by Sarah Hegger
Helena’s gaze darted to Rosalind. Her face was unnaturally pale against the dark of her hair. Her eyes met Helena’s in a moment of silent pleading.
“She carries Guy’s child.” It was the first thing that came to mind. “She is Sir Guy’s favourite leman and he would give much to have her back.”
Rosalind shot a desperate look at Helena.
Trust me, Helena tried to convey with her eyes.
“See there, Godfrey.” The whiner made an abrupt motion toward Helena. “They both could fetch a tidy ransom.” He lowered his head belligerently. “And I am not killing no female with a babe in her belly. It is a sin.”
“Your soul is so black, you will burn anyway, you stupid sot.” Godfrey shoved the whiner, hard.
“Then you kill her.” A man behind Helena spoke up. “You kill her, Godfrey, because I do not fancy it neither.”
Helena dared not draw breath. Her heart pounded rapidly as a cornered rabbit.
Godfrey’s eyes darted from one to the other. “Sir Ranulf will not like it,” he blustered.
Perspiration broke out over Helena’s skin and slithered between her breasts.
The men quieted for a moment as they considered Godfrey’s statement. The whiner finally broke the silence. “If he doesn’t like it, then Sir Ranulf can kill her.”
“Bring her,” Godfrey commanded. “They will have to share the horse.”
Helena went limp with relief. The man behind her grunted and yanked on her arms.
Godfrey approached her again and she stiffened defensively. “I will bind you to your friend. You try and jump, you drag her off with you.” His smile gleamed, so feral that her limbs turned to water. “Surely not any good for the babe if that happens.”
Bound to Rosalind now, Helena was numb as she helped the other woman to rise. Rosalind tightened her grip on Helena’s hands.
“You should have taken your chance to rid yourself of me,” she murmured, too softly for the men to hear.
“I might yet,” Helena whispered back.
Chapter 24
Titan didn’t turn a hair. He continued to respond to Guy with all the dignity and alacrity of the magnificent beast he was. Calmly, Guy put Titan through his paces as, beside the stable yard, Stephen and a large group of knights got drunker and louder. Stephen had demanded a demonstration of Guy’s destriers and then spent the entire time drinking and laughing uproariously. It sickened Guy that they included him in their number.
Stephen held up his hands for silence as he rose to his feet. The men around him fell into an expectant hush. The king released a fart loud enough to startle the pigeons. Around him, men doubled over with hilarity.
Jesu, how much longer would they stay? The kingdom was still at war and the king and his men sat drinking Lystanwold’s wine and eating the pantries bare like a plague of locusts. Titan picked up his mood and shifted. Patience. Soon it would be back to the way it was. This time, Guy wouldn’t be dragged into the endless fighting.
He’d performed his duty many times over. Stephen would call again, but this time Guy would pay his scutage and remain with Helena.
Last night he’d behaved like a rutting beast with his lady, but she had the ability to reduce him to a quivering mess of need, of which he’d gladly indulged. She hadn’t objected, instead meeting him with the same fire.
A bolt of sudden lust made riding an uncomfortable business.
The need to wait for revenge chafed her. Helena was fierce in the protection of those she loved. And she loved each man, woman, child and four-legged beast in Lystanwold.
The waiting chafed at him as well, but he’d been too many years at war not to understand the folly of acting out of passion. Nothing would give him greater pleasure than the day he cleaved Ranulf’s head from his shoulders. Bloodlust stirred within him and Titan whickered softly. Aye, the horse understood him better than most.
As an older knight attempted to belch his entire name, Bridget picked her way through the crowd toward him. The scraggly old hag barely tolerated him, yet something about her expression made him immediately wary. He dismounted and handed Titan over to a lad.
“Cool him down and check his legs,” he instructed the boy as he pushed through the malodorous throng toward Bridget.
“Have you seen Nell?” As usual she never bothered with a greeting. I should be dead and buried before the woman ever curtsies to me.
Guy shook his head. “Nay.”
He’d spent the previous night brooding over his fight with Helena and keeping an eye on Ranulf. The accursed knight needed to know Guy of Helston had his measure.
Now he winced as another unmistakeable noise echoed around the bailey.
Bridget curled her top lip in disgust as she surveyed the group of men behind him. Then her voice dropped. “Helena did not come to dress for the evening meal. She has not been seen since shortly after Matins.”
Guy’s gut clenched. “Search,” he said. “Quietly.”
Her eyes returned to him with a look that could have singed the hair off his pate. But she merely nodded and scurried away. He vowed the woman would prefer to be drawn and quartered before she gave him his due.
His jaw tightened as disquieting notions whispered in his head. Whilst Bridget looked about, he had a few ideas of his own. Colin wasn’t in the bailey. If aught was amiss, that same instinct suggested he start there.
Had Helena so much as suspected her cousin’s proclivities? He very much doubted she did. In many ways, his Helena was still as innocent as a young maid. What he suspected would never occur to her, and that made his nape prickle in a cold sweat that broke out over his skin.
Just where was his Helena?
They’d ridden for the remainder of the day and all through the night. Helena wanted to weep with gratitude to be getting off the horse. Her hands remained tied, just as Godfrey had secured them, around Rosalind’s middle. One of the other men had taken the reins.
Her arms ached from encircling Rosalind’s huge belly, almost as much as her legs ached from the constant riding. She couldn’t risk jumping with her arms about Rosalind. It wouldn’t have done her much good in any case. The men’s vigilance never relaxed for a moment and exhaustion, hours ago, robbed her of the will to try and escape.
She had no idea where they were or in which direction lay Lystanwold. Godfrey had allowed only short stops. Her abduction had been well-planned with new mounts and refreshments waiting along the way. Well and truly lost.
Rosalind had become the only safe point in her swaying world. The journey had blurred into one long ordeal of cramped legs, horses and men’s faces. She’d never thought there would be a time when she was grateful for the woman’s company, but they had clung to each other through the journey.
Their last mount was a large, placid gelding with a broad back. The horse seemed to have no other ambition than to follow behind the other horses. By this stage, Helena could only dream of stopping.
She might have guessed Ranulf was behind this business. Later, she would need to think and plan. When she was rested, she would try and piece it together, but for now her head refused to settle enough to make sense.
Godfrey halted the party in front of a dilapidated shack. He dismounted first, strode to Helena and released her, then dragged her off the horse. Her legs buckled and she dropped to her knees rather than cling to him for support. Rosalind hadn’t fared much better and Helena struggled to her feet to assist her from the horse. She steadied Rosalind as Godfrey tugged at her.
Rosalind gasped, softly. A quick frown at Helena warned her to say nothing.
The whiner, whom the others called Simon, unbarred the door and Godfrey motioned the two women inside. She must look as bedraggled as her companion. Rosalind’s hair hung in lank tendrils around her face. The skin under her eyes had
bruised with exhaustion and her face reflected a grim shade of white.
The shack was dark with no tapers or fire, and if the heavily fouled rushes on the floor were any indication, animals had been housed here. Helena lifted her skirts and dropped them again. It could hardly make a difference now.
Rosalind leaned against her and Helena supported her further into the room. There was a cot in the corner covered with tattered linens. A bench near the cook pit was the only other furnishing. Helena moved Rosalind toward the bench and lowered her onto it. The bench, made of rough planking, appeared sturdy enough and Helena didn’t trust the cleanliness of that ragged pile of linens on the bed. The rest of the single room dwelling consisted of a few dangling bits of timber delineating what appeared to have once been a sleeping loft.
Godfrey loomed in the doorway and blocked the light from outside, as the sun sank lower in the sky. Lystanwold was far, far behind them. Helena drew comfort that by now, someone must have noticed she was missing. Bridget, at the least, would raise the alarm.
“Make yourselves comfortable.” Godfrey chuckled. “You are going to be here for a while.”
“How long is ‘a while?’” Helena asked.
Godfrey strode further into the room. “‘Taint up to me.” He approached the cot and kicked against one of its legs. The bundle of bedding groaned and shifted.
There was a person in there.
“You have company,” Godfrey said to the figure on the cot. The bundle didn’t move again. Godfrey made a sound of disgust and crossed the small space to where she and Rosalind sat.
“You do not look much like grand ladies now.” He laughed again, suddenly quite jovial. Striding out the door, he slammed it shut behind him. The bar slid into place.
There were no windows in the hut, but several gaps in the wood let in a bit of light, as well as holes in the coarse thatching of the roof.
Rosalind nodded toward the floor. “There are enough old rushes to make a fire.” Her cheeks were not as wan and she appeared to be recovering slightly.
“How will we light it?” Helena toed some of the filth underfoot.
“One of the men outside must have a flint for their own fire.”
“I could ask.” Helena didn’t hold out much hope their captors would care for their comfort.
“Who is that?” Rosalind jerked her head in the direction of the cot.
“I do not know.” Helena stood wearily. “He could be dangerous.”
“More dangerous than the bastard who locked us in here?” Rosalind pointed out.
Helena approached the cot slowly. “Your pardon?” She stood just out of reach of the cot. The figure on the bed remained motionless. She stepped closer.
A young man lay there, stripped down to his gambeson and braies, but with the build of a knight. His short-cropped hair revealed an ugly gash running across the side of his scalp. Matted blood and dirt stuck to the wound.
“He is hurt,” Helena murmured to Rosalind. “He has a nasty cut on his head.”
Rosalind got to her feet. Her footsteps dragged as she made her way over.
“We should clean that.” She motioned to the man and his wound. “Tell those idiots outside we need fire to heat some water or this man will die. If that doesn’t work, tell them my babe is coming.”
“It is not. Is it?” Helena gaped in horror.
“Just get the flint,” Rosalind retorted with a trace of her familiar tartness. She dug around in the pouch at her waist. “I have not much in hand. I had just begun collecting when I heard you and that betraying little weasel, Colin.” She pulled a face, then regarded the wounded man. “I can make him a bit more comfortable.”
Helena couldn’t think about Colin. It hurt too much. She would concentrate on getting out of this alive and then find a moment to mourn his betrayal. She blamed herself, for she’d sensed Colin wasn’t to be trusted. It had never been like him to apologize, but she couldn’t have guessed such perfidy.
Despondency weighed on her. She shook it off. There would be time for that later, too, but right now she needed activity to take her mind from their plight. She went to the door and banged loudly.
A stout man with a grimy face hauled the door open. “What?”
“Could we use your flint to make a fire? A bit of water to heat would also be very helpful.” Helena kept her tone even.
“Would it, now?” The man’s eyes glinted at her viciously. He moved to slam the door shut, but Helena struck it with the flat of her hand. Her palm ached where it cracked against the door, but the man stopped trying to shut it and glared at her.
“It is for the babe,” she said.
The man made a rude noise, but his look of confidence wavered. He yanked the door out of her hand and slammed it shut. The bar dropped into place. Their captors were taking no chances.
She turned to look at Rosalind. “Clearly not an admirer.”
Rosalind choked back a laugh. “Do you have a chainse under there?”
“Of course, but—”
“Take it off,” Rosalind instructed. “We can try cleaning him up a bit and perhaps bind that wound.” She put her hand to the man’s head. “He has a slight fever, but it is not surprising considering the state of his injury.”
The door creaked open. Helena’s ‘swain’ dumped a pot of water on the floor and dropped a flint beside it. “I not be your sodding churl,” he snarled and slammed the door shut.
“It must be true love,” Rosalind drawled.
Guy had never experienced terror like the clawing beast that rose within him when he discovered Helena was nowhere in the castle. Colin hadn’t been seen, either. About him, the king’s revels continued ceaselessly. His humour wore thinner with every hour that scraped past. He had scouts checking the woods around the castle. He champed to be with them, but Crispin had insisted he couldn’t leave the king without his host.
Jesu, but he couldn’t sit here for much longer doing naught. His evening meal lay untouched on the trencher before him. One of Stephen’s knights droned on, telling a rather bawdy story about two women and a dwarf. Guy feigned interest as he kept his eyes trained on the door to the screen’s hall. The scouts should be starting to return. There was a craven part of him that was terrified of what they would find.
Crispin sat beside him. Neither of them had touched any wine or ale. He’d never been more grateful for his brother’s presence. There was no need for words between him and his twin. Their father hadn’t seen in Crispin his quiet calm, which spoke of an inner core stronger than a blade.
Sir Ranulf sat well within Guy’s sight. It was all that kept his arse where he was. Had Ranulf not been there, the king could be damned.
Ranulf got to his feet, a goblet in his hand. Guy tensed and beside him he sensed Crispin grow more alert. The other knight sauntered across the hall, then pointedly stopped before the tapestry at the far end. Guy recalled Helena had completed it, a lovely depiction of her sister, just before the king’s visit.
Ranulf looked into the eyes of the smiling girl and snorted with laughter . . . then turned and smirked at Guy from across the hall.
Chapter 25
Ranulf had no chance to react, for Guy was over the table and across the hall before the other man could do more than stagger back a step. Men yelled and furniture scraped around him, but his eyes never left the craven sod.
“Where is she?” His bellow shook the rafters of the hall. His sword pressed against the pulse at Ranulf’s throat. Around them, the hall had fallen deadly silent. “Where is Helena?”
A gleam of triumph lit the other man’s eyes and quickly disappeared. This whoreson had something to do with Helena’s disappearance. Guy was certain of it.
“Sir Guy,” King Stephen shouted from the dais. Guy urged his blade closer to the pulse just beneath t
he surface of Ranulf’s skin. He would gut the bastard like a pig and watch him bleed with pleasure.
“Sir Guy!” The king’s voice throbbed with rage.
Finally, Guy looked up.
“You dare!” Stephen’s face was mottled with anger and his lips compressed into a tight line. “You dare to draw steel before your king?”
Rage coloured his vision but Guy took it all in with near deathlike calm. Men were on their feet throughout the hall. His own men stood by, uncertain, their hands on the hilts of their weapons. The king’s men were drawn and ready, watching him as if he was a mad dog, but not one of them had the ballocks to come closer.
Guy cared not as he turned on the man in his grasp. “I will slit your rotting neck. Where is she?”
“Have you lost your mind?” The king thundered from behind. Footsteps drew closer, but he didn’t release Ranulf.
The king’s men drew closer, trying to keep between him and their liege. The craven curs dragged their feet, though they kept their focus on him. Aye, you cowards. Guy’s lips curled over his teeth in a snarl as he let his eyes drift over them. I will slit you from arse to throat and you know it.
“Sire,” Ranulf murmured, “it seems Sir Guy is under a misapprehension. Stay your weapons.”
“What misapprehension?” Stephen stuck his chest out like a barnyard bantam. “He drew steel before the king!”
“He has my wife.” Guy addressed the king as Ranulf’s blood oozed around his blade and dripped to the floor.
A frown creased Stephen’s brow. “Are you certain?”
“Aye. And I am done with talking.” Guy pressed his sword deeper and the ooze became a trickle. Vengeance thrummed through his muscles.
“Release that man,” Stephen snapped at him. “Release him before you cut his throat.”
Guy didn’t move. Just a hair more and he would have the bastard’s blood spraying across the hall. Ranulf remained dead still. His eyes glittered up at Guy triumphantly.
