As he caught his breath, he wondered at the ease with which he’d eluded pursuit. His fabled luck held. But something had certainly guided him through the milieu. Perhaps Emelin’s God wasn’t imaginary.
Supplies were being unloaded; he couldn’t pass into the storage room. Unless… He flung a bag of flour onto his shoulder and shuffled inside as Paxton and a handful of soldiers thundered past. Their cries had alerted reinforcements. After a quick discussion with Garley and Osbert near the stables, Paxton returned to the keep. At the top of the hall steps, he shouted for attention.
“There’s a traitor among us. Giles of Cambrai, also known as Silverhawk. He’s here, trying to prevent us from helping the king.” The soldiers’ roars drowned out his words.
The lord neglected to mention which king Paxton planned to aid. Giles snorted as he swung his bag of flour onto the floor. His was the last load for the kitchen. With a quick look to make certain he was unobserved, he slipped into a corner of the storeroom, hunkered down, and waited.
Sometime later the door opened to a searcher, but the cook’s voice screeched in protest. “Ye git yer dirty body out of my food supply.” A sharp rap sounded followed by a grunt. She’d hit her mark. Giles pictured her with ladle waving as she harried the soldier out of the kitchen.
Finally, quiet. He opened the door a crack to find Missy curled in a ball by the hearth. Her tear-stained face turned toward him. In her hands lay a crumpled ball of fur. Dammit.
“He kicked her.” The little voice ended on a hiccup as she held up her kitten. “In the hall. She made him stumble.”
Giles knelt beside her. “Let me look at him. Can you bring me Davy?”
Big eyes brimming with tears, she nodded and rose. She deposited the lifeless body in Giles’ hands then trotted out.
Giles stared at the animal. Blood trickled from its mouth, but beneath his fingers, he could feel a tiny heartbeat. Not dead. He sat on a barrel and carefully examined the soft body. Internal injuries, if any, were beyond his control. The broken foreleg he could fix. He found a piece of kitchen drying towel beside the clean pots, ripped off a strip, and bound the small limb. Except for a weak “mew,” the kitten demonstrated no sign of life. He placed it on the rest of the toweling he folded on the bench.
Davy darted in, and Giles turned his mind to the mission. “Find Ran’l. Tell him not to light the signal fire. Tell him to relieve the guard at the postern gate and say he’s under Lord Paxton’s order.”
The plan had solidified as he hid. He’d slip out after dark and ride for Lord Roark. He had no idea the number of troops the man brought, but they’d likely be outnumbered.
Giles had faced heavy odds in the past and won; he’d find a way to do so now. Until dark, he’d need to stay out of sight. Slipping back into the storeroom, he refused to consider all that could go wrong. Think of success and it would come.
Emelin. How to warn her he must leave? He considered sending Missy, but he didn’t want to place the child in more danger. Emelin should be safe until the army moved north. No one would dare harm her with so many witnesses around, not even her brother.
Davy did not reappear. Giles hoped the boy had reached Ran’l, but activity in the kitchen grew for the evening meal, and he dared not leave to find out. He dragged a bag of grain around to block himself further, then stretched out his legs and closed his eyes. Might as well rest while he could. The night would be a long one.
When he awoke, the bustle outside had quieted. The tiny chamber had no window, so he had to guess the hour. Easing open the door, he discovered the kitchen empty, the space lit by the dull glow of a banked cook fire. A lone window showed darkness beyond. Time to go.
Outside, the sound of soldiers was unmistakable. Giles edged to the narrow opening in the wall and glanced outside. Two soldiers loitered near the doorway, muttering complaints about guard duty. So, the search for Silverhawk continued.
At the hearth, Giles swiped his hands through still-warm ashes and across his face, down the rough servant’s tunic. Slumped shoulders and a hitched gait took him out the door.
“Hey, there,” growled one of the guards in Norman French. “Where are you going?” Giles felt inordinate relief at the accent. He donned a look of confusion and mumbled in English what the man could do to himself.
The guard kicked out but clearly didn’t understand what was said. “Stupid English stick,” he muttered to his friend. “They should be exterminated. Look at him. Don’t they ever bathe?”
Giles ducked his head and shuffled toward the stables. It didn’t take him long to work his way to the postern gate. Praise God. Ran’l stood beside it, huge arms folded across his chest. Without a blink, the man-at-arms turned away, effectively blocking him from other eyes. Giles flashed through the unlocked gate.
Before the latch clicked behind him, a shout went up. That sounded like Ran’l. “Look. It’s the traitor. In the stables.” Giles smiled grimly. With any potential attention diverted, he made his way across open ground to the tree line.
There Davy waited with a neat bay. “Couldn’t bring your devil black. Ran’l says this’n’ll carry you right fast.”
Giles vaulted into the saddle. “Keep out of sight,” he warned. “Too many know you. Tell Ran’l to begin watch again tomorrow at dark.” Tomorrow might be too soon. But by Giles’ reasoning, Lord Roark should be near with his troops.
Riding by instinct through the dark, Giles at last found a road that looked familiar. When dawn broke crisp and clear he saw it was, indeed, the right trail. Anticipation grew but as the day progressed with no sign of even a few soldiers approaching, Giles began to wonder. Had Lord Roark changed his plans? Decided not to involve himself in a fight that wasn’t his?
Davy was right about the mount. The animal took the distance with stamina and determination, and Giles pressed on.
Shortly after the bright October sun began its downward trek, Giles spied a dark mass on the horizon. He sought cover in a small stand of trees a short distance from the road but continued to ride. It wasn’t long before he recognized the leader of the band. Henry of Chauvere.
Impossible. The lord should be nearly in Scotland by now. Nevertheless, here he approached. Hand lifted, Giles rode from the trees.
“What in the name of Satan are you doing here?” were the first words from his mouth.
Henry waved him forward.
“Paxton is moving south,” Henry called as Giles neared. “I saw his army shortly after I started out.”
Giles nodded as he pulled his horse around to side Henry. “He’s occupied Granville. Sir Daviess and his lady are being held in the keep.”
Henry scowled, jaw set. “He’ll claim he’s taken it because the lord is too weak to administer the holding.”
“There’s more. Lady Emelin is confined in the keep. Lord Osbert has arrived, along with her brother. The man is determined to see her wed Osbert. She’s to inherit a considerable amount when Sir Clifford dies. Garley wants it.”
Henry’s mouth curved upward in genuine amusement. “He’ll have to wait with the devil, then. Sir Clifford’s son is home. The boy was given up for dead years ago, but last night, by God, in he rode, all alone. That’s a story I can’t wait to hear.” He jerked his head toward the troops. “Sir Clifford sent soldiers, but he’s at home with Stephen.”
A warning sounded in Giles’ mind. Stephen, Sir Clifford’s son. Emelin’s former betrothed.
Alive.
She’d be stunned. At least the wedding with Osbert would no longer be a threat.
His stomach clenched, and he sucked in a breath. If he thought her beyond his reach before… Hell, she’d always been beyond his reach. A lady wouldn’t marry a bastard mercenary with a reputation for killing.
Marry.
Where had that idea come from? Giles never intended to wed, or bring a child into the world to face ridicule and rejection. Even if he had, now that he’d known Emelin, no other woman would do. And she could never be his.
&nbs
p; No, for her sake, he should be happy her first love had returned.
He’d like to kill the dog.
Where had the rogue been for the last five years? Had the man any idea what Emelin had been through? Giles would see this Stephen fulfilled his duty to her. He gritted his teeth in determination.
Henry watched, eyebrows lifted. Damnation, he’d allowed himself to be distracted from the primary objective. “What was your question?”
“Is there a way into the castle?”
“The postern gate. One of Granville’s men will be on watch tomorrow night. He’ll let us in.” He turned in the saddle to glance behind. “The combined forces there outnumber us considerably.”
“Roark is a few hours behind. He had to collect his men from Windom. Still, we’ll do better if we can gain access inside. An attack from outside would be too costly. Many of Paxton’s men have been gathered from surrounding holdings. They’re innocent of any plots, and I want to spare them if possible.”
The soldiers made camp without fire that night. Although they were still miles from Granville, Giles and Henry agreed they would take no chance the lights might be seen and reported.
As they traveled the next day, Giles found himself coming to like and trust the other man. He rather thought Lord Roark was another who could be depended upon. Few could be named friend in the years that stretched behind. One or two of his men. The knight he’d rescued along the road in Normandy, although he was settled in a monastery now. His name was Stephen, too.
What would the years ahead bring? He wouldn’t be sorry to leave this bedamned country. He would be sorry to leave a few of the people he’d met. An image rose in his mind of forest-green eyes, of a face sprinkled with freckles. He swallowed against unexpected dryness.
He’d return to Normandy and to what? More fighting, eventual death in battle. Well, each had a life to lead. Right now, his led to Granville and confrontation with the man who’d fathered him. Within a few hours, now, it would be accomplished. He would be free.
To do what?
To fight. That’s what mercenaries did.
Lord Henry halted the troops well out of sight of Granville. Under cover of darkness, Giles worked into place near the small door at the back of the wall. Once inside, he’d locate Garley and Paxton, then signal Henry.
He tried the latch, moving it infinitesimally to avoid attention. It lifted. Relief flooded him. With a quick breath he eased open the door and slid through. Into the waiting arms of four guards. Ran’l was nowhere in sight.
Giles tried to draw his sword, but it was too late. A well-placed hilt to the head and he was out.
When he awoke, every bone in his body ached. He was on the cold stone floor of what looked like a tower room, if the dim light from a brazier could be trusted. Two narrow windows were outlined by watery light from what must be the dawn. When he turned his head, a hard toe found the tender spot on his side. A hiss of pain pushed through his clenched teeth
“You’re more trouble than you’re worth, Giles of Cambrai. Because of you, I lost a half dozen good men and was forced to change longstanding plans.”
Stifling a grunt, Giles tried to set up, only to be knocked back again. He tasted blood. “What do you want?”
“I wanted the king’s message before you delivered it to Henry.” Lord Paxton hunkered down, and Giles could make out the sharp face with its trimmed beard and moustache. “The plans have altered because I did not get it. But I shouldn’t complain. Now I have a tidy little holding in England.” Shadows twisted his smile into a grimace. “One must bend with the winds of change.”
“Won’t King Philip be displeased at your failure? I’ve heard he does not suffer defeat gladly.”
Paxton’s chuckle was soft, low, and evil. “Oh, I will not fail. The plan isn’t abandoned, simply changed. Scotland’s border has suffered too many attacks by the English recently not to retaliate. Then, of course, the English will defend themselves. And on and on.”
He motioned. Two burly men emerged from the shadows to drag Giles up.
“First, however, we must make an example of the traitor, Silverhawk.”
“How did you know about the message?” The question had plagued Giles from the moment of his first attack.
Paxton threw open the door. “Servants overhear things. The king should learn to moderate his arrogant voice.”
A drum beat in Giles’ head as the two pulled him along. His sword was gone, but he couldn’t tell if the thin dagger still perched inside his boot. Each time he tried to check, the pair jerked him forward. A kick to the leg was the final insult.
With a shake of the head, Giles planted his feet, then pulled. The suddenness of the move caught the pair off guard, and they stumbled. They didn’t let go. The movement allowed him to gain balance, but by that time, they had reached the steps to the hall.
Paxton turned to him. “You might like to know your charming lady is even now being wed. It took some persuasion this night, but she accepts her duty, at last.” His brow lifted, and Giles understood. What threats had they used against Emelin?
“I’ll kill you.” It was a promise, more menacing for the quiet, flat voice in which Giles delivered it.
Sneering, Paxton turned to climb the stairs where he shouted for attention. Word of the traitor’s capture had moved quickly through the bailey. Most of the guards had left their posts because the threat was over. Now they gathered to watch justice unfold.
“This is Silverhawk,” Paxton spoke in a voice of command, “the mercenary from Normandy. Perhaps you’ve heard of him. I have proof that he has plotted against England.” The soldiers stared at Giles. One he recognized from Langley spit at him.
“We will hang him like a common criminal,” Paxton said. “Sir Justus, do you have a rope?”
Giles searched the surrounding faces. Where was Ran’l? Had they killed him? No sign of Davy, either. Was he taken as well? As he shifted, he felt the dagger hilt rub his ankle. If he could grab the knife. One gnarled old knight boldly caught his eye. And winked.
He recognized that face. It was one of the soldiers from Chauvere. His glance rose. The crowd had grown substantially. Soldiers slipped out of the shadows that fast disappeared in the sunrise. They worked their way among the men who awaited the hanging.
A shout from the gate carried across the dawn. “An army. Gatherin’ in front.”
Paxton raced down the steps, Sir Justus at his heels. The newcomers drew their swords and attacked. Giles grabbed his dagger as his two guards entered the fight. He raced toward the gates. They had to be opened.
Suddenly Davy was at his side, holding up his sword. How had the little devil managed to find it?
“Where have you been?” Giles shouted as he grabbed the hilt.
“Gettin’ Lord ’enry inside,” came the impertinent reply. “You was occupied. Lord Roark’s out front.”
The gate was groaning open as he reached it. Henry arrived first, surrounded by his band of knights. Inside the keep, the fighting lessened as many of the confused soldiers recognized allies in the men they fought. They would be easily disarmed. Thank God for little bloodshed.
No sign of Garley nor Osbert.
The wedding!
Giles caught Davy by the neck of his tunic. “Where’s Lady Emelin?”
“In the ’all, I think. Missy said the lady fought with ’er brother.”
Muttering a string of curses, Giles dashed toward the keep. If Emelin was harmed—They weren’t in the great hall. Upstairs, then. He kicked in the door of the lord’s bedchamber, but only the lord and lady were there. Lady Clysta called something, but he paid no attention as he ran. The solar was next.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Sword raised, Giles kicked open the door, stormed inside—and stopped. The small group froze in place to stare at him. Garley held a wicked-looking dagger to Sister Ressa’s throat. Osbert, an eye swollen shut, stood beside Emelin.
Emelin’s lip was split and bloody; a bruise dar
kened one puffy cheek, and the other bore a distinct red handprint. Scratches streaked her forehead.
Jesu. What had Garley done to his own sister? A roar tore from Giles’ throat as he stormed forward. The scene in front of him exploded. Garley shoved the nun away, and a thin whine sung as he slid free his sword.
“Giles.” Emelin started toward him.
“No,” roared Osbert. He clutched her arm and pulled her to safety.
Then Giles focused on Garley. The moment that devil raised a hand to Emelin he’d sealed his fate.
The heightened energy of battle sharpened Giles’ focus. Every movement passed in slow motion. Garley was good. But he was overconfident. So certain of his own brute power, he lacked the patience for true skill. He attacked like a battering ram, pounding his opponent backward with the sword, waving the dagger.
Giles, on the other hand, moved with lithe precision. In a graceful two-step retreat, he balanced himself and the instant of Garley’s upward swing, twisted and kicked out. His boot connected with the dagger hand. The knife sailed across the room.
With both hands on the sword hilt now, Emelin’s brother intensified his attack. Giles obliged with a slow backward procession around the chamber. While the action drove Garley’s fury, Giles grew calmer, his mind sharpened. He planned to maneuver the other knight to a corner where the fight would end.
****
Emelin watched in horror as Garley beat Giles back. Now he backed around the room. She could tell his sword was lighter than her brother’s. He could not defend against such a heavy weapon. Her attention fixed on the battling pair, Emelin began to note Giles’ actions. He wasn’t expending energy as Garley was. He moved with grace and rhythm, as if performing steps of a dance.
It was a dance. The patterns of fight flowed in a precise manner, she could see that now. Giles seemed to sense Garley’s every move, as if he knew the steps and the other man didn’t. Her brother might have the reputation as a fearsome fighter, but paired with a master like Giles, he looked like a clumsy squire learning the craft.
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