by Brit Darby
It was the right thing to say and Alianor quelled the urge to hug Isabella. De Lacy subsided, muttering to himself, low enough not to be heard by the Queen, but Alianor could well interpret the swearing under his breath. The two women turned to go and de Lacy rose too. He swayed and clutched at the railing, unsteady on his feet. Alianor wondered if he truly was so drunk he could hardly stand, or if he merely pretended. “I am going with you,” he declared.
Isabella arched an eyebrow. “Do you distrust your Queen, Lord de Lacy?” She sounded chill and dignified.
“Not at all, Your Grace. ’Tis my wife whom I distrust. She is an expert at using clever ploys to escape me.”
“May I remind you, milord, ’twas you who flung the drink upon Nora.” Isabella gave him an icy look, her youth giving way to a persona commanding great respect. “Yet I suppose I cannot dissuade you, if you distrust your Queen enough you feel inclined to shadow your lady wife.”
Despite looking a trifle abashed by the Queen’s comment, de Lacy insisted upon going. He followed the women as they retreated to the field and entered a large pavilion set aside for the knights who were competing to store gear and weaponry.
The Queen’s guards quickly emptied the tent of others to give Alianor privacy. When de Lacy looked as if he would enter with her, Isabella’s look stayed him. So Alianor entered the tent alone, as the Queen remained outside with de Lacy. Instead, only his voice followed her inside. “If you will hand me the soiled gown, my dear, I need not fear you running off.”
She laughed. “Do you presume I would do so in my smock, Quintin?”
Her using his name pleased him, and imagining such a scene caused his manner and voice to ease somewhat. “If so, you’d draw much attention and I do not think you’d get far.”
Would you like to wager upon it, milord? Alianor thought.
Chapter Twenty-eight
ALIANOR GLANCED OVER THE contents inside the tent. She spied a pile of discarded clothing by men who were competing in the games. Those who could afford it changed clothing between events.
She stripped and handed her soiled gown through the tent flap to de Lacy. His low rumble of laughter irritated her as he took it. Bastard, you think you’re so clever, Alianor fumed. She sifted through the pile of clothing until she found something plain and loose enough to conceal her distinctly feminine curves.
First she changed into the brown braies and matching tunic, and stuffed her hair into an apprentice’s cap, careful no long strands were missed. Weapons of every sort lay scattered about the long tables. She chose a rondel dagger and a short bow with a quiver filled with arrows, slinging the latter over her shoulder to rest upon her back. At the rear of the tent she knelt and used the dagger to slice an opening big enough for her to crawl through. She heard a group of loud, laughing men approaching. When they passed she slipped out and rose to melt into their midst, tugging the cap low over her brow.
Her anxious gaze searched for Liam amidst the throng, paying little attention to the other men crowded close about her. But when the group stopped and the men fanned out into various positions she was forced to take heed of her whereabouts. They had entered the archery arena where quintain targets were set up for the bow competition. They readied their weapons and Alianor decided it was time to move on before someone noticed her.
Too late — a gruff-looking man approached her. “’ere, lad.” He shoved a wooden cup at her. “You need to draw yer lot.”
Hesitantly, Alianor drew a stick from it, hoping he would move on.
“Devil’s luck! The lad goes first,” another man standing beside her cried out, giving her a good-natured slap on the back. “Let’s see what the stripling can do.”
Male laughter echoed about her. Their eyes took her measure, watching, waiting. Alianor had no choice but to step up to the mark. She pulled an arrow from the quiver hanging on her back, nocked it and examined the target fifty yards distant. The game was timed for speed as well as accuracy. Long years had passed since she competed, and back then, she had posed as a boy as well.
Alianor steadied her aim. A signal was given and she released the arrow. It landed true, thudding squarely in the center of the target, where a man’s heart lay. Those watching gawked, open mouthed in surprise. They had not expected a mere youth to display much skill.
She drew each successive arrow and aimed. In less than a minute, half a dozen arrows were spent and the straw heart was filled with feathered shafts. The men were silent, and Alianor worried they knew she was an imposter. They burst into excited talk and laughter.
“Another King’s archer in the making.”
“Buy the lad a drink.”
“If’n he’s weaned from his mam’s tit yet, I might.”
Alianor couldn’t help but chuckle at the crude banter but feared she might buckle under the hearty back pounding she received. Their jubilance was nearly her undoing.
“Who’d have thought a wee lad could shoot so true?”
Another added, “An’ he’s a pretty one. Best watch yourself, laddie. There’s some ’ere who prefer pretty boys t’ the pretty girls.”
Jostled about amidst the grinning archers, Alianor found herself the center of attention, just what she did not need. She stammered excuses, trying to extract herself from the situation, but they had taken a liking to her, and vied for the honor of sponsoring her before the King. For she — posing as a he — was the archer to beat this day.
As the raucous horseplay continued, Alianor searched desperately for Liam. There were so many people, too many eyes watching her. Yet none of them were emerald green. Where was he?
QUINTIN DE LACY STARED at the Queen. He was furious and wanted to say something harsh, yet she looked genuinely surprised and dismayed by Alianor’s disappearance.
“She’s not in the tent? Wherever could she be?” Isabella wondered.
Halfway across Ireland by now, you little dolt, Quintin thought, but bit back the retort. His anger was quelled by weariness. He’d had too much to drink, and he’d been up until dawn the previous day, sporting with a pair of lusty twins.
De Lacy tossed Alianor’s soiled gown aside with a snarl. “She wandered off in her smock. Merely to spite me, I’m sure.”
He whirled on his men who stood there with their mouths gaping open. “Don’t stand there like fools. Find her!”
Isabella watched the men dart about, uncertain where to start their search but fearing de Lacy’s rage more.
She might be young, but she was bright enough to recognize the underlying sarcasm in de Lacy’s voice when he spoke to her. Therefore, she didn’t feel at all inclined to tell this nasty-tempered lordling Alianor most likely slipped away clad as a young boy, something Isabella thought cunning. Let de Lacy find this out for himself, she decided. She didn’t like the disrespectful way he spoke to her.
Regally, Isabella turned and made her way back to the stands and her husband’s side. John wouldn’t like to hear about this any more than de Lacy had. Truly, it hadn’t been her fault. How could she have known Nora would be so foolish? Her dear friend took risks without second thoughts. In her heart, she prayed Nora might escape, but she feared there was no chance of it.
Isabella felt badly Nora hated de Lacy so much, but there certainly was no love lost between herself and her King. It was merely the lot of women in life. To accept one’s fate was for the best. To fight it only made for trouble — and misery.
Isabella smiled as she remembered how Nora had blazed into her life, like a comet across the heavens. Aye, she adored her from the first time they had met near ten years before at her own wedding in Bordeaux.
Had she only been twelve years old? It seemed so long ago. Now she had two sons, Henry and Richard, and a third soon to come. They were her whole life. It mattered not the King seldom sought out her bed — the less, the better.
By the time she returned to John’s side, he had received word of Alianor’s disappearance. He ordered men from his own guard to join the hunt for t
he recalcitrant bride. About them the frantic search continued beneath the veneer of tournament gaiety and jubilant celebration.
Isabella studied her husband, noting the way his thick hands trembled, perspiration dampening his upper lip. Sadly, she realized the evil gossip was true: John planned to take Nora to his bed this night. Poor Nora had been too ashamed to tell her, perhaps fearing Isabella would be angry with her. Nothing could be further from the truth. It was John whom she blamed, and she glared in smoldering silence at her husband, the great King.
John turned to his personal guard and said, “I am weary of playing games. High time this woman learns she cannot go against the wishes of her King.”
“Aye, Your Majesty.”
“Fetch the monk.”
Isabella looked at him. “What monk?”
Annoyed by her interruption, John waved his hand impatiently. “Fortunately, when our men discovered Lady Alianor hiding at Cill Dara, they also stumbled across her brother. Rather the idiot monk bumbled right into them, protesting his sister’s arrest.”
“You cannot punish Camber for another’s misdeeds, John. ’Tis wrong.”
Surprised by the sharp censure in her voice, John scowled. When had his mealy-mouthed little wife grown a backbone? It appeared Alianor was a bad influence on Isabella, all the more reason to put an end to her defiance. He’d known he’d have need for the witch’s brother, sooner or later.
With Camber in his possession, he had the upper hand with Alianor. She did not suspect the lengths he would go to have his way. He had conspired against his own brother, King Richard, in his quest for the throne. And had he not sacrificed his own nephew, Arthur of Brittany, when the young pup had thought to usurp his rightful inheritance? There was precious little he wouldn’t do to claim one night with the woman who had teased his cock for years. There was no mercy left in his gut.
Ignoring Isabella’s disapproving stare, John gloated as he helped himself to a pastry on a passing tray. He was not worried. Truly, what chance did a mere wench and a monk have against the King of England?
As an afterthought, he motioned over a guard. “Our Queen is not feeling well. See she gets back to her rooms to rest.”
“John!” Isabella protested. “I am fine. I would stay.”
He looked at her, and what she saw in his eyes caused further argument to die upon her lips.
LIAM HAD SEEN THE Queen reappear in the stands without Alianor. From the commotion among the King’s guards, it was clear she must have escaped. He had seen de Lacy fling his ale on her and it took every bit of will he possessed to restrain himself, to still the urge to leap into the stands and slay the villain.
A cold, dark dread filled his heart whenever he imagined the blackguard touching Alianor, whether in anger or lust. If he killed de Lacy, one threat would be resolved, but he would be unable to help with the other, the King. No, he must find a way to get Alianor away — quickly, and quietly.
A grin curved his lips as he recalled de Lacy standing guard outside the tent where Alianor had gone to change. The clever colleen had escaped right beneath the idiot’s nose! Nothing she did should surprise him anymore; he’d learned firsthand how resourceful she was. But where was she?
He stroked the tercel riding on his wrist. “Let’s find your mistress a’fore she gets into more trouble.” As if he understood and agreed, Goliath responded with a content chirp and a nod of his golden head.
ALIANOR HAD MANAGED TO escape the archery competition after all, by feigning a call of nature. Once she vanished into the crowd, she knew her would-be sponsors would have difficulty finding her again.
High above her, she heard Goliath’s cry and shaded her eyes to search the blue expanse for him. Three whistled notes pierced the noise about her, the command for him to return. Goliath plunged into the crowd, his wings spreading to slow his descent, and fluttered to an outstretched arm. Liam had sent Goliath in search of her.
“Like me, it seems Goliath has not forgotten his mistress.”
The soft words sent chills down to her toes. Alianor turned toward the voice. The black knight stood before her, his helmet tucked under one arm and a smile playing upon his lips.
Her gaze devoured Liam, and he in turn looked on the verge of sweeping her up in his arms and striding off to the nearest pavilion.
“I thought mayhap you were waiting for me to find you.” Alianor ached to run into those strong arms, kiss those sensual lips. She knew it would draw too many eyes, dressed as she was. But still, the temptation was great. She stepped towards him, while Goliath made a low chuckling noise, happy to see her too.
Liam met her halfway, raising his hand to touch her cheek tenderly. His eyes spoke the words he could not. His thumb traced her lower lip, and she closed her eyes trying to fight the aching desire he stirred within. “Alianor,” he whispered. Only her name. It was enough.
Alianor drew a shaky breath, and opened her eyes again. “Perhaps we’d best go. The King’s men are everywhere.”
“Aye.” Liam’s gaze moved from her, scanned their surroundings and returned to her. A dark fire lit the depths of his eyes. “Might I observe, you look rather saucy in this attire, milady.”
She could not help but laugh, recognizing the huskiness in his voice and what it meant. “I must remember to wear trews sometimes, for it seems they arouse you, sir knight. In truth, I am surprised you recognized me at all in my disguise.”
“You could wear a hair shirt and be wholly bald, milady. I would know you anywhere.”
“So it was not Goliath who found me, after all.”
“Nay,” he said, reluctantly withdrawing his hand before anyone observed their familiarity. “I spotted those incredible blue eyes searching the sky for him. As for the trews, sweet witch, you will pay later for being a tease.” The dimple tugged at his cheek, and Alianor smiled. Not so long ago, she had feared she would never see his dimple again.
Heavens help her, she wanted him. His nearness made her burn, made her hunger for his embrace, his fierce and gentle lovemaking. Even with danger at every turn, she could think of nothing else but being in his arms. What kind of woman was she?
A woman in love.
Liam replaced his helmet and rehooded Goliath. Together they moved through the crowd but it seemed hopeless. Every way they turned the King’s guards blocked their exit from the grounds.
Seeing Liam’s hand rested upon the hilt of his sword, Alianor knew he was prepared to fight, and she prayed for another recourse. He could not hold off more than a few men. They threaded through the crowd for what seemed forever. Like navigating a maze, they followed the makeshift aisles, cut between pavilions and crossed back and forth, searching for a way out.
A murmur interrupted the joyous chatter about them and they halted, both of them wary at the abrupt change in mood. A herald trumpeted three notes, signaling the King was about to speak. The throng quieted, and all eyes turned to the stands.
King John lifted his right hand in a lofty gesture to his people. “We gathered today to celebrate a joyous occasion of marriage. Alas, it appears Lady de Lacy has suffered an unfortunate change of heart. One hundred marks to the man who brings the wayward bride back to her distraught husband, safe and sound.”
The people buzzed with excitement, taking on a new, more dangerous, fervor. The generous reward money drove them into a frenzy of excitement.
Everyone was suspect as all the men and women turned to study their neighbors with new intensity. Alianor clutched Liam’s arm, and together they tried to blend, disappear into the sea of milling bodies.
Thankfully, everyone was looking for a woman, not a boy. Alianor kept her gaze downcast, acting the role of squire to the black knight, and by all appearances, went unnoticed. They wove their way through the milling throng. Alianor glimpsed the end of the field and freedom beckoned.
Suddenly, the King’s voice rose above the din again, his deep voice carrying across the grounds with ease. “Perhaps this will convince the missing brid
e it would be wise to return to her husband’s side.”
Alianor froze, her instincts screaming as she whirled back towards the stands. She was some distance away and could barely see what was happening, but the crowd went into another fevered pitch of excitement. Whatever it was, Alianor knew she would not like it.
Liam came after her and grabbed her arm. “Alianor, ’tis our only chance. We must hurry.”
“Wait. I must know what is going on.”
Seeing the fear on her face, he gave in, despite the urgency driving them.
King John stepped onto a dais above the crowd, where he customarily awarded the prizes after the tournament. Alianor gasped — that was no prize being shoved up the steps. It was her brother. Horror struck Alianor like a lightning bolt, sapping her strength as Liam rushed to support her.
Her fists clenched at her sides as one of the King’s guards jabbed his pikestaff at the back of Camber’s legs. Her brother stumbled and fell to his knees; his white robes twisted about his legs. Cam huddled on the dais before the King, hands bound before him, his head bowed.
Glancing disdainfully down at Camber, the King spoke again in ringing tones. “Lady de Lacy, we do not wish to harm your brother — after all, he is a man of God. But choose your course carefully, for our patience has run out.”
The King allowed his threat to sink in but Alianor needed to hear no more. She started back towards the dais, but Liam restrained her, his look warning her not to give in.
Her heart constricted when the King continued. “We’ve been tolerant, but we shall not abide your insolence any longer. You have five minutes to return to the stands Lady de Lacy. If you do not — let us say it will not bode well for Brother Camber.”
A murmur went up from the crowd. In the old days it was rare monks were arrested, especially without due cause, but King John had never feared the Church. Rome was far away and the Pope had no influence here.
Lackland had been dubbed a tyrant for good reason, and those gathered collectively held their breath as the minutes ticked by, mesmerized by the scene unfolding before them. The tension grew thicker, chilling the air with its dire meaning.
