that when they arrive?”

  “I will,” Henry answered. “I will offer them my hospitality, and provisions.”

  Griffith took the reins then extended his hand to Henry. “You have my eternal thanks and friendship, my lord.”

  Henry gripped it. “As you have mine. Go, and regain your good name in the eyes of our queen.”

  The groom assisted Sorcha in mounting, and she gathered her reins. Walking the mare to Henry, Sorcha reached down and cupped his cheek with a small smile. “Look after yourself, Father, as I will not be here to look after you.”

  “I will be fine,” Henry replied, turning his head to kiss her palm. “Go with God, my child.”

  Riding away, Sorcha followed Griffith as he trotted the big bay across the drawbridge, its hollow thudding filling her ears. She dared not glance back out of superstitious dread that if she did so, she would never see her father again. Her back straight, Sorcha nudged Camlith into a rolling canter and left her home behind.

  Chapter Five

  As it was quite late in the day when he and Sorcha set out from Harpton Castle, Griffith kept watching for likely spots to camp for the night. Sorcha said little as they rode side by side across the rolling dales, the scent of heather and gorse teasing his nostrils. He suspected she mourned the parting from her father and did not seek to intrude upon her thoughts.

  However, as the sun westered and the distant horizon to the east darkened into a deep purple shade, Griffith finally asked, “Are you well, my lady?”

  Sorcha roused herself as though from a dream, and then nodded. “Yes, I am quite well. I have been thinking.”

  “About your father?”

  “My father as well as what may lie ahead of us.”

  “You have seen something in your sight?”

  Sorcha smiled. “No, not yet. My thoughts are simply ordinary anticipations of danger, of what we may be facing.”

  Griffith stood in his stirrups to gaze over the rolling moors and twisted to stare behind them for any hint of his henchmen riding to catch up. “If you have no objections,” he said, “I would like to make camp early. To await my men.”

  “I did not think we would keep the moon company this night,” Sorcha replied with a grin.

  He answered it with a grin of his own. “No, I suppose not. When we next find water, we will stop.”

  Within the hour, Griffith spotted a trickling stream bubbling over stones between a line of low hills. Dismounting, he examined the area, searching for a place that might shield their fire from prying eyes. Sorcha also swung down from her saddle and led her mare to the stream for a drink. After tying Brutus and the mule to a stunted tree, Griffith climbed the hill for a good look around.

  The darkness closed in rapidly across the moors, but he could still see for a fair distance. Nothing moved save a small herd of deer grazing not far away. He listened for the sound of galloping hooves, yet heard only the faint yipping of a hunting fox. The wind soughed over the heather, whispering its secrets as he turned and strode back down the hill.

  “If they are on their way,” he said as Sorcha unsaddled her chestnut, “I cannot see them.”

  “Perhaps they will spend the night under my father’s hospitality,” Sorcha suggested.

  “Then tomorrow we must ride slowly,” he replied, unbuckling Brutus’s girth, “as I do not like riding into Cumbria and the unknown without them.”

  Not knowing what to expect while traveling with a noble lady, Griffith felt pleasantly surprised when Sorcha performed her fair share of the work in setting up camp. She gathered firewood to stack then built a ring of stones for their fire. beneath a crag of rock that would shield the small flames from view. Griffith removed the mule’s pack then led both Brutus and it to water before hobbling them where they could graze.

  The evening air cooled considerably as he sat across the fire from her. Dining on strips of dried meat with apples, hard bread, and cheese, Griffith watched the firelight play across Sorcha’s perfect features. She had spread her plaid blankets on the ground for a pallet and laid her bow and quiver close at hand.

  “Perhaps you might demonstrate your skill with the bow tomorrow,” he commented.

  Sorcha smiled around a mouthful of bread. After swallowing, she replied, “I will be happy to. If we must travel slowly, there may be opportunities to shoot fresh meat.”

  “A skilled huntress as well as a courageous fighter.” He grinned. “I am in the most excellent of company.”

  “One can certainly grow quite tired of eating little save dried food while traveling,” she replied.

  “Yes, indeed. Have you met Lord Dunstable? What sort of man is he?”

  “While I have not met him,” Sorcha answered, “my father has spoken of him with respect. I know he is a favorite of the queen, but beyond that, I do not know.”

  Griffith nodded. “If he is as welcoming as your father, then perhaps I can persuade him as to my innocence in this affair. If not, we may well be riding into trouble.”

  “My sight has not warned me of such.”

  “But is it infallible?”

  Sorcha shook her head with regret. “No, it is not. Events have occurred without its premonitions.”

  Griffith studied her. her, feeling worried that he might be taking her into danger. He had seen youth and beauty struck down suddenly, like flowers beneath the hay maker’s scythe, and his heart felt a pang at the thought of anything happening to her. “If things go awry in Cumbria,” he said slowly, “I want you to ride hard to return to your home. Will you do that?”

  Sorcha said nothing for long moments but stared into the flickering flames. “I will not make a promise to do so, Griffith,” she answered at last. “I wish to remain at your side. If it is hopeless, then I will do as you ask.”

  Both gratified and alarmed by her reply, Griffith took a bite of cheese, thinking. “I wonder if it would be the wiser course to simply bypass the marquess, and ride into Scotland. Then plead my case to the queen from there.”

  “Hiding in Scotland will only make you appear guilty,” Sorcha told him. “You will be exiled, unable to return to England.”

  “You are right,” he said, frustrated. “I do not understand who would forge letters to set me up as a traitor. Who hates me that badly?”

  “Perhaps it is not a matter of hatred,” Sorcha replied. “Do you stand in someone’s way? Who stands to inherit your title and estates in the event of your death?”

  Griffith blinked. “Until I have a son and heir, a distant cousin.”

  “But,” she went on slowly, “should you be convicted of treason and executed, your lands are placed under attainder. The titles and estates return to the crown for displacement at the pleasure of Her Majesty.”

  “Thus, this party who forged the letters may be close enough to the queen in order to persuade her to give my lands and titles to him.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Thus it could be almost anybody who wants me out of the way.” Griffith stared into the fire. “Any lord or knight.”

  “Yes.”

  “My family has been loyal to the Tudor line going back to Henry the Seventh,” he snapped angrily, his frustration growing. Is this the repayment for all those years of loyalty? He held his anger in check, snapping twigs to throw onto the flames. “Surely Her Majesty remembers that.”

  “Hence you need an intermediary to persuade her to grant you safe conduct into London and the palace,” Sorcha said. “Once you convince her of your loyalty and innocence, Her Majesty can simply dismiss the charges of treason. Then all will be well.”

  “I fear it will not be as easy as all that.”

  Shortly after dawn, Griffith and Sorcha continued their journey toward Dunstable castle, leaving behind a blackened campfire, horse droppings, and grazed ground, indicating where they had camped. Yet, in the ashes of the fire, Griffith drew an arrow pointing in the direction which th
ey would go. He knew Sir James Brockton would find it, and thus ride hard to catch up.

  Through the morning, he rode beside Sorcha and found her more willing to converse than the previous day.

  “My mother taught me the ways of the spirits as well as healing,” she told him. “And how to use their aid in curing sickness.”

  “But she could not cure herself.”

  Sorcha shook her head in sorrow. “No. Hers was an ailment none could remedy. No amount of herbs, possets, or bleeding helped. It was a disease of the bones, and she died in great pain.”

  “I am so sorry.”

  “I miss her terribly,” Sorcha added. “My father has been lost without her.”

  “My mother died giving birth to me,” Griffith said, turning in his saddle as they crested a small hill, searching for any sign of Sir James and his henchmen behind them. “My father refused to remarry, though he was yet young and virile. While he never told me he was close to her, I sometimes think that he was.”

  “Will you marry for love?” she asked.

  Griffith grinned. “I plan on it.”

  “My father and my mother both raised me to understand that I would marry for the benefit of our house,” she commented dryly. “Yet, my father has often remarked that I may choose a husband if my choice can benefit the family.”

  “So in other words,” Griffith replied, still grinning, “you can fall in love and marry whom you want provided he is landed and wealthy?”

  She laughed. “Yes. And that is more than other women of my station are granted.”

  “That is so very true.”

  “Many noble girls do not even meet their husband before the betrothal,” Sorcha went on. “They are wed to older men who are widowed, often to men old enough to be their fathers. Seldom, it seems, to young, handsome men who they may prefer to marry.”

  “You are making me very glad to have been born a male,” Griffith remarked with a chuckle.

  “Unfortunately, it is a man’s world, and women are only useful in bearing the next heir.”