“What was that all about?” he asked.
“We can proceed now,” Jordan ignored his question. “Kieran will retrieve Jemma and catch up with us.”
William turned his head to see Kieran reining his destrier sharply in the direction Jemma had taken. Without another word he nodded to Paris, who gave the hand-signal to march. She heard Ranulf and Deinwald bellowing at the troops when they did not move fast enough.
Riding along once again, Jordan settled back against William with a contented sigh. His arm was around her waist and she noticed that she was becoming used to the hard jab of the armor.
“Now, my lady, you will tell me, what you spoke to Kieran of.” It was not a request.
She smiled, knowing he could not see her. “A very simple matter, sire,” she said. “It seems that Kieran was jealous that Jemma kissed Paris and….”
“Kieran was jealous?” William interrupted her with a jolt. “By God, I am not going to play house mother to a passel of lovesick squires.”
She twisted to look at him. “Aye, Kieran was jealous.” She matched his outrage. “How would ye feel if I kissed Paris in front of ye? Or Michael? How do ye know that I haven’t kissed Paris or Michael? And what does lovesick have to do with anything? I dinna say he was in love with her.”
William went visibly cool. “I would have prevented you from kissing them in the first place,” he said. “ ’Tis my job to keep you safe and pure for your wedding. And I know my knights would have never allowed such a transgression to occur.”
She was still looking at him. “It occurred with ye. Are ye somehow above suspicion?”
His steely demeanor faltered. “It should not have happened and I apologize for my conduct, my lady. It shall not happen again.”
Her face fell. “Why not?”
God, she was making this so hard. “Because you are to be the earl’s virgin bride, Jordan,” he spelled out the obvious. “You know that. I should not have touched you and I will never forgive myself for my weakness.”
“But I wanted ye to, English,” her voice was a whisper. “I wanted ye to kiss me. You said ye liked it. Did I not please ye?”
He was losing ground fast. He felt like he was drowning. “Jordan, what I feel is of no matter. You are to be the earl’s bride.”
“Ye said that,” she reminded him. “And it does matter to me what ye feel. But I know ye are an honorable man and I will not make a nuisance of myself. If ye wish to pretend that it dinna happen, then I will, too.”
She turned back around and the conversation stopped. He was still trying to get a grip on himself. He did not want to forget the magical moment they shared and he did not want her to, either. But there could be no more moments. They both had to understand that.
His gloved hand found her small one. Slowly, tenderly, he enveloped her fingers and held them tight.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Malcolm had avoided the flying fist but Abner didn’t. It hit the man square on the jaw, knocking him off balance. Had he not grabbed hold of a table, he would have fallen. He rubbed at his face, spitting out blood onto the stone floor, but he spoke no words of anger. He deserved worse.
“Dunbar, be reasonable,” Malcolm pleaded. “ ’Twas The Wolf. I was lucky to leave with my life as it was.”
“You miserable whelp!” Dunbar raged, his huge feet stomping as he paced the room like a caged animal. “I trusted ye with a battle, and ye disappointed me to the core. Not only did ye fight like Englishwomen, but ye failed at a second stupid attempt to kill yer cousin.”
The men hung their heads, rebuked and miserable. Dunbar kicked over his writing table, smashing it into kindling. “I ought to take yer bloody heads off myself.”
“I tried to convince The Wolf that ’twas Uncle Thomas who staged the battle, Dunbar,” Malcolm said as calmly as he could. “I stuck to my story, too, even when he tortured me. With any luck he has already reported that fact to his laird.”
Dunbar eyed Malcolm. The lad did indeed bear severe bruises, concurring with his story. Mayhap all wasn’t lost, after all. But he was bitterly disappointed in the outcome of the battle and subsequent raid.
Mayhap it was of no matter. As Malcolm said, he planted the seed of doubt directly into the mind of The Wolf. If The Wolf believed it, then quite possibly he would turn and attack Langton in retaliation. Then, Thomas Scott would be forced to send for his allies. Dunbar smiled. And he would be first to heed the call. Aye, indeed he would shed blood along with Thomas to prove his loyalty. Then, when he proposed his ambitions, Thomas could do naught but comply.
Dunbar visibly calmed, sitting slowly in his heavy chair. Malcolm and Abner watched him warily, waiting for the man to withdraw a dirk and throw it at them. He was calming unnaturally fast, in their opinion.
“Laddies,” he said after a moment. “I believe, for all of yer failure, that mayhap ye have done good after all. Mayhap if The Wolf indeed thinks Thomas staged the battle, then he will return Jordan without any further prodding from us.”
“Do…do ye think so?” Malcolm asked hesitantly. “I tried my best to convince him.”
“And so ye did,” Dunbar agreed. “Mayhap all is not lost. The next few days will tell us.”
The young men nodded, weary and worn. They escaped from being tied to the tree only by pure perseverance, wearing the rope thin with the edge of Abner’s ring. They had spent a night in hell and simply wanted to eat and rest. They were relieved that they were apparently not going to be spending the next week in the dungeons.
Dunbar saw their fatigue and bade them go, eager to continue his plotting. When the lads left, he sat back, his eyes glazing over thoughtfully. If his hopes were confirmed and the English turned on Laird Scott, then his next step was to call on his closest ally and, with shrewdness the devil himself would be proud of, lay out the ground work for his plot. He need to begin pulling together pieces to his puzzle, and the first stage would be to call on Oliver Barr.
He smiled again. Dimwitted, hot-tempered Barr would see the logic to his plan. Aye; he would make him see the logic. Mayhap things would go better that he had anticipated.
*
They rode well into the late afternoon. William and Jordan were alone for only a short time before they were joined by the other knights; one by one. There was very little conversation, and Jordan was pleased to see that Jemma looked peaceful riding before Kieran.
The sway of the horse was making her drowsy again. She’d had very little sleep the night before and fell fast asleep against William’s armored chest. It was becoming a routine; he felt her go limp and smiled to himself as he shifted to make her more comfortable. He felt a strange sense of peace when she slept in his arms. When she looked like she did now, peaceful and lovely, he found it difficult to keep his vow that he would never kiss her again.
Deinwald rode up beside him, slapping his dapple-grey destrier when it snapped its teeth in William’s direction.
“Goddamn animal,” Deinwald muttered. “His father was not like this.”
William admired Deinwald’s horse for he was a truly magnificent animal with a reputable sire. He was also, however, quite young and unruly. Perfect for Deinwald’s temperament.
“He will calm down,” William remarked. “He did quite well in the skirmish yesterday.”
Deinwald snorted. “Hell, when I wasn’t fighting the Scots, I was fighting with him.” At the word ‘Scots’ he glanced down at slumbering Jordan. “I shall take her if you wish to ride into Northwood alone, as you usually do.”
William did not look at him. It seemed to him that the offer had been more of a request. Deinwald wanted to be the one seen riding in with the beautiful young woman. She looked quite fairy princess-like the wildflowers woven into her hair.
“Mayhap,” William said vaguely.
Deinwald looked off into the distance. “Another hour at least at this pace.”
A breeze blew one of the flowers from Jordan’s wreath onto her face. William reached down and
tried to remove it as gently as he could, but true to form, she awoke with a start.
“Are we there?” She sat bolt up, banging her head on William’s helmet. “Ooch.”
He snickered and put his big hand over her small one as it rubbed her head. “Nay, we are not there yet, my lady. Did you sleep well?”
She winced. “I felt fine until I collided with that bucket ye wear on yer head,” she said. “Take yer hand from my head, English, ye’ll muss my hair.”
He complied, rewrapping his arm around her waist. Deinwald was watching her closely as she smoothed her hair and straightened her flowers.
“My lady, you have weeds growing out of your hair,” he said. It was the closest William had ever heard him come to speaking pleasantly to her.
She sneered at him. “Yer one to talk, Deinwald Ellsrod. Yer hair looks like it hasna seen soap in a year.”
“Aye, ye tell him, Jordi.” Jemma was several feet behind her but had heard everything. “He looks like a caveman.”
Deinwald looked over his shoulder and flipped up his visor, scowling at Jemma. “Keep yer Scot opinions to yourself, banshee.”
Jemma stiffened and Kieran tightened his grip. “Why does everyone call me a banshee?”
Deinwald began making faces at her. “Because you are wild and daft like one,” he yelled back to her. “And because your face is…ahhhh!” He made a horrible face and rolled his eyes fiendishly.
Kieran’s visor came up. “Look who’s talking – the king of the Scot-dogs,” he looked at Michael, his ever-ready audience. “Did you see his face just then? He really looks like that. The face we see now is the result a white-witch’s spell so that mere mortals may look upon his face without turning into a pillar of salt.”
Jordan was craning her neck around William, trying to watch Kieran and Jemma as they harassed Deinwald.
“Ha.” Deinwald countered. “At least I do not have to ride with Lady Medusa.”
“She is not Medusa,” Jordan jumped in. “And she is no banshee and I demand that ye stop calling her that.”
“Why are you spoiling our fun?” Paris said from behind his closed helmet. “Would you prefer that we call you banshee?”
“Call her banshee and I will call you out,” William said, not turning around to look at any of them.
Jordan gave them all a triumphant, childish smile and stuck her tongue out at everyone who was looking at her. From anyone else it would have been an arrogant gesture, but coming from her it was sassy and fun.
“Dunna call me banshee.” Jemma was back to the same old song. “I dunna like it.”
“Fine, then, we must think of a new name for you,” Paris said. “Help me, if you will, Lady Jordan. Does your cousin have a nickname?”
Jemma shrieked. “Dunna ye dare tell them, Jordi, or I swear….”
Jordan smiled quite devilishly. The knights saw that the game was afoot and began pounding her with questions while Jemma screeched her threats. Jordan quite enjoyed fending off their pleas and questions, turning her back and hiding coyly in front of William while denying their inquiries. Underneath his visor, William was smiling broadly.
They were relentless. Finally, Jordan turned back around to face them if only to gain some peace.
“Enough.” she called out and they went quiet. “I will give ye a hint and that is all. The rest ye must do on yer own. Her nickname had to do with waterfowl.”
“Jordan.” Jemma moaned. “Now ye have done it to me. I shall tell them yer nickname now, I will.”
“You have a nickname?” William asked with interest. “What is it?”
“Nothing, English,” she told him firmly, settling back down in front of him once again.
The arm around her tightened. “Tell me,” he said.
“I shall tell ye.” Jemma cried. “Uncle Thomas used to call her Pony-legs because she had such skinny legs.”
Jordan sank down low, humiliated in a good-natured sense. She did not want anyone calling her that, it had taken twelve years to outgrow the name.
“Do you still have skinny legs?” Deinwald wanted to know. “Let me see.”
William lifted his hand as if to backhand his knight. “Do not even think to look.”
“They’re not skinny.” It was Corin, riding back behind Kieran. The knights turned to look at him, wondering how in the hell he knew.
Corin looked rather embarrassed with all the attention on him. “I must confess, when she sat down today on the grass, I was blessed with a quick glimpse of the most beautiful legs I have ever seen. Ask Lewis; he saw them, too.”
Jordan was truly embarrassed. She had no idea she was being an exhibitionist. It was flattering, but embarrassing nonetheless.
William dipped his head next to her ear. “Is this true? Do you really have beautiful legs?”
“I dunna know,” she shrugged. “I have never given them much thought.”
“Now tell us Lady Jemma’s nickname,” Deinwald demanded harshly, interrupting his captain’s conversation. “I would know it now.”
She looked at the knight. “Uncle Nathaniel called her Waddles because she walked like a duck.”
The knights let loose on Jemma as Jordan smiled with satisfaction. William let them have fun at Jemma’s expense for a minute or so before demanding peace.
“I swear I have not heard so much talk,” he snapped. “You will be all silent until we reach the gates.”
They fell silent, but grinning and chortling between one another. Jemma, her cheeks flushed, was plotting revenge against her cousin until Kieran leaned next to her ear.
“You do not waddle,” he whispered. “I think you have a lovely gait.”
She turned to look at him. “Thank ye, sir knight.”
“My pleasure,” he sat straight, the conversation ended.
Jemma fought off a smile. It had been worth the embarrassment just to hear him say that.
*
It was soon after that the massive turrets of Northwood came into view.
Jordan’s heart leapt into her throat. They had arrived at their destination and she anxiously studied every detail of her new home. To see it now so real and massive before her was overwhelming and blocked out all else around her as she studied it. Here was her future.
The closer they came, the more apprehensive she became. Northwood was three times the size of Langton, a red-stoned fortress with a colossal curtain wall, a smaller inner wall, and massive gatehouse. She could see the top of an enormous keep with three big, square turrets that reached for the sky. It was black against the late afternoon sky, silhouetted like an evil castle from the horror stories she had heard as a child. It was everything dark and awful that she had ever imagined an English castle to be.
As the party drew closer, she could see that the whole fortress was surrounded by a moat filled with thick sludge and filth. She could already smell the stench from it permeating the air.
Her first thoughts were that Northwood was not a hospitable place and that it was everything she had hoped it would not be. From what she had come to know of William and his knights, she had somehow imagined that they would hail from a polished white castle with gold trim, not this clearly sullen structure.
“My lady is quiet,” William’s voice broke into her thoughts.
She prepared a brave reply but it quickly left her. “I think I am going to be sick,” she moaned softly.
Behind his helmet, he smiled. “Be brave. You do not believe I would lead you into the lion’s den, do you?”
She shook her head. “Nay, sir knight, I dunna,” she said quietly. “But it smells of the lion’s den. Why dunna ye clean the moat?”
“Because, my lady, ’tis very simple,” he said. “What solider would not think twice before charging headlong into a moat filled with misery? Were I to clean it up, ’twould be most inviting.”
“I should think the walls would be deterrent enough,” she remarked.
“Not against the Scots, my lady,” Deinwald said from
their other side. “Not even the moat, such as it is, is much of a deterrent. Why, I have seen those bloody bastards…”
He abruptly stopped as a host of helmeted heads turned in his direction and he suddenly realized with whom he was speaking.
Jemma was glaring at him but, remarkably, said nothing. Only Jordan was not focused on him. She seemed entranced by the fortress.
“Continue, Deinwald,” she said most mildly. “For whatever it is ye have seen the Scots do, I can match ye with a story of equally bad taste. Ye see, my father insisted that I be at every battle he commanded since I was a lass of eight years old. I have been tending Scot wounded for that long, as well as dispatching English wounded I happened to come across,” she turned her head to him and he was shocked to see such blatant disgust in her eyes. “Ye canna shock or impress me with yer battle stories, Deinwald, so do remember not to try in the future. I am not interested. I know what the Scots, as well as the English, are capable of.”
Deinwald was actually rather depressed after that speech and somewhat embarrassed, though he would never admit to such. He turned his attention back to Northwood with a somewhat better insight into lovely Lady Jordan.
The entire column of men, wagons and knights made their way to the massive gates of Northwood. Jordan heard shouting up on the wall and, suddenly, a host of male voices began to chant. Curious, she looked up to see hundreds of soldiers looking down upon them and she stiffened; it was an awesome sight. The only time she had ever seen that many English soldiers were when they were attacking her kin. No matter that she was shrouded in William’s arms, she felt distinctly at risk.
It sounded as if the soldiers were jeering her, a queer sort of chant that began to grow louder as more men-at-arms picked it up. Within seconds, every soldier at Northwood had taken the hymn and was calling it resonantly.
It frightened her. It was so loud it was nearly deafening and she fought the urge to bury herself in William’s protective embrace.
“What are they saying?” she asked apprehensively.
Paris, riding next to them, answered. “Listen. What do you hear?”
The Original de Wolfe Pack Complete Set: Including Sons of de Wolfe Page 60
