by Sahara Kelly
She was his. All his.
Chapter 11
As the leisurely Sunday morning routines unfolded at Maltby Abbey, Guy and Gilles returned to their barnyard quarters and dressed for the day, after a restorative dip in the cool waters of what they now regarded as their private bathing pond.
They’d left their ladies to their duties, lingering farewells having taken more time than either of them had thought, and Linnet had sent a message to the local cleric asking that church services be held an hour later that day in honor of some Saint or other’s birthday.
Mechele had laughed at her. “Good grief, Linnet. What will everyone think?”
Linnet had grinned back. “Do you worry?”
“Not in the least. In truth, an hour’s grace will be most welcome. I’m in sore need of a bath.”
The girls had shared a chuckle at that one and hurried to their chambers, leaving their men sharing identically satisfied smiles. Which they had, of course, immediately wiped off their faces as soon as they’d realized it.
“So,” said Guy, from the depths of his shirt.
“Well,” said Gilles, struggling into his breeches and hopping on one foot.
“It looks as if we’re truly defeated, my friend.” Guy’s words were accompanied by a smile that belied his nickname. There was nothing cold about those gray eyes this particular morning.
“That snapping noise you hear is my white flag of surrender flying in the breeze,” chuckled Gilles. “She’s my mate, Guy. Linnet Aylmer has laid siege to my heart and last night the barbican tumbled, the portcullis rose—did it ever— and her victory was complete.” He paused. “And never have I felt better about anything.”
Guy slapped his friend on the shoulder. “I too, Gilles. Mechele is—is—”
He looked up and laughed as he watched an eyebrow quirk over a pair of merry blue eyes. “I know. The North Wind never stutters. That’ll tell you how deeply I feel for this woman. She’s mine, Gilles. No question, no negotiation. She’s mine.”
“So now, before we claim our prizes, all we need to do is settle this mess with Lymington.” Gilles brought them back to earth with a thump.
“Well, that shouldn’t be too hard, knowing what we know now. About the amount of the tribute. I certainly would like to get a good look at Lymington’s accounting. Lord Benstede has never mentioned receiving anything above that man’s set tribute, so I’ll bet my warhorse that he’s withholding a lot of it for his own coffers.”
Gilles frowned. “I wonder at Benstede. ‘Tis out of character for him to leave such a man in charge of a shire like this.”
Guy shrugged. “It’s a big country, my friend. Since peace finally arrived, there’s been much sorting out of properties to be done. No one can be everywhere at once. And you know the journey we’ve been on. It’s taken us months just to visit and observe four shires. Now multiply that by I don’t know how many other shires, and you’ll see why one Lord cannot possibly keep track of every single estate.”
Gilles nodded. “Sometimes, I suppose, it’s easier to let those in charge remain in charge. They are supposed to know the land and its people, and…”
He paused, lifting his head slightly as a breeze blew in through the open doors.
Guy, pulling on his boot, also stopped dead.
“Do you smell that?”
“Smoke.”
Before the word was out of his mouth, Guy was down the stairs with Gilles right behind him.
They’d fought in too many battles to mistake the smell for a cooking fire, or anything other than what it was.
Somewhere, somewhere very near, a building was burning.
* * * * *
With unthinking coordination, Guy ran for the pump next to the house, while Gilles ran for the courtyard and yelled “Fire”.
His battle cry echoed around the tranquil morning air and brought people to the doors of their homes.
“Fire, Fire,” he bellowed, running to join Guy at the pump and hunting for the source of the smoke.
His steps took him to the rear of Maltby Abbey.
There, leaning against the stone foundation, was a large pile of logs, burning with a fierce crackle and shooting flames upwards towards the wooden floors above. The windows had been left open during the cool early summer night, and smoke must even now be filling the rooms.
Guy gasped as a flickering tongue of flame found a new home in the overhanging eaves.
Sparing a prayer of thanks that this was not a thatched house, he turned to the pump, and began working it for all he was worth.
Within moments a flood of people clustered around him, and Gilles spent the next precious minutes getting them organized.
In next to no time a line of buckets stretched the short distance from the fire to the pump and water was being thrown frantically on the logs and the smoldering shingles above it.
The blacksmith ran up with his ladder and daringly placed it against the house, diverting some of the buckets to his hands as he climbed and bravely coughed his way through the billowing smoke to attack the flames from above.
Guy’s shoulders were aching with the speed of his movements, and Gilles was about to relieve him when they both realized something.
“The girls…”
The two men blanched.
“Guy, Gilles…” a frightened voice called out from the crowd. “We’re here…”
Breathless, Mechele and Linnet came flying up the line of buckets to their men.
Linnet’s hair was unbound, and Mechele’s dress barely laced.
They panted, and their fear was plain to see.
“We’re all right, Gilles. Just smoke filled. The upper rooms are just awful, the stench is powerful and the air thick. But…”she choked on her words.
“Sir Dunstan,” gasped Mechele. “Sir Dunstan and his servant, Guy. They’re too slow…we can’t help them…”
Without a second thought, Guy passed the pumping duties to the second man in line and he and Gilles ran flat out to the burning house leaving two terrified women in their wake.
Pulling open the large front doors, a gust of smoke welcomed them, but not, as yet, any hot jets of flame.
The sound of coughing led them through the murk to the main staircase, where two figures were struggling to make haste and failing. It was the work of but a moment for each Knight to shoulder a frail burden, and stumble back out the front door with their precious cargo.
Their women awaited them, buckets of water and wet cloths at the ready.
Gilles gently laid Sir Dunstan on the trestle table that remained on the courtyard from the night before.
The old man coughed and labored for his breath, as his servant leaned next to him, fighting to hold his own weight and clear his lungs of the smoky residue.
“Any more in there?” snapped Guy.
“I think not,” answered Mechele, trying to catch her breath. “It was only the family on the second floor. The servants were below and all were able to get out before…before…the smoke filled the upper rooms first, you see.”
Guy nodded and heaved a quick sigh of relief, making him cough.
“Tend to them, Linnet,” rasped Gilles. “We must go back to the pump.”
Linnet and Mechele nodded, bending over Sir Dunstan with worried looks and murmurs.
The two men ran back to the pump, and for the next chaotic hour took turns filling and carrying and pumping for all they were worth.
The fire had tried hard to devour the fuel lying in its path, but eventually, the smoke died down, and there was naught left but ash and charred blackened timbers to mark its passage.
Several men had latched ropes to the logs remaining in the woodpile and pulled them away from the house, leaving a dark smear of soot on the stone foundation.
By this time, the entire crowd was hot, sweaty, smoke-stained and exhausted.
They sank to the ground, almost too tired for thought, let alone conversation.
A horse cantered into the cour
tyard, its hooves clattering on the cobblestones, and an elderly priest dismounted, concern written across his wrinkled face.
“I saw the smoke from the church. What on earth happened? Is everyone all right? My word…”
His voice trailed off as he surveyed the limp and weary throng, and his eyes betrayed his relief at seeing Sir Dunstan, Linnet and Mechele amongst their number.
Linnet rose tiredly to her feet, followed by Mechele.
Their men were behind them instantly, in a move of support and protection that was not lost on the sharp-eyed man.
“We are all well, Father Michael. Thank you for coming.”
“My dear, that is good news. I cannot believe that this should happen now, on top of your other disasters.”
Guy and Gilles took a long look at the priest.
He was tall, with broad shoulders that might well have once worn armor like theirs. His eyes were shrewd, calculating, and looking them over much as he was being evaluated in his turn.
With a little nod he glanced at the structure. “Any idea what set it off?”
“Good question, Father,” said Gilles respectfully. “My friend and I smelled the smoke first thing, and sent up the alarm, but it was burning quite strongly by the time we got the pump going and buckets to it.”
Mechele spared a moment to introduce the men to each other, and with a mere raised eyebrow, Father Michael nodded and crossed to the still-smoldering pile of wood.
Under the watchful eyes of the tired crowd, he poked his toe amongst the ashes and carefully withdrew a singed branch.
“That wood was green, Father. Shouldn’t have burned like that. Wasn’t ready for use for at least another season.” A firm voice came from the crowd, as a smoke-stained man stepped forward.
Linnet nodded. “Edwin has the right of it, Father. We’d never stack seasoned wood against the house. That would be the height of foolishness.”
“Some of those logs came from our orchard not more than a couple of months ago when a storm took so many down,” added Mechele.
Guy and Gilles frowned, as their thoughts moved inevitably to Lymington.
The Father raised the wood to his nose and sniffed. “By the Saints,” he muttered, and beckoned the two men to his side.
Without hesitation he offered them the piece of wood. “What think you two?”
Guy sniffed and his eyes narrowed.
Gilles took one whiff and jerked his head up.
“Greek fire.” The words spilled from both men at practically the same moment.
The men looked at each other, recognizing that particular stench.
Father Michael nodded. “Last time I smelled that foul odor was in the middle of a siege. Many years past now, I thank the Lord, but once encountered it can never be forgotten.”
Gilles eyed the man respectfully. “I take it you’ve not always embraced the cloth, Father?”
“And I take it you two are no field workers?”
The quick parry brought a little smile to Guy’s face.
“It seems we all share a history of engaging in the service of our Lords, Father.”
The ice had been broken and the three men spoke quietly as the crowd moved to disperse. The immediate danger was past, and now the clean up would begin.
Linnet and Mechele joined the men by the woodpile.
“You are lucky to have such strong arms at your service, ladies,” said Father Michael, clearly not missing the quick way in which Guy’s eyes searched out Mechele’s or the automatic lifting of Gilles’ arm to encompass Linnet’s waist as she moved to his side.
“Indeed we are thankful, Father,” she said, trying to stem the little quiver in her voice.
“And they saved Sir Dunstan and Bodkin as well. Carried them from the building. I cannot even begin to think what would have happened…” added Mechele, tears trembling on her lashes.
Guy’s strong arm circled her shoulders. “It’s over and we must look ahead now. There are some questions to be answered here, Mechele.”
Gilles nodded his agreement. “Some very pertinent questions, I think.”
Father Michael strolled around, stroking his chin, and watched by four pairs of curious eyes. He moved through some bushes and disappeared for a moment, only to reappear with a thoughtful look on his face.
“Gentlemen, ladies, if you have a moment…” He beckoned to them and disappeared once more into the brush.
Curious, the four followed his steps and found themselves at the side of the small lane that led from the homes surrounding Maltby Abbey to the fields.
The grassy verge was muddy in places, and they moved as one to examine the spot to which Father Michael was pointing with a long finger.
Linnet and Mechele squinted in confusion at the churned and muddy patch, trying to make heads or tails of what they were supposed to be looking at.
To Guy and Gilles, however, squatting interestedly by the dampness, the signs were clear.
“Two of ‘em, I’d say,” said Guy.
“Yes indeed. And look here, only one lightened the load on the horse. So the other must have held the reins and played lookout while the other did the deed.” Gilles leaned even closer. “And this—see this?”
Guy’s eyes narrowed. “I do indeed. ‘Tis a poor blacksmith that uses cracked horseshoes for his customers.”
“What’s the betting we’ll find such a shoe amongst Lymington’s horses?”
“Or those of his men.”
Father Michael sighed. “God forgive me for what I am about to say, but that man is a bastard and has only gotten worse with time. I was mightily glad to hear that Lord Benstede had finally chosen to honor us with a visit. It is my hope that his wisdom may be prevailed upon to rid us all of this fat slug who preys upon this shire unchecked, like a leech.”
Guy and Gilles rose to their full height.
“Father, we rode in Lord Benstede’s train for these last several months, and both Gilles and I have the greatest respect for his sense of justice. You may rest assured that this act will not go unnoticed…” said Guy firmly.
“Nor unpunished.” Gilles finished.
Father Michael looked at the two men standing tall before him, noting the storm clouds in the gray eyes and the ice that chilled the blue ones.
He made the sign of the cross over them and watched as all four dropped respectfully to one knee by the side of the quiet lane.
“May God bless your endeavors, gentlemen, and add strength to your arms and wisdom to your thoughts and deeds. I might also ask him to bring warmth to your hearts, but my suspicion is that you’ve already found a way to do that…”
Linnet and Mechele fidgeted slightly at these teasing words, each dipping her head to hide her blushes.
Their men knew no such scruples, and their expressions lightened with quick smiles.
“Now, methinks I must help where I can and spend time with poor Sir Dunstan. I shall be available to Lord Benstede. Should he require any services from a man of God, just send word to the church.”
He nodded at them as they rose and strode briskly through the bushes back to Maltby Abbey.
The four stared after him.
“A fine priest,” said Gilles respectfully.
“And one hell of a Knight once upon a time, I’ll warrant,” added Guy.
“At this point, he could have been King for all I care,” sighed Linnet, brazenly hugging every bit of Gilles she could get her hands on.
Mechele said nothing, just went to Guy and buried her face in his strong chest.
Folding their loves in their arms, the men returned to the mess and debris of the blaze.
They now had a job to do.
Not a job for Guy and Gilles.
A job for the Knights Elemental.
Chapter 12
It was a dark night and offered plenty of cover for the two men moving silently through the quiet lanes.
“It was well thought out, you know,” said Gilles softly, striding along beside his co
mpanion.
“It was indeed,” agreed Guy.
Maltby Abbey had returned to some semblance of normalcy, although the second floor was still all but uninhabitable because of the smell of smoke.
Their women were tucked into a large first floor chamber, along with Sir Dunstan, his servant and several of the maids. Much to their chagrin, Guy and Gilles had been forced to forgo a night in their respective lovers’ arms.
It was decided that this was, in fact, an ideal chance for them to begin to close the jaws of justice on Baron Lymington.
And paying a nighttime visit to his stables was a small but vital first step.
“It was a damned lucky thing we repaired that pump a while ago,” thought Gilles aloud.
“And fortunate too, that Linnet had set church services back an hour, or the place would have been practically deserted.” Guy added his own thoughts.
“It would have burned to the ground, Guy. Thus allowing Lymington the opportunity to take it over completely. And Linnet and Mechele…”
“…Would have had few options. I know.”
The steel in Guy’s voice could have felled an oak. “The man is truly a bastard. Father Michael spoke the truth.”
“Interesting man, that one. I’d love to hear some of his stories some time…” mused Gilles, carefully placing his feet in the soft grass as they neared Lymington.
“Indeed we shall,” muttered Guy, narrowly missing a puddle.
“We’re staying then?”
“Have you any doubts?”
Gilles chuckled quietly. “Nary a one, my friend. I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life.”
Guy laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder and squeezed.
No more need be said between them.
And indeed no more could be said, as they had reached the outskirts of Lymington and silence was now a necessity.
Skirting the outlying cottages, the men made their way to the large barn that housed the riding horses belonging to Lymington and his men.
The door was ajar, and the soft sound of horses was the only sound breaking the night air.
