The Mercenary: Order of the Broken Blade
Page 4
His cause was her own.
Popping the last bit of meat into her mouth, she reached for the skin. After a long swig of ale, Sabine shifted away from the tree and toward her unwitting husband.
It was time for a bit of truth.
“I suspect they were murdered.”
Guy recoiled.
“My father once served as marshal for the king in his youth, at Holgate Castle. When the king was a prince, of course. Even then, my father despised him. Knew the kind of king he would become. The son of a minor baron, he had little land and even less coin. But he had my mother, whom he met at Holgate. And he had me.”
Guy listened intently.
“One day, a dear friend of my father’s nearly broke down our door with his knocking. I remember it well—the sound awoke me from a deep slumber. He was less than a day’s ride ahead of the sheriff’s men, coming to arrest him.”
“To arrest your father? For what offense?”
“Plotting with Robert Fitzwalter against the king’s life.”
Guy had obviously not expected that answer.
“He and my mother fled to Lispen Castle in County Durham. I was sent to Lord Burge, my father’s overlord, despite begging to go with them. But my father insisted it was too dangerous. There was brief discussion of my mother coming with me, but Burge would never have accepted her. As it was, he resisted taking me as his ward but was shamed into doing so.”
“Burge knew why your parents fled?”
She nodded. “Nay. Though he despises John as much as any Northern lord, he would never participate in an open rebellion against the king.”
She took a deep breath and forged ahead.
“Less than a fortnight after arriving at Dunham Castle, I stood in the hall as Burge delivered news of their deaths to me. They were apparently in an accident of some sort. The details have always been murky. I suspect the king’s men found them.” Sabine tucked her legs up under her. “The dream,” she finished weakly.
“I am sorry, Sabine.”
Something about the way her name fell from his lips brought forth tears. Sabine had cried for so many days she’d felt hollow by the time she arrived at Holybourne. The emptiness had only retreated due to her desire to escape.
He reached over, wiping away the single tear more tenderly than a mother comforting a newborn babe. Certainly not the reaction she’d expected from the hardened mercenary. Pulling back, Guy sat against the tree.
“You are the daughter of rebels,” he said, more to himself than to her.
Sabine smiled for the first time that night.
“Nay, husband.” His wide-eyed expression every time she said the word, as if the reminder startled him, made her want to use it more. “Not just the daughter of rebels. You’ll not be rid of me until I’m able to do my part in this mission of yours.”
His eyes widened.
“John is my king too,” she finished, willing him to understand. To accept her support. Not to relegate her, as Lord Burge and the nuns had done, to a role she was not destined to fill.
Guy stood then, pushing away from the tree and extending his hand. And she knew from his slow smile that he actually understood how important it was for her to finish what her parents had started.
Not for the first time, it struck her that she was meant to overhear his conversation with the bishop.
“’Tis well we met,” he said, assisting her up. “And I readily accept your offer of assistance.”
She took his hand and was almost disappointed he let it go after helping her up. Perhaps she’d misjudged this husband of hers.
“And will gladly accept your other offer as well before we reach Noreham.”
“Other offer?”
When he looked back at her, Sabine chastised herself for entertaining such gracious sentiments toward the mercenary. Other offer indeed.
She would see that no such offer was extended. Ever.
The sound of his laughter echoed through the forest around them.
Chapter 10
“Married?”
Guy had almost avoided Licheford Castle for this reason. Unfortunately, he needed to speak to Conrad, and his friend’s holding was directly in Noreham’s path. But Conrad, of course, sought an explanation.
“I will explain later.”
He prayed Conrad did not press him. After two days of hard travel, Sabine was in need of a bit of rest. And a bed.
That thought immediately led to another. One that continued to assail him given the close proximity of his wife, the only woman he’d ever met who appeared immune to his charms. Unfortunate, that. Now that Guy knew her story, he no longer begrudged her for the way she’d waylaid him at Holybourne. The opposite, in fact.
He admired the hell out of her.
Conrad, ever the gentleman, had already made his way to Sabine. He saw her glance briefly at the scar that ran from his cheekbone to his jaw. An odd, unidentifiable sensation assaulted him as his friend assisted her in dismounting. The way she looked at him . . .
Of course, she’d admired the castle too, and he could not deny both the holding and the man were grand in every way. Conrad’s father had possessed an even more commanding presence. His handshake had been so vigorous, Guy could still feel his grip.
Dismissing the thought, he followed the earl and Sabine into the keep. They climbed a set of stairs, arriving in the great hall moments later. He watched Sabine’s face as she stared up at the wall hangings.
Conrad’s mother had a passion for embroidery and color. As a result, Licheford Castle had become known for her talent nearly as much as it was for the former earl’s temper.
“They are . . . spectacular.”
Conrad smiled as he did every time his mother’s work was appreciated. They were not all her doing, of course. But her handiwork could be seen throughout the hall. And the hardened knight, now an earl, could not be prouder.
“Thank you. My mother had an affinity for creating them. That one”—he pointed to a bright green banner hanging just behind the dais—“is our family crest. It was her favorite.”
It occurred to him then Conrad and Sabine had much in common. Like Sabine, Conrad had also lost both parents, in their case within a sennight of each other. Although the culprit had been more apparent in his case—his parents had succumbed to a mysterious illness that had nearly claimed him as well. A dark time in Saint-Clair history.
“’Tis lovely. You must have been very proud.”
Conrad studied Sabine just a bit too intently for Guy’s taste. “Indeed,” he said, pointing to her waist. “Your own creation?”
What the hell was Conrad pointing at?
“Indeed.”
Sabine’s hands moved to the embroidered belt around her waist. Leather with bits of ribbon hanging from the ends. He had noticed the unusual piece but had not remarked on it.
“My mother taught me, as her mother did before her. Though she is no longer with me”—she let go of the belt—“I very much hope to carry on the tradition.”
“A girdler, then?”
Sabine nodded. “I hope to find a guild that will take me.”
Conrad looked at him then. Guy did not know what to say. He hadn’t even known Sabine was in possession of such a skill, let alone that she’d made the belt herself. Somehow, however, Conrad had known.
He must have learned to decipher such things in his training as an earl. Whatever the case, it gave him an unfair advantage. Sabine was practically beaming at him.
Pretending not to care, he shrugged and walked away. Let Conrad take care of his wife, then. The earl was clearly better equipped to do so. Mumbling about leaving them to their conversation, he accepted a mug of ale from one of the serving girls preparing the midday meal.
A castle of this size never saw less than fifty men in the hall during meals, sometimes more. And when Conrad was not in attendance, it ran seamlessly without him, courtesy of the steward who had been at Licheford for as many years as Conrad was alive.
“Start talking.”
Conrad’s deep voice did not terrify him as it did most men. But neither did it make him feel at ease. As Guy followed his friend into a corridor that led to the solar, he drank deeply, nearly finishing his ale.
Once inside the chamber, a smaller replica of the great hall but larger than most solars, Guy sank into the seat across from Conrad’s desk. The leather seat accommodated him nicely.
“I thought I might miss you,” Guy said conversationally. “How was your journey to Wayfair?”
Judging from the set of Conrad’s jaw, he was not inclined to answer.
“Very well. She overheard my conversation with the bishop at Holybourne. Threatened to divulge the details unless I helped her escape.” He was actually looking forward to sharing this next bit of information. “She didn’t wish to become a nun, you see.”
“A nun? You married a nun?”
Guy didn’t even attempt to hold back a smile.
“Not quite.”
“Not . . .” Conrad took a deep breath, something he often did to calm his otherwise volatile temper. “Not quite?”
“An oblate,” he admitted. “And against her will.”
Conrad leaned forward. “So you truly married her?”
Guy still had difficulty reconciling that particular fact, but there was no denying it, and so he nodded.
“Her father was Robert de Stuteville, lord of Cottingham. Do you know of him?”
Conrad’s posture changed immediately. “Aye. Some said he colluded with Fitzwalter.”
“They would be correct. He did. Was hunted down and killed by John’s men. And his wife too. Sabine was sent to Lord Burge, Cottingham’s overlord, who promptly sold her off to Holybourne.”
He could see Conrad working out the rest of it in his head.
“She worried he might come for her.”
“Aye.”
“Were you followed?”
“Nay.”
“Shite.” He paused, then added, “You were careless to allow for such a conversation to be overheard.”
Thinking back, as he’d done many times over the past few days, Guy very much agreed. He had relied on the Reverend Mother to secure their meeting place, a rather foolish mistake. “Perhaps. But it doesn’t change the circumstances. Besides, her father may have attempted to do away with the king, which makes Sabine an ally in this endeavor.”
Guy didn’t like the look Conrad gave him.
“That’s the second time since you arrived you’ve shown affection toward the woman. But this marriage is not a true one?”
“Nay, it is not,” he replied, too quickly. “Not at all. I will ensure Burge understands her new position. Actually, you will help with that part of my plan. And once I finish my business with Bande de Valeur, she and I will part ways.”
Conrad crossed his arms and grunted but gave no other response.
“She is a smart woman. No doubt she has a plan. Relatives, perhaps, who will keep her safe.”
Conrad laughed then, and the sound grated. “You haven’t spoken with her yet about her future plans?”
“I don’t suppose the bishop’s support of our cause, and the funds he’s offered to send de Chabannes and his company back to France, warrant any attention?”
Conrad didn’t answer. Finally, after an uncomfortably long silence, he sat back, the wooden seat creaking beneath his weight. He understood Guy’s meaning and, thankfully, did not seem inclined to harass him further on the subject of his wife.
“I’m glad to hear it,” Conrad said. “And we’ve Lord Wayfair’s support as well. Although he worries John’s rumored promise of another battle will rouse support for him from some of the southern barons.”
It was always as such. Those closest to the king in proximity were more inclined to accept his wayward tactics. They’d hoped the last wave of tax increases, along with the loss at Bouvines, for which the money had been raised, would sway opinion, even in the south. And yet, the barons to the south seemed inclined to see another battle.
“If they continue to support John after Bouvines, they are as foolish as the king.”
“You might keep that opinion contained to this chamber.”
“I’m not the one who cares what others think of me.”
Conrad snorted. “You’d make a fine earl indeed.”
It was a jest between them, and the other members of their order, that Guy had been born into the exact perfect position for him. He craved adventure, was touted as one of the greatest swordsmen in England, and would have difficulty bowing down to any overlord.
Even the king.
“Enough talk and more drink.”
He stood, Conrad following suit.
“Very well. But I have just one more question about”—Conrad cleared his throat—“your wife.”
Chapter 11
Sabine pretended to be asleep. It seemed the most prudent thing to do as she waited for Guy to arrive. Conrad—the earl had insisted she use his given name—assumed she and Guy would share a chamber, a reasonable assumption for a man and wife.
Although certainly he must understand their circumstances? He had named the earl as a co-conspirator, as “more than a friend.” Wouldn’t he confide in such a man? But Guy hadn’t objected to the sleeping arrangements.
On the road, he had insisted on giving her his bedroll—the only one they had. He was a mystery, this temporary husband of hers. Crude one moment, noble the next.
I will gladly accept your other offer as well before we reach Noreham.
She said she’d not offer herself to him, and she’d meant it. But the way he looked at her . . . Sabine couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like to relent to desire.
A reckless thought.
The door opened.
Although her back was to the door, she listened as he removed his boots, but she could not discern what else he may have removed. A splash of water and then silence. Had he used the sage and salt mixture that had been provided? And the linen strip of cloth for his teeth? Had he taken off his hose or tunic? Surely he would not sleep in the nude, as many were wont to do, with her in the same bed.
Finally, when she could no longer take the suspense, the feather bed sagged with his weight.
“You are awake, my lady?”
How had he surmised as much?
“If you’d like to discuss your offer now . . .”
“I made no offer,” she said, turning.
Although the room was lit only by candlelight, she could see his face clearly.
“How did you know?” she asked, stumbling over the last word. Though he was covered, Guy’s shoulders and arms were bare. Thick but well-defined muscles moved in tandem as he turned on his side toward her.
“That you were awake or that you were considering making an offer?”
His ever-present grin was nearly impossible to resist. Despite herself, Sabine felt the corners of her mouth tugging upward.
“That I was awake. I am most certainly not considering any offer.”
“Your breathing,” he said, staring straight at her lips. “It was much too fast, though not nearly as fast as it will be if you decide to engage in our marital responsibilities.”
What would it be like to kiss such a man?
“As we do not plan to stay married, it seems a risky proposal,” she countered. “At least for one whose belly could easily swell with a babe.”
Even though she was completely covered by her nondescript shift, as well as a soft linen coverlet, Sabine felt naked beneath his gaze.
“That is your only concern?”
His eyes locked on hers.
“One of many.”
She didn’t move as Guy reached over, his fingers brushing her shoulder as he lifted a few errant strands of her hair.
Sabine’s chest rose and fell a
s she waited for him to move his hand away. Instead, he began to twirl the hair about his fingers, never taking his eyes from hers.
“There are ways to ensure that does not happen.”
Sabine knew as much from her mother, who had been unusually free with her knowledge.
“There are other concerns as well.”
He continued to wrap her hair around his fingers.
“Such as?”
“It would not do well for us to form an attachment.”
His abrupt laughter pained her more than it should.
“I am sorry.” He stopped, but not before the sound was ingrained in her ears. “I forget you hardly know me at all.”
“And if I did?” she bit back, annoyed.
“You would know I do not form attachments. To anyone.”
He lied. “Not even to your order?”
His hand froze.
“Do you forget I heard . . . everything?” Perhaps she had pushed too hard. Or perhaps not hard enough.
“They do not hold me back.”
“As a wife would?”
“Aye.”
Certainly to hear him say so aloud was a relief. The last thing she’d set out to find was a husband in truth—a man to contain her. And yet . . .
His fingers continued their ministrations, the gentle tug somehow soothing.
“From fighting for coin?”
His eyes narrowed. “’Tis what I do. Who I am.”
She hadn’t meant for it to sound like a judgement, but he’d obviously taken it as such.
“I have . . . plans.”
The words seemed forced, as if he were sharing a difficult admission. But he’d told her nothing of his plans.
“As do I,” she admitted.
His eyes dropped down, and once again, she felt exposed. She’d never lain like this with a man, side by side in a bed.
“A girdler?”
She raised her chin, unapologetic.
“Aye. ’Tis not unheard of for a woman. My mother and her mother before her made belts, and I’ve always imagined doing so for coin. If I can find a guild . . .”