Sir John heaved another sigh. “My lady…I understand your concern for your brother, truly I do. But…”
“Sir John—” Eleanor leaned forward, her hand outstretched. “You know that Hugh could be killed. You know it’s possible they would do that. You know that that could well be the reason for the huge ransom—they look for an excuse to kill him. And I can’t let that happen to him. I can’t.” A tear spilled down her cheek.
Sir John’s grim face softened. “My lady, my dear lady, please don’t weep. I know how much you love your brother. And there is truth in what you say. The whole thing stinks of a ruse—a ruse to kill either him or Lord Richard or both. And I swore to your father on his deathbed I would protect the two of you, though it seems to me I’ve done a poor enough job of it so far.” He gave her a crooked grin.
“Please, Sir John.” She waved her hand. “You have no need to think my father would find your service wanting in any way. But you do see why I think we had best not wait for my husband—” She broke off. How easily the phrase slipped off her tongue. “For my husband to return. Even if he were to bring reinforcements from the Marshal—”
“There’s nothing to guarantee that, my lady.” Sir John shook his head. “I wouldn’t expect that at all.”
“I don’t.” She smoothed her skirts over her knees. “What do you say, then?”
“I must think on it. This isn’t something we can enter upon lightly, or without great forethought. At least we know where Hugh is. And we know he’s not going anywhere. That gives us one advantage. As for the rest…” The old man rose to his feet. His back was as straight as a broadsword. “Let me think on it. There must be some way to divert them from their keep—if we can surprise Llewellis, even as Hugh himself was surprised—we may be able to arrange an exchange, which will shed little blood, and cost nothing.”
Eleanor rose as well. For the first time, she felt as though there was some hope, as if the nagging doubts of endless waiting were about to be assuaged. Action was always better than simply waiting for the worst to happen. It kept her thoughts from wandering too often to Richard—which they had an annoying habit of doing, lately. “I thank you, Sir John, from the very bottom of my heart. And I know my father would thank you as well.”
“I am still his sworn man, my lady. That oath will only die when I do.” He gave her a brief bow and walked with aged dignity out of the room.
“I want the scouts posted on the southern road night and day, do you understand me?” Giscard Fitzwilliam paused long enough in his chewing to gesture with the chicken leg. “There’s not to be one minute of the day or night that the southern road goes unguarded, do I make myself clear?”
“Perfectly, my lord.” The captain of the guard bowed.
“Then what are you waiting for?” With a snarl, Giscard waved a dismissal. He grinned at the man who lounged on the other side of the fire. “You have to keep the fear of God in them, you know, Guillaume. Once they lose that, there’s no telling what you can expect to happen.”
Guillaume laughed, an unpleasant sound like a rasp deep in his throat. “So you’ve decided to attack him from the southern road?”
Giscard stretched. “For the moment, yes. Unless something else occurs to me.” He gestured to the hide map pinned to the table before the irre. “You see the way in which the land lies. What do you think?”
Guillaume shrugged. “The southern road makes sense, I suppose. De Lambert’s mind will be on returning to his hearth—he’ll have little thought anyone might lie in wait for him. And here”—he pointed with one long finger, dirty nail tapping the rough hide—“this is by far the best place for an ambush, but it’s perilously close to de Lambert’s own lands. Are you certain you want to risk discovery?”
“Discovery by whom? The bastard whelp got himself captured by the Welsh. The sweet Lady de Lambert will have more important things to worry about than posting guards to ensure her husband’s safe return. Who is there to discover us?”
“Us? You’re not thinking I’m willing to have a hand in this—some might call this murder.”
“Of course I include you. I am not about to entrust this venture to the same buffoons who mismanaged the last. This time, when de Lambert dies, he’s going to stay dead.”
Guillaume frowned. “It sounds likely enough, brother. But you don’t think our royal master is going to be pleased about this, do you? He’s always admired de Lambert—do you think yourself such a friend he will turn a blind eye? And if he finds out, he might even refuse to allow you to wed the grieving widow.”
“By the time he does find out—if he finds out—I shall have wed the grieving widow long since. It will be too late for him to do anything about it. And what will he care, really? He has no personal attachment to de Lambert.”
Guillaume shrugged and picked at the last of the figs. “You play a dangerous game. What if your own men are spotted, even as they watch? Think you the Lady de Lambert is so naive as to suspect nothing?”
Giscard shook his head, contempt plain on his face. “So a few men are spotted in the wood. So what? Who’s to say for certain they are mine? Do you think I’m so foolish as to send them in their colors? I might as well knock on the manor gate and ask permission to slit de Lambert’s throat while he sleeps.” Giscard chuckled at the thought. “No, brother. Surely you know me well enough to know that I will take every precaution possible.”
Guillaume reached for the wineskin that rested on the floor by his chair. He tipped the wineskin over his goblet. The dark purple liquid splashed into the cup. “So you thought in October.”
“But no one suspected me. The Welsh were blamed.”
“And it’s possible to blame them once more. After all, who would not suspect them, after what de Lambert did to that village?” Guillaume replaced the skin on the floor and sipped the wine. “Excellent vintage.” He raised his goblet to Giscard. “To success, brother. In all you do.”
The two men exchanged smiles as Giscard raised his own goblet.
“A letter?” Eleanor wiped her hands on her dirty linen apron and looked up eagerly. She was up to her elbows—figuratively at least—in the making of the last batch of candles before the coldest weather made such outdoor activities unpleasant if not impossible. Servants bustled here and there, carrying bundles of firewood, stirring the huge pots of smoking tallow. There had to be enough to last both manors through the cold winter months ahead.
“Aye, my lady.” The young servant dipped another awkward bow.
“I’m coming.” Eleanor craned her head. On the other side of the yard, Ursula supervised the trimming of the long wicks. “Ursula! Come here and take my place, please—there’s a letter.”
The older woman looked up, surprise and then worry creasing her face. Letters were so few and far between.
“Where is the messenger?” asked Eleanor as she followed the girl across the yard.
“In the hall, my lady. Sir John told him to wait there while I came to fetch you.”
“Thank you.” Eleanor nodded and smiled and continued on her way. Could it be from Richard? Suddenly a cold chill went down her back. He’d been gone nearly a month. Surely it was time for him to retum, unless—Her mind refused to shape the troubling thought. Unless he was sick or reinjured. Biting her lip, she made her way into the hall. A tall man, younger than Richard but older than Hugh, sat before the fire. A serving woman set a plate of oatcakes and apples before him while he sipped from a cup.
With a start, Eleanor recognized his livery. He was a servant of William the Marshal. “Greetings, sir,” she said, embarrassed by her workday clothes, her stained apron and untidy coif.
Instantly the man was on his feet, bowing. “My lady de Lambert. I bring a letter from your lord, and greetings and best wishes for your continued health and happiness from Lord William.”
“Thank you,” she said. He handed her the letter, and eagerly she broke the seals.
The message was brief: “Greetings, my lady. I hope t
his message finds you in good health. I shall arrive less than a fortnight after this message reaches you, so long as the roads and the weather hold good. Richard.”
Eleanor stared at the parchment. The letter itself was penned in a monastery-bred hand, which was to be expected, since Richard himself could neither read nor write. But the signature puzzled her. The letter had been signed and sealed as was customary, by the person from whom the message was from, not the person who wrote it down. The seal was unmistakably Richard’s own, for she’d seen him use it. But the signature was not the crudely scrawled letter R she was used to seeing, this was the full name, written by the hand of someone who was not only more practiced in writing than the Richard she knew—but also knew how to spell “Richard.” With a troubled frown, she looked up. “Lord Richard sent this?”
“Aye, lady, he handed it to me himself in front of Lord William, and bid me bring it posthaste.”
“’And how did Lord Richard look?”
“Well, lady. He seemed in good spirits and excellent health when I left him, and he told me to tell you to allay any fears you might have of your own in that regard.”
Eleanor looked at the signature again. “I know this may sound like a strange question—do you have any idea who wrote this?”
“I believe one of Lord William’s scribes penned it, lady. Is aught amiss?” The messenger’s expression was puzzled.
“N-no, of course not,” she answered. “’Tis only a relief to have news at last—I thank you, messenger. Will you stop here tonight?”
“No, my lady. I am directed on to Hereford. There is other business for Lord William that awaits.”
“Then enjoy your refreshments, and Godspeed.”
“Thank you, my lady.”
Clutching the paper close, Eleanor went to find Sir John. If anything were to be done about Hugh, it would have to be done soon.
CHAPTER 13
The road wound down through the trees, the narrow graveled track barely more than a path. Someday, mused Richard, this path might well be the highway he’d take eight hundred years from now to reach this part of the world. He wished he knew more about the topography of Britain. But, he wondered, looking around at the dense forest that closed in on all sides, even if he did, what good would it do him?
The last few weeks had shown him that he had to rely on instinct, not reason. He found he could speak and understand the language better if he didn’t allow himself to question the noises that issued from his throat. The same with swordplay and horseback riding—his body seemed to know what to do, even if he didn’t.
Now, however, he ached all over. The closer he got to Barland, the more he seemed to hurt, as if he were finally allowing himself to feel the accumulated stress of the last…months. Months already, he mused. It had already been more than two months since his…transformation. He didn’t know what else to call it.
His thoughts turned to Eleanor—as he was forcing himself to think of her. In the last weeks she crept into his consciousness at every waking moment, even the most inopportune. A color, a scent, a glint of light, and there she was, momentarily obliterating everything and everyone else. Reincarnation wasn’t something he’d ever considered seriously, but the evidence of his own experience—albeit an experience he could scarecely accept—seemed to be overwhelming.
Because here they both were—together in the 13th century. He thought of all the things he’d taken for granted and accepted without thought. Central heat, refrigeration—these were the least of them. He’d settle for underwear that didn’t itch, socks that didn’t bunch irritatingly around his toes, and razors that didn’t make him wonder if he might slit his own throat. And roads that didn’t cause pain in every fiber of his body when he traveled over them.
Hopefully, as everyone seemed to believe, nothing—meaning fighting—would happen in the next few months as the winter settled in. Perhaps he could find a way to return to the 21st century once Eleanor’s brother had been ransomed.
But if he went back to his own time, he would lose Eleanor—Lucy—again.
Not that he might not lose her here. William the Marshal had been less than happy with him—news of the slaughter had reached him and the Marshal had lashed into him with a fury Richard could only endure. Richard had assured him—when he was bid to answer—that amends would be made, apologized for the horrific actions of the former inhabitant of his body, and seized the opportunity to tell all about Hugh. A pity, the Marshal had answered, that the boy pays for your deeds. However, William, who apparently not only remembered Eleanor and her father, and was fond of both, listened attentively, and while he shrewdly did not mention money, promised “aid.”
Whatever that meant, thought Richard, as he glanced at the thick woods on either side of the road. The dozen men in his retinue jogged along in silence. Richard glanced at Geoffrey. He had no doubt that Geoffrey viewed him with suspicion, and knew that something was very different about the man he had sworn to serve with his life. Now Geoffrey leaned forward, interrupting his thoughts. “My lord, we’re at least another three hours from Barland, and night will fall in less than two. I don’t think it’s wise to press on.”
Richard glanced around. The roads themselves made for slow going. Riding in the dark would be treacherous. “All right. We’ll stop at the—” He glanced at Geoffrey, who was watching him closely. “At the usual place,” he finished.
Geoffrey nodded, and turned away.
A sharp crack from a splitting log roused Angharad from her doze. The afternoons were long and dull and dark in the winter, and in the gathering dusk there was little to do but sew and spin. The idle talk of the other women bored her to tears, and the heat of the fire lulled her to a fitful sleep. She started awake, and glanced around. The women were still clustered around the hearth, bent over their sewing.
In one corner, Nesta braided Bronwyn’s hair into intricate plaits. Angharad stretched and rose to her feet. She ignored the other women and gazed out the window. In the courtyard below, men and horses were milling around in every direction. It looked as if they made preparation for a raid.
“What’s going on down there?” she asked over her shoulder.
“Down where?” asked Mairedd.
“In the courtyard, ninny.” Angharad could hardly contain her contempt. “Didn’t you hear anything? It looks as though Llewellis is riding out.”
“Riding out?” Mairedd blinked and yawned. “Surely not. It looks as though it’s about to snow.”
“It does, but he’s definitely going somewhere. Come see.” Angharad stood aside.
With another sigh and a huge yawn, Mairedd heaved herself to her feet. She peered out the window, and frowned. “But where could he be going? At this hour?”
“There’s only one way to find out.” Without waiting for a response, Angharad ran out of the room and down the steps to the hall, where she found Hugh pacing back and forth in front of one of the hearths. “What are you doing down here?” Every time he showed his face, one of Llewellis’s knights caught him and gave him what they called a “roughing up”—something that involved blood and bruising and stopped just short of permanent damage.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said, nodding toward the doors. “And everyone else is. Why not come see what all the fuss is about?”
“But where’s my brother going?”
“The scouts came in less than an hour ago. There’s a troop of Normans moving through the forest—Llewellis thinks it’s another raid.”
“Now?” She blinked. “At this hour?”
“Such things have happened.” Hugh stared at her. “He won’t let me go with him.”
“And why should he?” She shook her head in exasperation. “You’re a Norman. Why trust you?”
“He’s willing to trust you with me.” Hugh took a step closer.
Angharad raised her chin. “Don’t count on anything, Norman. You’re landless and have very few prospects. And—”
“You’re dowerles
s, and have as few prospects as I. You live here by your brother’s sufferance and you know it.”
“And you live by de Lambert’s.”
“But with him out of the picture—” Hugh came closer. She raised her eyes to his. His chin was shadowed with the very faintest haze of beard, and his eyes were dark in his pale face. An unruly lock of hair spilled over his high forehead. “If he’s out of the picture, that’s another story completely.”
Angharad was confused. She liked Hugh, that was undeniable. He was amusing and fun to play with at chess. He didn’t dismiss her out of hand and send her off to languish with the women the way her brother did. And he didn’t try to take liberties, either, the way some of the other boys did.
He gave her a crooked grin. “The old Marshal wants peace and de Lambert has given him anything but. And if our union gives a measure of peace to the marchers—”
“Our union—” Angharad sputtered, shaking her head. She gathered her skirts, spun on her heel, and ran out of the hall, retreating to the safety of the solar as quickly as she could.
“Llewellis is on the march, my lady.” Sir John’s face was grim.
Eleanor raised her head from her sewing and stared. Without having to contrive anything, the Welshman was moving?
“Truly?”
“Aye, my lady. We’ve no idea why, though. But if we want to have a prayer of capturing him—I say we move now”
“As you say, Sir. John.” Eleanor got to her feet. The old knight bowed and turned to leave, and in that moment, Eleanor came to a decision she had been toying with ever since she’d decided to engage Sir John’s help. “I’m coming with you.”
“My lady?” He turned back to her.
“I said, I’m coming with you. I’ve but to change out of these clothes. I can ride as well as the next man.”
[1997] Once and Future Love Page 11
