Medieval Rogues

by Catherine Kean

  Unwelcome guilt tore through him. In the Earl of Druentwode’s tiltyards and on Acre’s bloodstained battlefields, he had seen enough wounded to recognize physical injury. She had hurt more than her forehead when she fell.

  He gripped the flask and chewed more bread. He would see her wounds healed, but would not feel sorry for her. The lady had enjoyed a privileged life, without the slightest want or need, and had done so because his father had died.

  His honorable sire had never deserved to be named a traitor.

  He had never deserved to be slaughtered.

  Geoffrey forced himself to swallow the mouthful. If he shut his eyes, if he allowed the despair and memories to surface, he again felt his father’s icy fingers gripping his own, and smelled blood-soaked straw . . .

  “Have you finished with the mead, milord?” Mildred asked.

  Geoffrey’s eyes snapped open. He quelled a violent tremor, and glanced at Mildred. “What?”

  “A drink, if I may?”

  He tossed her the flask and looked back at Elizabeth. She bent to pick a flower. By abducting her, he could well end up with his head lopped from his neck. Yet, he could no longer live the bitter lie which had haunted him since he was ten years old.

  He could not find proof to exonerate his father—and by God, he had tried—but the simple truth remained. His sire had wanted him to rule the de Lanceau legacy, the lands granted to his proud Norman predecessors by William the Conqueror, and passed down through the oldest male sons.

  And so he would.

  By force and cunning, Wode and all its lands would be his. He would have his inheritance, and revenge.

  A grim smile touched his lips. No one would stand in his way. Above all, Brackendale’s daughter.

  ***

  Grasses rustled behind Elizabeth, and she tensed. Moments ago, she had sensed de Lanceau’s brooding gaze upon her, prowling over her body in a manner that shot goose bumps over her skin. She had ignored him and hoped that, like an irritating wasp, he would be distracted and go away.

  A futile wish.

  “We leave now,” de Lanceau said. His voice held command and a warning not to disobey.

  Elizabeth refused to look at him. Her hands tightened around the cornflower she had turned in her fingers. She had heard him order the men to water the horses at the stream, but had not expected to be departing so soon.

  She tried to think of some way of escape.

  Without success.

  Her pulse thudded against her ribs. If she had any hope of eluding him, she must act now.

  Gathering her reserves of courage, she turned and faced him. He stood with his hands on his hips, his hair tousled by the breeze. His flinty gaze told her he expected her to do as he ordered.

  Elizabeth stole a glance at the shadowed forest. One could get lost in those woods.

  An idea flooded into her mind. A brilliant idea.

  Why had she not thought of such a request sooner?

  Smoothing all excitement from her voice, she asked, “May I have a moment of privacy?”

  Suspicion glinted in his eyes, but then he nodded. “Be quick about it.” He summoned two armed men and thrust a hand toward the forest. “Do not let her out of your sight.”

  Elizabeth started toward the trees. When she marched into the shade of outlying ash and birch trees, and headed for a patch of blackberry vines fringed with ferns, the men shouted. “That is far enough.”

  “Very well,” she said. “Will you turn your backs?”

  The guards looked at each other. “Lord de Lanceau—”

  Laughing, Elizabeth pointed to the surrounding shrubbery, a tangle of bushes, nettles and vines. “Where can I go? Up a tree like a squirrel?”

  The men exchanged frowns, shrugged, and faced the meadow.

  The breeze gusted. Leaves rustled overhead.

  Elizabeth bolted. As she hurtled through a patch of tall ferns, she came upon a worn deer trail.

  A branch snapped beneath her slipper.

  Shouts rang out behind her.

  The wound at her temple throbbed. Dizziness threatened to blur her vision.

  She must not stop running.

  She dodged low-hanging branches. Jumped raised tree roots. Twigs grabbed at her shift like gnarled fingers. The linen pulled taut. Tore.

  Her pursuers were gaining ground. Their harsh breaths sounded louder than her own.

  Her lungs burned.

  She stumbled on a root. Slowed for the barest instant.

  A guttural roar exploded behind her. A hand grabbed her arm and spun her around. A hard body slammed her against an ancient oak. She kicked. Clawed. Fought the blackness that threatened her consciousness.

  Smells seared her nostrils: the churned loam; the musty tree bark; the male essence of the rogue trapping her.

  He caught her wrists. “Be still!”

  De Lanceau’s voice sent fear blazing through her veins, and an element far more dangerous. She stilled. His hands dropped from her, but he did not ease away. His thighs pressed against her hips. His chest crushed her breasts. His breath rasped over her flushed skin.

  She shuddered.

  “What were you thinking?” he growled. “You would never have outrun us. Were you hoping to break your neck?”

  Her whole body quivered. “Release me.”

  “You will not escape me, milady. Not until I have vengeance against your father.” His mouth formed a wicked smirk. “Mayhap not even then.”

  Chapter Five

  “Get on the horse.”

  Elizabeth’s blue-eyed gaze hardened, and she crossed her arms over her tattered shift. “Nay.”

  Geoffrey looped his destrier’s reins about his knuckles, and looked at her standing beside his horse. Two scarlet spots stained her cheeks, yet she stared back at him without as much as a blink. Her furious blush had not dimmed since he had hauled her out of the forest and set her between his horse and the wagon, curtailing any more attempts to escape.

  He narrowed his eyes, willing her to yield, but her glare did not falter. Irritation swelled within him, as hot as the desire he was struggling to leash. He had only to look at her, and her fragrance, the crush of linen against his hands, the warmth of her quivering body, hummed anew in his blood.

  He squashed the foolish, inconvenient lust. “I do not offer you a choice.”

  “How dare you demand further indignations of me? I shall not sit with my legs dangling either side of that beast.”

  “You fear your modesty will be compromised?” When her lips parted on a shocked gasp, Geoffrey chuckled. “Next time I abduct a lady, I will remember to bring a side saddle. I do not have one now, so you will ride like the rest of us.” He smiled his crooked smile that, through the years, had swayed countless women’s hearts. “Unless you prefer to walk?”

  Elizabeth huffed and looked away. “Rogue.”

  “At last, you concede.” He grabbed the drab woolen cloak draped over the destrier’s saddle and tossed it to her. She let it crumple at her feet. He shrugged and tightened his horse’s girth. “Put it on.”

  “If I do not?”

  Her insolent whisper pricked his thinning patience. “If you do not,” he said, “I shall be forced to heap further indignity upon you. I may dress you in the cloak myself, even if I must wrestle you to the ground and hold you down to accomplish it. You will make an even more fetching sight with flowers and grass in your hair.” He gave the leather strap a firm tug. “Mayhap I should summon Viscon, and let him take care of the matter.”

  She sighed, a sound of reluctant defeat. He cast her a sidelong glance, and watched her pick up the cloak. His gaze skimmed her dirty face. She looked exhausted. Fragile.

  As she drew the yards of brown wool over her shoulders, fresh blood glinted on her brow. In her idiotic dash for freedom, she had reopened her wound.

  He cursed a stab of pity and lashed his leather bag to the saddle. He had no wish to coddle her
on the journey.

  Not when in the secluded forest, his blood had heated, his loins had hardened, and his mind had turned to less noble, but far more pleasurable, ways to slake his revenge.

  He had intended for her to ride with him, where he could keep close watch on her, but the thought of her enticing body brushing against his . . . Aye, ’twould be wiser if she did not ride with him, after all.

  The thud of hooves brought his head up. Troy led his horse, a sway backed blue roan, to a halt beside the wagon’s spoked wheel. “The men are ready, milord.”

  “Good. The lady will ride with you.”

  In the midst of adjusting the cloak, Elizabeth stilled. Her eyes widened, and she glanced at his destrier. “I thought—”

  “Troy has more patience than I. He will sit behind you and keep you from falling off.” Biting the inside of his cheek, Geoffrey added, “Since you cannot ride astride.”

  Her color deepened. “Why you—”

  “Milady!” A cloak draped over one arm, the matron squeezed past the roan’s hindquarters and set her hand on Elizabeth’s shoulder. “I tried to attend you sooner, but that miserable Viscon would not allow it.” Her gaze traveled over Elizabeth and her face pinched. “My poor lamb. What wretched garments we are forced to wear. I pray they are not infested with fleas, and do not bring you out in a rash.”

  The matron shot Geoffrey a withering glare. His lips twitched. She thought to intimidate him? He had clashed swords with bloodthirsty Saracens and triumphed.

  He raised his brows.

  “Harrumph!” Mildred picked up the cloak, shook it out with a perfunctory snap, and fastened it over the black mantle.

  Over glinting gold.

  Warning tingled through Geoffrey. He had forgotten about the brooch. “Wait.”

  He stepped forward and parted the cloak’s edges with his fingers. The matron squawked and swatted his hand, but he managed to unfasten the ornament. It dropped into his palm.

  “Nay!” Elizabeth lunged forward, but Troy caught her arm. She cursed and struggled.

  Geoffrey rubbed the intricate scrolled pattern with his thumb. The metalwork was of superb quality, a masterful blend of gold and artistic design.

  “Give me my brooch.” Hurt and anger rang in Elizabeth’s voice.

  He wondered what the ornament meant to her. Mayhap one of her adoring suitors had given it to her, or Sedgewick.

  Or even her accursed father.

  Elizabeth stretched out her hand, palm upturned, fingers curled like a water lily’s petals. “Give it back. I demand it.”

  Words ground between Geoffrey’s teeth. “Demand? So you can use it to bribe one of my men and escape?” His fingers closed around the shimmering gold. “I think not.”

  “’Tis mine!”

  He locked his heart and mind against her shrieks. He would not return the brooch. By doing so, he could jeopardize his victory, and he had waited too many years for revenge.

  Geoffrey turned his back to her and slipped the gold into his bag. “Troy, get her on the horse.” Over her indignant cries, he shouted, “Paul. Viscon. Bring a horse for Mildred. Be quick about it.”

  ***

  The roan stumbled. Elizabeth pitched forward, then back against Troy’s chest. Her breath expelled on a groaned “oomph.” The cursed nag seemed to find every one of the road’s potholes and raised stones.

  Elizabeth straightened and drew back the edge of the cloak’s hood which shielded her face. Viscon rode on her right, his scarred hand braced upon his knee, his saddle creaking like a hangman’s noose.

  Shuddering, she recalled the gleam in de Lanceau’s eyes when he had spurred his destrier up alongside her several leagues back. He had ordered Mildred and Paul, riding on her left, to the back of the entourage. No doubt he had done so to separate her from her one ally on the journey.

  Fury had whooshed through Elizabeth like a summer fire, for she had indeed planned to conspire with Mildred to leave clues behind—a dropped shoe, or even a torn bit of shift. When de Lanceau had addressed her and asked if she were all right, Elizabeth had stared off at the fields and refused to answer.

  His rough laughter had mocked her. “Watch her,” he had told Viscon in a tone cold enough to freeze stone. “If she draws attention to us, or escapes, you forfeit your payment.”

  Elizabeth sensed the mercenary’s gaze dart over her now like the flick of a serpent’s tongue. “Keep yer head down,” he snapped.

  She dropped her chin, but only until his attention slid from her to a dog bounding through a field dotted with clusters of bundled sheaves. Raising her lashes, she looked through the haze of dust and floating dandelion spores to where de Lanceau rode ahead with Dominic. They spoke in low voices, their words punctuated by occasional laughter.

  Both had donned concealing cloaks, as had the guards. The easy sway of de Lanceau’s hips proved he was comfortable riding a horse. She scowled. Of course he was. On Crusade, he had galloped headlong into battle against the Saracens.

  He had become a hero.

  He was no hero now. He was a man robed in deceit. He kept his horse to a walk, adding to the illusion they were a convoy of unhurried travelers. The farmers and peasants they passed on the road would not suspect him of kidnapping their lord’s daughter and spiriting her off to his wretched keep.

  Elizabeth fought the sting of tears, and glared at de Lanceau’s back. Knave. She could never replace her treasured brooch. Would he return it, or keep it as part of his cruel revenge?

  She could not bear to think of never wearing the beautiful ornament again.

  Viscon grunted and swatted her cloak’s sleeve. “Head down.”

  De Lanceau swiveled in his saddle, his expression wary. She dropped her gaze to the roan’s tangled mane and bit back an unladylike oath.

  As the day wore on, she shifted in the saddle to ease a cramp in her thigh. Twice, de Lanceau took bread and mead from his saddlebag and passed it back to her and his men. Twice, Elizabeth refused. Her bottom hurt. Her arm pained. Her head ached so much that her stomach churned, and she could not have swallowed the food if she tried. Hugging her arms across her grumbling belly, she tried to forget the mead’s tempting scent and her parched mouth.

  Swollen clouds blackened the afternoon sky. As raindrops splattered on her hood and shoulders and peppered the road with dark spots, de Lanceau barked an order to quicken their pace.

  She burrowed into the cloak’s folds. While the garment provided her with an extra layer of warmth, it did not stop the water from soaking through. Her shift plastered to her skin. The road transformed into a sheet of mud. Ahead, de Lanceau and Dominic huddled against the driving rain. Their chatter and laughter ceased. Over the gusting wind and clip-clop of hooves, she heard harsh commands to keep moving.

  Her teeth chattered, and she pulled the cloak tighter around her body. Dizziness courted her, and tempted her to close her eyes and yield to soothing darkness.

  It seemed only a moment later that a hand shook her.

  “Milady.” Troy’s voice sounded distant. “Wake up.”

  “Mmm?” She forced her leaden eyelids open and pushed wet strands of hair from her cheek. As the smells of horse and wet earth flooded her consciousness, she blushed, mortified to find she had slumped against Troy’s chest.

  She sat up, and froze. Twilight had fallen. Ahead, a fortress perched on the edge of a natural rock incline. Silhouetted against the sunset’s vibrant reds, oranges, and gold, the stone walls looked as black as midnight. The squared keep thrust up past the crenellated curtain wall like an ugly dragon rearing its head, and a water moat curled around like a tail.

  Branton Keep looked a forbidding place. She had no wish to ride into de Lanceau’s lair, but her body screamed for an end to the day’s ride, a change of clothing, and a hot, tasty meal free of flies and lumps.

  As they clattered through the streets of the town nestled around the fortress’s wall, villagers peered out of the
ir wattle-and-daub homes. De Lanceau spurred his horse to a canter, and the other men did the same. As they approached the massive wood and iron portcullis, locked under the gatehouse, he shouted to the sentries in the watchtowers. The wooden drawbridge thumped down over the moat, the portcullis winched up with a squeal, and the inner wooden doors opened.

  Flickering reed torches lit the inner bailey. Men emerged from straw-roofed buildings, some young, some old and battle hardened. They smiled and, as de Lanceau reined his horse to a halt, welcomed him with cheers and handshakes. His face eased into a boyish grin, and an odd pang gripped Elizabeth. She looked away.