Devil's Knight

by Geri Borcz

  "Save your strength, Alain," snapped Rhys. "I promise you, you'll need it."

  In front of them, Costin stood in his stirrups and spouted a lie to the man-at-arms who guarded the gate--a lewd tale, one which the obliging sentry greeted with a snicker. His primary concern lay in those who entered, but the knights thought it prudent to muddy the waters for any who tried to follow.

  "Fat Edna you want to see, then." The guard chuckled. "If you hurry, you may catch up to Sir Oliver to show you the way."

  Serle nudged his mount closer until he and Rhys sat knee to knee, and whispered, "My lord, Marta says Sir Oliver is the earl's godson."

  Rhys stared at his squire, then a dark thought struck him, and his eyes widened. "You mean the fair-headed lackwit?"

  As if reading his thoughts, Alain leaned in to whisper, "Someone aided her in this mischief. Suppose she rides in his company?"

  "Godson or nay," said Rhys. "He's not man enough to protect her. By the Saints, I'll skin him alive for permitting her this nonsense."

  His destrier snorted and pawed the dry earth, as if sensing the rider's impatience. At last, the heavy timber platform lowered, spanning the moat to the ground.

  "Now let's have done with this," Rhys said. "I'd prefer not to have holy church clamoring for my head as well."

  He goaded his horse forward. Hooves clattered across the wooden bridge, as the knights tore out after the earl's unpredictable daughter. Anger, that she'd again outfoxed him, rode a wave of fear for her safety and surged through Rhys.

  Could he intercept Juliana in time? before raiders happened upon her? before she reached sanctuary? Or before Roger reached her?

  ~~~~

  CHAPTER 9

  Juliana made it to the edge of the park that surrounded the castle, blowing hard from rowing and the short sprint across the open field. Melding into the thicket, she leaned against an oak to catch her breath and chanced a glance back to Stanmore.

  Excitement, exhilaration, and fear pounded in her ears.

  Her warm breath frosted in the brisk air, but under the mantle perspiration dappled her skin from her exertion. She hugged the small bag to her chest and watched a light appear on the darkened portion of the wall, signalling the sentry's return. Soon, another would appear. She'd cleared the first hurdle.

  "Ana? Pssst, Ana? Over here." Oliver ducked through the under brush to join her. "You took so long."

  She whirled to face her accomplice. Moonlight splintered through the latticework of branches and lit the aggrieved expression gracing her cousin's face. She frowned.

  "Your pardon. I lack practice in skulking away from my father's house."

  "Sheathe your sharp tongue, I meant I worried."

  "'Twas no need. The hardest part is over."

  But her thrill was short-lived.

  Behind her, the creaking drawbridge hit ground with a resounding thud, and she turned in time to see shadowy riders catapulting across.

  "Mother of God," Oliver said. "We're discovered."

  He grabbed her by the upper arm and propelled her toward the waiting horse.

  "But-but--" Juliana ran along side of him, hopping over limbs and vines. "How could Roger find out?"

  "Ask him when next you see him," Oliver suggested, all but throwing her into the saddle.

  "Only one horse?"

  "Jesu, what an ungrateful wench." Oliver vaulted onto his mount and groaned when he hit down behind her. "My excuse was to ride to the village whore, remember? Why did I need a second horse?"

  "To carry your pintle?"

  He grinned, then leaned beside her, grabbed the reins and yanked his horse's head about.

  "For the love of God, whatever you do, Ana, hang on."

  Juliana gripped the pommel for balance. Oliver gave the horse his head, trusting the animal to find his footing in the mulch-lined forest floor. A difficult trek by daylight since the summer weather gave birth to so much undergrowth, but in the black of night with the scant moonlight peeking through the ghostly trees, the treachery increased tenfold.

  "Do your men wait ahead for us?" Juliana whispered.

  "'Tis you and I, Ana," he whispered back, his breath feathering the tendrils near her temple. A note of apology bled into his voice. "They belong to my father and I'll not have him incur Roger's wrath for my sake."

  Juliana closed her eyes, deeply inhaled the cleansing scent of damp earth and new growth, then opened them again. Oliver had forsaken all for her.

  Please help me protect him. She squeezed the arm that encircled her waist.

  "A wise decision," she said.

  They rode in silence for a few minutes, until Juliana realized they were heading a different direction.

  "The road lies that way," she said, pointing her finger.

  "Were I your brother, I'd expect you to take the road. We'll stay to the forest."

  Juliana bristled at his patronizing tone. "But there, we'd let the beast run. This way will take all night."

  "We can not run fast enough on one horse," he countered. "This way will save our skin."

  For the next hour, she watched the horse's head bob, his coarse mane slapping his neck in rhythm to his quick pace. Try as she might to form a plan of action once she stood before Bekton's gate, her mind drew a blank. No amount of imagination saw her stepping through the massive doors, let alone negotiating for her future with Baldwin and Roger.

  Around them, moths beat their wings, crickets chirped, tree frogs sang a bass chorus, but to her ears came the deep melody of a dark lord's laughter. Before her eyes, slivers of moonbeams transformed the night into silky ebony ribbons whose damp texture tingled her fingertips.

  Curse Rhys for giving her no peace.

  Again and again, her mind filled with him and each remembrance brought a new wave of humiliation that bolstered her resolve. If her flight insulted and embarrassed him, then he'd know some of what she felt because of him. Still, the taste of her repayment in kind soured on her tongue. Of late, an all too common occurrence.

  She checked her rambling thoughts to dodge twigs and limbs that snatched at her clothing. One problem at a time. Then, she concentrated on their trek, holding every nerve taut, listening for any deviation in nature's sounds.

  "Why do we stop?" They'd reached a small clearing, when she twisted around to face Oliver.

  Canopied by thick branches, surrounded by age-old tangled vines, and cushioned by layers of moss and dead leaves beneath their feet, the two travelers gained a sense of security, if only fleeting.

  "No one comes. 'Tis safe for a while." Oliver dismounted, removed his helm and coif, and leaned his forehead against the horse's puffing side. "A moment, Ana." He brought his arm up to cradle his head. "I can't take the jostling any longer."

  "You're ill?" Juliana jumped down and put a hand to his shoulder.

  He lifted his head to reveal an ashen face to her.

  "I'm fine," he mumbled into his arm. "A moment, please."

  "You're not fine. You're sweating." She raked the damp hair off his clammy forehead. "Perhaps--perhaps we should return, you're ill--"

  "Ana, for the love of..." He shrugged away her fawning hand. "Cease treating me like a babe. I'm not a child, nor am I ill." He straightened, groaned, and clamped a hand high to the back of his thigh. "Jesu. My wound is paining me."

  Juliana had the grace to blush, before she cuffed him on the shoulder. His chain mail absorbed the paltry blow.

  "Dolt. I aged a decade in fear you'd fall dead to the ground from apoplexy."

  "Wheesh, difficult to please, too," he said. "'Twas your hand and poor aim that inflicted the injury. And I may yet die, cousin, unless I get relief from that cursed saddle."

  Juliana saw the dire potential in this trouble and the limited solutions at hand. Oliver wore no surcoat over his hauberk, and she needed her mantle to protect against the night air. Her gaze flew to the bag tied to the saddle pommel--she carried one other change of clothes.

  Pride thwarted that generous idea.
She refused to traipse around the abbey clothed like a pauper. Then an idea struck her. She shrugged out of her mantle and dropped it across a fallen tree trunk.

  "While I've never heard of anyone dying from a sore arse--"

  "Pray, think naught of my plight."

  "--'Tis plain you can't go on like that." She gathered her skirts to reveal the white linen chemise underneath.

  "What now, Ana?"

  "Take your dagger," she said, bunching the skirts to her waist with one hand. With the other hand, she pointed knee high on her chemise. "Cut the cloth here. We'll bundle it and make a pad for you."

  Aghast, Oliver stared a moment. "Have you lost your wits?"

  "Holy Mary and Joseph," Juliana said to the tree tops, wondering at his sudden concern for her modesty.

  "Knights do not pad their arse," he finished.

  It teetered on the tip of her tongue to tell him what she thought about knights, but cautioned reined in the urge.

  "Do you sit on your wits?" she said. "We've no time to quarrel. You may remove the cloth before we reach Bekton, and I'll take the disgraceful knowledge to my grave."

  "Swear?"

  Juliana clenched her teeth against the need to throttle him. "Aye, I vow never to speak of this."

  Mollified, Oliver grunted, pulled his dagger free from his belt, and bent on one knee in front of her.

  "At least hold them higher," he griped, pulling on the cloth. "I can't see what I'm doing."

  "This is my favorite," she said, laying one hand on his head to steady herself. "So cut an even line and it will mend easier. Make haste. I have no other ideas, and we invite discovery, if we tarry."

  * * *

  Once clear of Stanmore, Rhys turned his men off the road. Under a dense stand of oak trees that gave a clear view of anyone following them, he divided his meager force.

  He sent Costin after Lord Richard, with instructions for him to return to Adington with his men prepared for attack.

  "Shall he send for aid?" Costin asked.

  "Let that decision be his," Rhys said. "I trust him to decide whether to involve my uncle, Earl William."

  As Costin put spur to his mount, Rhys swung his attention on his squire. "Warn Adington to prepare for siege. Use the stores in the dungeon, if you must. And warn them to expect Lord Richard's return."

  "Should I send men back to you, my lord?"

  "Alain and I will manage," Rhys said, with a quick head shake. "See that a chamber is readied for our guest when we return with her." And with that, the lad spurred his horse onward into the night.

  Alain, an experienced hunter who excelled at tracking, soon found Juliana's trail in the park and deduced that one animal carried a heavy load. Not an amazing feat, given that Oliver's mount had forged a path that left plenty of evidence behind, even without the benefit of full moonlight.

  In silence, the two knights trailed the errant pair, alert for signs of intruders, while steadily gaining on the overburdened horse.

  With each step his destrier took, and with each branch that smacked into his chest or face, Rhys's simmering anger grew hotter. They'd seen no sign of any other night stalkers, but they were here, somewhere--wild boar that killed with one bloody gore from their tusks, ravaging outlaws, murdering raiders, and soon, Roger.

  Rhys rode, cursing King Henry for his unbending demand, cursing Earl Baldwin for his lack of demand, and cursing Roger for breathing.

  Inching to the top of the list, though, Rhys cursed Juliana for twisting his insides to knots. Her lack of proper education tested his patience to the breaking point. Obviously, she took little heed in the church's edict that women obeyed their lords. Well, he'd see she learned that lesson first thing, if he had to wear out his palm to do it.

  Ahead of him, Alain signalled.

  Rhys slowed his mount and listened. An owl hooted. Something scurried over the limbs, rattling the leaves.

  But there!--beyond them, voices spoke low.

  Tension coiled in Rhys. First for putting her into danger, he'd give the lackwit the flat of his blade. Then for putting herself into danger, he'd give Juliana's backside the flat of his hand.

  The picture of his hands cupping her rounded bottom rushed into his head on a wave of hunger. Soft, white, bare, oh so delectably bare. The bulge in his chausses thickened.

  He shook the arousing thought clear and dismounted in anticipation. Silently, he crept closer, the muffled voices getting louder. He worked off his helm, pushed down his coif, and cocked his head to one side to hear better.

  Two voices, still low, but clearly a man's and a woman's, drifted to him. Rhys signalled Alain to circle to the other side to cut off any escape in that direction.

  Then, he stepped into the open.

  Dappled moonlight highlighted the two startled people in the small clearing. The lewd scene that met Rhys's eyes ignited his simmering wrath. Rage exploded through his chest. A dangerous man gazed through his steely eyes unto the blond who knelt before Juliana.

  The pose seared into Rhys's brain--an intimate position that no man, except her husband, had a right to assume. A position in which Rhys had envisioned himself.

  She gasped and dropped her skirts, whirling in his direction. He watched a betraying guilt flood her cheeks.

  "My lord," Oliver blurted out.

  The lackwit turned ghostly.

  "My lady," Rhys said, stepping closer. "I seek a foolish runaway, and instead, happen upon a lover's nest. How quaint." He turned on the now standing blond and bit out, "but your tryst is ill-timed. Roger can not be too far behind me."

  Juliana planted her hands on her hips.

  "Why, you wretched--"

  "Not now, Ana," Oliver said, tugging on her arm.

  Judging by her rounded eyes, her defiant chin and rigid spine, Rhys knew she'd take the offensive.

  How like a woman to play the injured one.

  "The one man in all Christendom to embrace sobriety, and he plagues me," she grumbled, then glared at him. "Go away. Your interference, my lord, is unwanted."

  Her crisp emphasis amused him. He admired her courage in standing up to his anger, few grown men held such confidence. Then, his gaze fell upon the thoughtlessly discarded mantle and the ripped white linen that dangled below her woolen skirts.

  Disgust renewed his ire.

  "I wondered on the reason you so prettily begged a delay of your father," he said. "Now I see."

  "You see nothing."

  "I see you prefer the attentions of a clumsy lad to the experienced touch of a man."

  Her gaze swivelled from Rhys to the blond, and back to Rhys. She gasped. "We were--I was--"

  "An-na," Oliver said through a clenched jaw, "please."

  Rhys bristled upon witnessing the private understanding they shared, before the look shifted back to him. His brows drew together and his eyes narrowed to slits, as her indignation drew her straight and haughty.

  "I needn't explain myself to you, Adington," she said with more impatience than fear. "What right have you--?"

  "Enough, madam," Rhys spat.

  Juliana burned like a fever in his blood. He'd never permit her near Isobel, but he'd have her still. Deep down, he craved the scheming witch, and that prideless admission drove him to lash out to repay some of his wounded ego.

  "I have every right," he said. "For you see, my lady, I will have the land you bring. But make no mistake, I have no need of you."

  His eyes flared with satisfaction--she lost her confidence and dropped all pretense.

  "I won't be the first man to lock an unwanted wife away and forget her," he finished.

  Her sudden intake of breath and the draining of color from her face told him she'd taken his threat seriously.

  Forget her? Even now he stood full and hard, aching to drag her into the brush and rip away the plain sack she wore that only heightened her sultry coloring. And his would be the only chamber he'd lock her in, sprawled naked in his bed, blazing under his touch, until they both flew into th
e sun.

  Aye, an empty threat, but effective. His chest puffed a little broader--she'd think twice before trying any further defiance with him. Thinking to rattle her teeth for emphasis, Rhys moved toward her.

  She inched toward her quaking lover.

  "Does your arrogance know a limit?" she cried. "'Tisn't you I want, either."

  "Juliana," Oliver gasped and stepped in front of her. "My Lord Adington, pray sir, we're not--"

  "Silence. Or I'll carve your lying tongue out." Rhys vibrated with the fury that her words summoned.

  He'd endured the day tortured by her image, then spent the last few hours teased with the promise of her. And she'd not even considered him? Seeking an outlet, he tossed his helm to the ground and advanced on her gilt-headed lackey, while he removed his gauntlets.

  "Nay, Rhys," she cried. "Vent your anger on me. Oliver did naught but my bidding."

  Suddenly, Oliver shoved Juliana backward. At the same time, he whipped out a hand and brandished a dagger.

  "Run, Ana!" he screamed. "Run!"

  Rhys halted in mid-step, his eyes narrowing upon the puny blade tip that froze an inch in front of his nose.

  "N-no c-closer, my l-lord," said Oliver. "Wh-whatever else you may think, I have n-no quarrel with you. But I won't let you hurt her."

  Startled for a second by the lad's foolish challenge, Rhys clenched his jaw. Common men fought with their hands, and a knight dishonored himself to stoop so low, but he managed to check the urge to flatten the younger man. And he wouldn't draw sword. His instincts warned something was awry here.