by Tamara Leigh
The lady’s eyes widened, showing yet more of the hatred she bore them.
“Test me if you dare, my lady.” Susanna turned Judas opposite and, picking her gaze over those who had but watched and marking them well, walked slowly past them though she longed to run.
Only when they were far enough ahead to not be heard by those who followed did Susanna ask Judas, “Where did Sir—?”
“My lady!” someone called.
She pressed her lips closed and continued toward the manor house.
“The boy is well?” asked the one who drew alongside.
She swung her gaze to the knight, identified him as one of the majority who had followed her brother’s lead in disparaging Judas over the years. Now he answered to Lady Blanche and her mother, though he and the others would answer to Judas once the king acknowledged him. If he acknowledged him…
“The Lord of Cheverel is well,” she clipped, “though we have not you to thank, have we?”
The man’s shameful grimace seemed genuine, but she took only slight comfort in it, knowing that though he was not as hard-hearted as some, he would yet bend to the one who wielded power. And that was not yet Judas.
“I am sorry, my lady. I fear we knew not what to do to help the lad.”
And had not even thought to try. However, the older knight with whom Judas had been at practice and the one to whom she was to have owed a kiss had known what to do. And they had not been among those gathered around Judas.
“I left my nephew in the care of Sir Elias and Sir George. Where did they go?”
The man shrugged. “They were summoned by Sir Talbot.”
Of course. The head of the household knights and quite under the thumb of her brother’s widow. And, therefore, Lady Richenda. It had all been planned…
Determining Judas could just as well answer her next question, Susanna said, “We are most grateful for your concern, Sir Knight. Good day.”
The man opened his mouth as if to say something, closed it, and turned aside.
After confirming that Lady Richenda, who followed with a knight on either side of her, remained distant, and once they were past the smithy and the curious regard of those nearby, Susanna said, “Judas, how came you to lose your breath?”
He looked up and a bit of a smile curled his lips. “You know I did not truly lose it, aye?”
She sighed. “Nearly too late for my heart to bear, but I know.”
“I thought it best you also believed,” he said, then answered, “When Sir Elias and Sir George were called away after you left, I knew something was afoot, but just as I decided to return to my chamber as you would wish me to do, Sir Morris said he would finish instructing me at swords.”
Susanna caught her breath, for though the knight was small of stature, he was quick and wily, so much that his skill at arms was as feared as that of the head of the household knights. Remembering his hard, bruising kiss—one not owed but stolen—and seeking, grasping hands, she swallowed bile. If Alan had not—
“I was fair certain of what he had been set to do,” Judas said, no longer leaning as heavily upon her as they neared the manor house, “and full certain when I saw Lady Richenda at the fence. Thus, I let him push me, harder and harder until I felt the air grow thick.” He gave a dry laugh. “Then I delivered unto the witch what she wanted.”
Susanna gripped his hand tighter. “Judas, I am sorry.”
He looked up at her out of eyes that very nearly belonged in the face of a wizened old man. “It changes everything, does it not?”
She inclined her head. “I fear it does, meaning you had best stumble and give me your weight again.”
He did not hesitate, for he also knew they would not be watched as closely if he appeared too weak to rise from bed over the next several days.
“I did not expect it to be so easy to claim my reward,” Sir Elias murmured as he stared up at Susanna where she knelt beside his pallet. “Truly, my lady ought to exercise more caution lest, in setting aside all propriety to deliver it, she be thought overly enamored with my person.” Smiling sleepily in the light cast by the half moon outside the window, he reached up and brushed his fingers across her lips. “In the middling of night…beside my bed…alone…”
As much as she longed to clamp her teeth upon those fingers, she pushed his hand aside and rasped, “You have earned no reward.”
He sighed. “I did what I could. Some things simply cannot be helped.”
It was true. Neither he nor Sir George could have refused Sir Talbot’s summons, but that did not mean she was in his debt.
Sir Elias eased up onto his elbows, and when his blanket slipped down, she was relieved to see he wore an undertunic. “How fares the boy?” he asked.
She hesitated. Though committed to what she would ask of this knight, still she feared it might prove a grave mistake. Unfortunately, there was none better to aid her. “That depends upon you, Sir Elias.”
“Me?”
“Aye, Judas and I need your help.”
“Another favor?”
She tried not to swallow hard, but there it was. “More than ever I have asked of you, but which, I believe, you are honorable enough to grant.”
He chuckled. “Am I?”
“Certes, you have heard tale of what happened to my nephew in your absence and must know ’twas by design. Thus, I ask you to save him from further attempts upon his life.”
For far too long, he was silent, but finally, he said, “How do you propose I do that?”
Too late, she caught herself dragging her teeth across her bottom lip, a nervous gesture vanquished years ago. “By delivering Judas and me to Wulfen Castle.”
His eyebrows soared and, after another bout of silence, he whistled low. “That is no place for a lady. Indeed, I am told women are forbidden within its walls.”
Susanna knew that, but the fortress that was renowned for training boys into knights was where she would find the one man who might be able to alter the course of Judas’s life. Of course, whether or not he could be moved to do so was another matter.
“And even if you find welcome there, my lady, ’tis a good two days’ ride.”
“This I know, but it is our only hope. Will you take us?”
That he did not immediately refuse gave her cause to believe he would agree.
“If I do,” he said slowly, “I cannot return to Cheverel. Indeed, it could prove difficult to sell my services to another lord.”
“You are assuming Judas will not be awarded his father’s title, and I tell you that when he is, your services to Cheverel’s new lord will be much needed. And Sir Talbot’s will not.”
Sir Elias began to smile. “It seems you have bought yourself a savior, my lady.”
She did not mean to sigh so loudly, but the air in her lungs was suddenly stale now that there was air infused with hope to breathe.
“However,” he added, that one word stilling her, “this favor will cost you more than one of your kisses.”
Her soul jerked, but then she nearly laughed. Of course it would cost her more, but if it saved Judas…
She rose to her feet lest this time he asked for payment in advance and said, “So be it. After you have delivered us safely to Wulfen, you shall have your reward.”
Thus, the bargain was struck—a great favor for something far greater than a favor. But that was the way of things, was it not? At least in the life of Susanna de Balliol.
Before the sun thought to part the darkness and warm the land, they stole from the manor house that, by all rights—or perhaps not—belonged to the boy who peered longingly over his shoulder until they were distant enough to spur the horses to flight.
CHAPTER THREE
Wulfen Castle, England
July, 1159
Everard Wulfrith, second born of Drogo Wulfrith, was not in the habit of rising three hours before dawn—often two, but rarely more. However, something had disturbed his soul. A dream? A sound? Movement where there should be
none? That other sense that could not be called upon but had often proved as valuable as his other senses?
He breathed out, peered at the night-shrouded land through the white mist expelled from his mouth, then pushed off the battlement against which he had braced a shoulder this past quarter hour.
The squires he passed along the wall acknowledged him with one “My Lord” after another and he nodded at each in turn. Noting one who was less than steady on his feet and making a great effort to keep his eyes open, he marked it in his mind to discuss with the knight charged with the squire’s training the appropriateness of giving the young man a night watch. Age and size were not always the measure by which one moved through the ranks on the path toward knighthood.
As he neared the steps that both descended to the outer bailey and ascended to the roof of the gatehouse, his ears picked up the sound of what, perhaps, that other sense had first known.
Horses. Two, perhaps three more than the four in pursuit, the latter belonging to the mounted guard that patrolled the castle’s bordering wood for rare occasions such as this.
Everard shouted a warning and was pleased it was not necessary when he saw that already those on the walls were lighting additional torches to illuminate the land before the castle. Changing course, he took the steps two at a time to the gatehouse roof where he found the aged knight who had once been in service to his sister-in-law, Lady Annyn.
“My Lord,” Sir Rowan said, then set himself in the space between two battlements.
Breathing in the breeze that skittered across his face and over his shaved head, Everard strode to the battlements to the right of the other man. He leaned forward and immediately caught sight of two horses carrying three riders, next the four mounted guard who were quickly overtaking them.
Within two hundred feet of the walls, the trespassers were surrounded and held at the point of swords.
Everard smiled at the fearless efficiency of those young men who would soon don spurs and a Wulfrith dagger that would proclaim to all they were the worthiest of knights.
The words exchanged between the uninvited and the guard carried across the cool air, but they were too distant to make sense of them, and so he waited.
When one of two figures mounted on a single horse struck out at the squire who had edged near to yank back his hood—rather, her hood, as told by the pitch of the voice that berated him—Everard murmured, “That is settled.”
It was rare for the uninvited to be admitted to the castle, nearly unheard of for a woman to be let in—nearly since his sister-in-law had found a way in and his own sister had, for a time, needed to be hidden from King Henry.
Though Everard was tempted to leave the mounted guard to send the riders on their way that he might sooner seek the chapel and set to his morning prayers, he held. And nearly groaned when the squires, flanking the trespassers, guided their mounts toward the gatehouse.
“I shall deal with them, my lord,” said Sir Rowan.
Everard neither accepted nor declined, for though he knew his time was better spent elsewhere, his curiosity was roused.
As those escorted toward the walls drew near, he noted the man wore the trappings of a knight—chain mail, sword, spurs. The woman who rode beside him with her hood down about her shoulders had the bearing of a lady. Much of her hair, torchlight giving it the cast of a river stirred with silt, had escaped the neck of her mantle and fell around the boy who sat before her with his face turned up and eyes fixed upon the walls.
“Who goes?” Sir Rowan called as the horses were reined in a few feet from where the uppermost edge of the drawbridge settled when lowered.
The lead squire’s gaze first found Everard, but quickly shifted to the one who had called down. “Sir Elias Cant seeks sanctuary for the lady, the boy, and himself. He tells they are pursued by those who seek their deaths.”
Everard returned his regard to the boy who had yet to look away from the castle walls. He appeared to be of a good size, well on his way to manhood. The woman…
Her gaze, intense even in torchlight, grazed his before shifting to Sir Rowan. Guessing her to be beyond the age of twenty five and swiftly ascending toward thirty, Everard concluded she was the boy’s mother. Was the knight her husband? More, was it true someone wished them dead?
“With regret,” Sir Rowan said, “we cannot grant admittance, for women are not permitted within our walls.”
The lady turned her head sharply toward Sir Elias, gripped his arm, and leaned near. Whatever words she spoke, they were not loud enough to reach those on the walls, but they were passionate.
Sir Elias nodded and looked again to the gatehouse battlements. “Sir Knight, our situation is dire, for our pursuers are not far behind and our horses cannot carry us much longer.”
There was little room for exaggeration in that last bit, for even from such a height, Everard could see that the animals whose breath heaved white clouds upon the night had been ridden long and hard.
“I see no immediate threat,” Sir Rowan replied. “Ride on!”
Once more, the lady appealed to her knight, and with even greater animation such that the boy finally tore his gaze from the walls to attend to the exchange.
As she settled back in her saddle and once more raised her face to Sir Rowan, Sir Elias called, “First, we ask that you deliver a message to Sir Everard Wulfrith.”
Everard frowned. He was certain he did not know the woman, for not only had she shown no recognition when her eyes lit upon him, but Wulfen Castle was nearly all there was to his life, especially since it had been mostly given into his keeping following the marriages of his older and younger brothers. Perhaps she simply knew of him—another son or brother having trained here.
“What message?” Sir Rowan demanded.
“We pray he will grant us admittance—if naught else, for the sake of Lady Judith.”
Everard jerked. Not even the cruelest blade could have so deeply delved and bled his innards as that name. But his Judith? Judith who had become another man’s wife? Judith who was no more? He knew no other by that name…
Realizing he no longer drew breath, he straightened from between the battlements, slowly curled his fingers into his palms, slowly breathed in, slowly breathed out.
Movement to his left returned him to the present and he looked across his shoulder at the knight who advanced on him—and who was not quick enough to disguise the concern come out upon his face.
“My Lord?” Sir Rowan halted alongside him.
Discomfited at having slipped into the skin of a young man of twenty and two years of age, Everard expelled his next breath on the words, “Lower the drawbridge.”
If you enjoyed this excerpt of THE LONGING: Book Five in the Age of Faith series, it will be available late spring/early summer 2014.
EXCERPT
LADY AT ARMS
A “Clean Read” rewrite of the 1994 bestselling
Warrior Bride from Bantam Books
PROLOGUE
England, 1152
“Gilbert!” Heedless of the brigands ransacking her dowry wagons, Lizanne Balmaine pulled free of her maid and rushed past the torn and blood-strewn bodies scattered over the ground. The old woman called to her, but she ignored the desperate pleas.
Dropping to her knees beside her brother, she reached to him. Though his face was shuttered, she refused to believe he was gone from her and shook him. “Pray, open your eyes!”
His head lolled on his neck.
Whimpering, she forced her gaze down his body. His hauberk lay open, its fine mesh brilliant with the blood seeping through its links. And his leg. . .
God help his leg.
With trembling fingers, she tried to seam the flesh back together, but his blood only coursed faster and made the bile in her belly surge. Swallowing convulsively, she raised her hands and stared at the crimson coating her palms.
A moment later, she was wrenched upright, hauled back against a coarsely clothed chest, and lifted off her feet.
“Nay!” She reached for Gilbert but grasped only air.
She heard the chuckle of the one who had her, felt the wicked sound move his chest, knew he would do things to her that she had only heard whispered about. And could not have more quickly thanked God when she was shoved into the arms of her old maid. However, as she knelt in the dirt, clinging to Hattie and weeping with a twisted mix of grief and relief, the villains began a boisterous argument over who would have her first.
Dear Lord, I can bear it. I shall bear it. Just do not take Gilbert from me. Pray, do not!
It was Hattie’s response—a savage trembling that shook her brittle frame—that pulled Lizanne from the heavens and dropped her back to earth. Amid a hush that had fallen over all, she lifted her face from her maid’s bosom and peered past the old woman’s shoulder at muddy boots.
“Nay, milady.” Hattie tried to press her mistress’s head down. “Be still.”
Lizanne pushed aside the hands that had delivered her from her mother’s womb five and ten years ago. With daring she had not known she possessed, she lifted her gaze up the lean, muscled body that stood over her. The man was uncommonly tall—nearly as tall as Gilbert and every bit as broad.
Hatred, more intense than any she had known, suffused her being and set her limbs to quaking. Here was the one who had laid the final blow to her brother.
Making no attempt to keep loathing from her face, she slid her gaze from a generous mouth, up over a long, straight nose, to glittering orbs as dark as his hair was light.
Aye, that hair. Not quite flaxen, not quite white, it fell about a deeply tanned and angular face. As she stared at him, Lizanne could not help but question God’s wisdom, for He had wielded no foresight in bestowing such a handsome face on this spawn of the Devil. Doubtless, many women were rendered agape by the sight of him.
