Baron of Blackwood

by Tamara Leigh

  No sooner did Durand think it than the knight protecting her left flank was overtaken by the red-bearded pursuer. The latter swung his sword and landed a blow to the other man’s chest that knocked him out of the saddle.

  Blessedly, the other pursuers veered away from the fallen knight who stood a chance providing his chain mail had deflected the blade’s edge. And it seemed it had, Durand saw as he passed near, the snow defiled not by the spray of blood but dirt flung by hooves and the knight’s tumble across it.

  As Durand urged his destrier between two of the pursuers, leaving them to his men, the red-bearded knight unseated another of the woman’s protectors. And in the few seconds it took to do so, Durand was granted the time needed to draw level with the one who sought to reach her first. Her mare no match for their war horses, they quickly drew alongside, Durand on the right, the red-bearded knight opposite.

  Gripping the saddle with his thighs, Durand released his left-handed grip on the reins and reached for the woman. It was his arm that hooked her, his opponent having not thought far enough ahead to first transfer his sword to the opposite hand.

  She screamed as Durand dragged her out of the saddle, and he had only a moment to register she sounded more enraged than fearful before the red-bearded knight caught her skirts and yanked her toward him.

  The force of the pull caused Durand’s mount to slam into the mare. Ignoring the ache shooting up his leg, Durand held onto the woman.

  Despite her precarious state—suspended above her mare between two destriers—she flailed and clawed, kicked and bucked, and so fiercely Durand feared his mount would stumble and take them both to ground.

  “Cease, woman!” He shouted and grudgingly tossed aside his sword and took up the reins to gain better control over his destrier. “I but give aid—”

  One of her kicks, all the more injurious for the boots she wore, caught the red-bearded knight in the face, and from his nose flowed crimson that ran into his bared teeth and beard. Spewing blood-colored curses, he wrenched hard on her skirt.

  The sound of tearing fabric was supplanted by her shriek. Still, the miscreant held on—until she landed another kick that thrust him sideways and loosened his hold. Then Durand had all of her.

  Turning his destrier aside, he thrust the woman onto the fore of his saddle. But though she no longer played the bone tossed between two voracious dogs, her disposition did not improve. As she continued to struggle, her loose black hair whipping across his face, he hauled her back against his chest and glanced over his shoulder at his men who were making quick work of routing the French king’s vassals, including their red-bearded leader.

  And still the woman fought, raking at the hand gripping her waist, jabbing her elbows into his mail-clothed ribs, reaching behind to scrape her nails across his jaw and down his throat.

  All too aware of the quiver and jerk of the great animal beneath them, Durand shouted, “Be still! I am King Henry’s man.”

  That settled her—as it ought to, for whoever she was and whatever King Louis’s men wanted with her, she would fare better with the English king across whose lands she had made her flight.

  Durand blew out a breath of relief that swirled white on the chill air. He had her in hand. Not a great feat compared to other services performed for King Henry and his queen, but—

  She lurched forward against the arm he had begun to relax, kicked her booted heels into his horse’s side, and slammed her elbow back into Durand’s left eye.

  He was not one to ill-treat women, but as he reeled from the blow that threatened to unseat him, he had enough presence of mind to acknowledge his enraged destrier would not suffer the woman any longer, and that could prove deadly for both of them. Thus, he gave the vixen what she sought, flinging her away so she would not be trampled beneath frantic hooves, then turning as much attention as he could muster past his pain to calming the whinnying, lurching destrier.

  The one who landed face down in snow too thin to cushion her fall, cried out. The impact jarred her bones, causing ache to shoot head to toe and blood to coat her bitten tongue, but that did not keep her from rising. There was too much at stake to pity her poor body that would be heavily bruised within the hour.

  She made it onto her hands and knees, next her feet, and nearly toppled when her boot caught on the lower edge of her bliaut that was far more familiar with the ground than it should be. The count’s man, Sir Renley, had done that, wrenching her skirt with such force the seams at her shoulders had torn through their stitches—fortunately, not all the way, else her bliaut would be down around her feet.

  Regaining her balance, she blinked to clear her vision and saw the horse she had enraged and its rider who had tossed her from it were distant, evidence the man was having no easy time mollifying the beast. But moments later, he reined his mount around and started back.

  “Dear Lord!” she gasped and spun about. She must—

  Must, but could not. Though the tail end of the count’s men who had hounded her and her escort league after league were making their way back the way they had come, pursued by a half dozen of those who had emerged from the wood, only one of her three escort sent to see her to safety remained astride. And he was in the midst of an abundance of knights who, like the one who had thrown her from his horse, were surely of King Henry.

  “So close,” she whispered, then assured herself all was not lost. Plans had been made for such an occurrence. Now if she could but keep her mouth shut…

  Holding her back to the knight who deserved whatever injuries she had inflicted, she smoothed her damp skirt, adjusted her skewed mantle, and draped the hood over her head in the hope that if she had previously encountered any of those who were yet two hundred feet distant, they would not recognize her amid the shadows.

  Lord, have mercy, she silently pleaded. Save me from the grasp of greedy men. See me safely home.

  Ignoring the pound of hooves behind, her next prayers were those of praise when the two of her escort who had been unhorsed were assisted to their feet. They stood no chance of taking a stand against so many, but she would not see them come to harm for her sake. Hopefully, words would achieve what weapons could not.

  Help me not speak where I ought to hold my tongue, Lord, she added and, to aid Him in sealing her lips, ground her teeth so hard they hurt alongside the rest of her.

  The knight at her back slowed, but she kept her gaze on the other men of his party and those of her own who advanced. When the one who had tossed her from his horse reined in to her right, she did not acknowledge him. And it was best she delayed as long as possible, for she still felt the boil of anger and knew nothing good would come of unleashing more of that emotion on him, especially as his goodwill would serve her better—if such was possible in light of the blows she had landed to his body. And his pride.

  In a surprisingly civil, albeit sardonic, tone he said, “And here I feared you might have broken your neck.”

  And who would be at fault for that, knave? she silently indulged her frustration, then pressed her lips lest her tongue tapped out those words.

  Well done, praised her beloved Conrad from afar. A civil tone upon a civil tongue is full of the possibility of goodwill, my darling.

  Unfortunately, a civil tongue was beyond her at the moment, and so a quiet tongue would have to serve.

  “Are you hurt, my lady?” the knight asked as the others continued toward them at a leisurely pace.

  Hurt. Could so simple a word describe the discomfort in every joint…the raw skin of her shoulders where her bliaut had dug in when Sir Renley wrenched at her skirt…the ache behind eyes and at the back of her head from the jolt of landing on the cold, hard earth?

  Oh, Conrad, would that you were with me, that I did not feel so alone, that my world were yet the beautiful one you built around me, that there was something to laugh about—anything! But the walls have tumbled down.

  “I hope you will forgive me for acceding to your wish to dismount,” the knight persi
sted. “’Twas that or find us both beneath the hooves of a distraught horse.” One who remained agitated, as told by snorting and the stamp of hooves upon the frozen ground.

  She knew he spoke true, that her struggles had provoked the beast enough they could have suffered grave injury, perhaps even death, but she was in no mood to forgive the man.

  She looked around.

  The knight had lowered his chain mail hood to reveal short, dark hair—and more. The side of his face into which she had thrust her elbow was livid and beginning to swell around the eye, and bloody scores ran his jaw and throat, as well as the hand he had dug into her waist. She had been vicious.

  Though she had told herself he deserved whatever hurts she had inflicted, remorse jolted her. If he and his companions had merely happened upon the count’s attempt to abduct her—had not been looking to do it themselves—they were owed gratitude. Had they not intervened, she would now be Sir Renley’s captive, and once more she would be ripped away from all she held dear.

  Regardless, unless this man allowed her and her escort to continue on to their destination, she would find herself in the company of King Henry, and that could prove as detrimental as being in the company of the count.

  As she foraged for conciliatory words, the knight’s gaze probed her shadowed face and he said, “I am Sir Durand Marshal. You are?”

  He did not know? She narrowed her lids at the one who, until that moment, she had only looked near on to note the damage done his face. Some might consider him handsome, but he was not to her taste. However, his eyes were captivating, a stunning gold she had not seen upon another.

  “Surely, as one who shall bear the mark of our encounter for all to see”—his mouth lifted toward a smile that made no sense in light of that mark—“I ought to at least have a name to put to it.”

  Perhaps it was his due, but he would not hear it from her.

  “Sir Knight!” called the only one of her escort who had remained astride during their flight. “I am Sir Amos.”

  Relieved by the interruption, she looked to the older man who was flanked by King Henry’s men and discreetly inclined her head. All was in his hands, just as she had been instructed.

  “I am Sir Durand Marshal of Queen Eleanor’s personal guard. And the lady is?”

  “Of no consequence, Sir Durand. We—”

  “Of no consequence?” There was a sharp edge to the knight’s voice. “The Count of Verielle’s men risk trespassing on King Henry’s lands for a woman who warrants no name?”

  Then he knew the identity of their pursuers. That boded ill.

  With a smile so tight it looked more a grimace, Sir Amos dipped his chin. “I can but own I am charged with delivering the lady safely to her family.”

  “And yet you nearly lost her to the count’s men.”

  “So we did, and are most grateful for your aid. But now—”

  “I guess that neither will you tell me the reason the count sought to bring the lady to ground.”

  Sir Amos’s shrug was too hesitant to be believed. “Who can say why men do such things? As ever, lawlessness abounds.”

  “Indeed.” It was said so drily she wondered why Sir Durand did not take the wineskin from his belt and wet his mouth.

  The older knight sat taller. “We are under the press of time. Thus, we ask your leave to go our way.”

  “Which way is that?”

  “’Tis of a private nature, Sir Durand.”

  “No longer. As it was across King Henry’s lands you set your course, he will have the answers you refuse me.”

  Dear Lord, it shall come to pass, the woman silently lamented. Out of the count’s reach only to land in Henry’s lap. And, certes, Eleanor and he will know me for who I am.

  For a moment, her anger was dampened by dread, then the former quickened. Being an emotion with which she had too little experience, she struggled to keep hold of it lest it broke free and made matters worse—if that were possible.

  “Sir Durand,” Sir Amos began, “I am certain King Henry—”

  “Nay, you are not,” the knight said and called, “Sir Jessup!”

  A young man with a sword across his lap and one in the scabbard at his side, urged his horse forward. “Your sword, Sir Durand.” He passed the unsheathed weapon to the other man.

  When did he lose it? she wondered. When she had fought him and Sir Renley who had threatened to tear her in two?

  “Retrieve the mare”—Sir Durand jerked his chin at where her horse had ended its flight at the tree line—“and see the lady remounted as quickly as possible. Our dinner grows cold.”

  She caught her breath. Her life had just taken another terrible turn, and he worried over his dinner?

  Tongue, stay still, she entreated. If not for me, then Conrad.

  Sir Jessup grunted. “If there yet be dinner to be had.”

  I hope it is ice in your mouth, she fumed as the young man turned his mount toward her mare. May it go down like dirty snow.

  “And here are the rest of us,” Sir Durand announced as the sound of hooves heralded the return of those who had chased away Count Verielle’s men.

  Though the possibility of escaping an audience with King Henry had been hopeless, now it was laughably so. And one look at Sir Amos confirmed he knew it. Unless God was of a mind to Himself right this wrong, England might remain a distant shore.

  Shortly, beneath the watchful gaze of Sir Durand, Sir Jessup assisted her into the saddle. Though she did not normally require aid in mounting, as she was no slight thing and Conrad had eventually come around to her way of thinking, she ached so deeply she was grateful for the consideration.

  Accepting the reins passed to her, she peered out from beneath her hood at Sir Durand.

  He inclined his head, then shouted, “To Bayeux!”

  Blessedly, despite the knave’s yearn to fill his belly, he set an easy pace that, by the time the great fortress came into view an hour later, allowed her to calm her frustration sufficiently to play the role for which she was best known—a most unusual wife.

  CHAPTER TWO

  She was hardly petite and more pretty than not—providing she did not open her mouth without benefit of a smile. Fortunately, in terms of her prospects, that smile was so white and broad it could be forgiven the small gap between her front teeth. But her laugh…

  Ladies were not supposed to express joy in that manner. It was too loud and quick, and when it eased, often it was only to take in more air with a gasp husky at its start and nearly shrill at its end. Then more laughter.

  From alongside the stairs on the eastern end of the great hall, Durand had watched her a quarter hour as she conversed with knights who had gathered around her near the fire in the cavernous hearth—a group conspicuously absent other ladies, all of whom sat distant from the peculiar woman in their midst, often looked her way, bent their heads near, and giggled behind their hands.

  They could be excused their prattle, Durand supposed. The woman was fascinating, almost scandalously so.

  Of course, he was interested in her only as long as she did not become interested in him. Though never had he been so often in the company of women than since he had entered King Henry’s service three years past, and others envied him the opportunities for flirtations, stolen kisses, and caresses, none of Eleanor’s ladies moved his heart with yearning as once—nearly twice—it had been moved. And that was a good thing, for it kept at arm’s length the temptation and sin that had nearly been the end of him when he had served the Wulfrith family and felt for Lady Beatrix—

  The woman laughed again at something one of the knights spoke near her ear, tossing her chin high and causing her veil to shift and allow a glimpse of dark hair. Not for the first time, Durand wondered who she was and her purpose here. A guest who had accompanied her lord husband to keep Christmas with their liege? The daughter of a vassal who hoped to add his indelicate offspring to Eleanor’s ladies?

  That last made him chuckle. If the queen had agre
ed to take the woman into her household, she would not be long in returning her. Indeed, were Eleanor not absent from the hall, she would see such brazen behavior reined in.

  Durand sighed. As he had been away from Bayeux a fortnight to attend to Henry’s business in Rouen, it would take some time to bring himself current on what had transpired in his absence. Fortunately, the men he had entrusted with Sir Amos’s party when he had received the king’s summons upon their arrival hours past, would oblige him over tankards of ale—if they could be coaxed away from that woman.

  Deciding it was time to coax, he strode forward. As he did so, she glanced his way, glanced again, and lowered her smile.

  His face, over which Henry had not been quietly amused, surely offended. But he did not care. He was simply grateful his eye had not swelled to such an extent his vision was obstructed.

  He was a stride from the gathering when the woman swung to her right where another knight approached.

  “My lady.” The man halted, took her hand, and bent over it. “I am Sir Oliver.”

  There was her smile again, big and bright, even in profile, and it stopped Durand from ordering the two knights behind whom he had paused to take drink with him.

  Sir Oliver straightened. “And you are?”

  She clicked her tongue. “Ah, Sir Oliver, do not pretend you have not inquired. I laugh much too often and loud for others to not ask after me, even if only to know what name to pair with a curse.”

  Those around her chuckled.

  Durand did not. As much as he disliked being intrigued by a woman, he was equally appalled to hear one speak thus.

  “A curse, my lady?” The knight’s eyes lowered and momentarily stuck to her chest that, despite the modest cut of her bodice, did not hide that she was generously endowed. “I cannot imagine cursing you.”