Mystique

by Amanda Quick

  Gilbert laughed uproariously. “There would be no pleasure in the chase if there were no risk involved. Some men prefer to take their sport on the jousting field. I prefer to take mine between the soft thighs of their ladies.”

  Alice hesitated no longer. Clutching the rag-wrapped stone, she fled. She could only pray that Gilbert would not hear her footsteps on the soft ground.

  She had not gone far when she heard his angry shout. She knew that he had just discovered his loss.

  Alice ran faster. She did not think that Gilbert had seen her.

  She was breathing hard by the time she reached the stone wall of the old keep. She ducked behind a small wooden shed while she paused to catch her breath. In another few minutes she would be safe amid the fair crowds, she told herself. Gilbert would never be able to find her.

  She took a deep breath. Pulse racing, she scurried out from behind the poor protection of the shed and dashed across an open field toward the first row of tents.

  Two men armed with daggers stepped straight into her path. One gave her a toothless grin. The second wore a patch over his right eye.

  Horrified, Alice stumbled to a halt.

  “Well, now, what have we here but a fine lady with an interesting bundle in her hand. Seems the lad sold us sound information, Hubert.”

  The man wearing the eyepatch chuckled humorlessly. “Aye, so he did. Mayhap we should have paid him for his services, after all.”

  “Never pay for what ye can get for free, I always say.” Toothless glided forward. He beckoned with his free hand. “Give us the stone, lady, and there’ll be no trouble.”

  Alice drew herself up very straight and fixed him with a furious glare. “This stone belongs to me. Step aside at once.”

  Eyepatch chortled. “Sounds like a fine, proper lady, don’t she? Always wanted me one of them.”

  “You can have her,” Toothless muttered. “As soon as we’ve finished our business.”

  Alice clutched the stone and opened her mouth to scream for help. She knew with a sense of despair that there was no one around who would come to her aid.

  “Has Benedict returned?” Hugh studied the far end of the jousting field. He could see Vincent’s banners snapping in the breeze. Anticipation coursed through Hugh, icy and invigorating.

  I shall not forget, Grandfather.

  “Nay, m’lord.” Dunstan followed Hugh’s gaze. A knowing expression appeared in his eyes. “Well, well, well. I see that Vincent of Rivenhall is finally preparing to take the field.”

  “Aye, and about time, too.” Hugh glanced toward the refuge tents, searching for Benedict. There was no sign of him. “Blood of the devil, where is that boy? He should have returned by now with news of his sister.”

  Hugh had sent Benedict off to fetch Alice when it had become apparent that she was not among the spectators. For some reason Hugh had been first disappointed and then thoroughly irritated to realize that Alice was not sitting with the ladies. He told himself that he had a right to be angry. He had, after all, given her specific instructions and she had ignored them. But he had an uneasy feeling that the matter went deeper.

  She had doubtless found it convenient to pay him no heed because she did not consider him her rightful lord.

  “Mayhap she has no interest in the sport.” Dunstan spat on the ground. He surveyed the colorful flock of fluttering ladies who sat beneath the bright yellow awning on one side of the field. “‘Tis a man’s game, after all.”

  “Aye.” Hugh searched the crowd at the refuge tent once more, looking for Benedict.

  “I remember the days when the ladies couldn’t be bothered to come to a joust,” Dunstan said. “Now they’ve turned these affairs into a matter of fashion. It’s enough to make a stout knight weep.”

  “I can wait no longer,” Hugh said. “Vincent is nearly ready. Have my horse brought to me.”

  “Aye, m’lord.” Dunstan signaled to the squire who held the reins of Hugh’s black war-horse.

  Hugh cast one last look at the spectators. There was still no sign of Alice. “God’s teeth. The lady has a lot to learn.”

  A broad-shouldered, heavily bearded man with small, glittering eyes walked out of the refuge tent. “Sir Hugh. I heard you were here. Could not resist the opportunity to unhorse Vincent of Rivenhall, eh?”

  Hugh glanced at the newcomer without much enthusiasm. “They tell me that you have done well today, Eduard.”

  “I took a good war-horse and some armor from Alden of Granthorpe.” Eduard chuckled hugely. “Left Sir Alden flopping about in the dirt with a broken leg. An amusing sight. Looked like an overturned turtle.”

  Hugh said nothing. He did not like Eduard. The man was several years older than himself, a hardened mercenary who sold his sword to anyone who could pay his price. That, in itself, was no great crime. Hugh knew full well that had his own fate not sent him into the household of Erasmus of Thornewood, he would have chosen a similar career.

  Hugh’s dislike of Eduard was based on other factors. The mercenary was a skilled warrior but he was crude and ill-mannered. Hugh had heard unpleasant rumors concerning the man’s violent propensities toward young females, including one that several months ago a twelve-year-old tavern wench had died from Eduard’s rough lust. Hugh did not know if the gossip was true, but he did not find it difficult to believe.

  “Ready, my lord.” The squire steadied the eager stallion.

  “Excellent.” Hugh turned away from Eduard.

  “My lord Hugh.” Benedict limped around the corner of the tent just as Hugh set one booted foot into the stirrup. He was panting for breath.

  “My lord. I cannot find her.”

  Hugh paused. “She is not in the tent?”

  “Nay, my lord.” Benedict came to a halt and braced himself with his staff. “Mayhap she is browsing through the peddlers’ stalls. She is not overfond of jousts and such.”

  “I instructed her to watch the sport in the company of the other ladies.”

  “I know, my lord.” Benedict looked anxious. “You must make allowances for my sister, sir. Alice is not in the habit of following instructions. She prefers to go about matters in her own fashion.”

  “So it would seem.” Hugh settled himself into the saddle and reached down to take the lance from one of his men. He glanced at the frail strip of bright green ribbon that fluttered near the point of the weapon.

  “My lord, I pray you will be tolerant of her nature,” Benedict pleaded. “She has never taken guidance well. Especially from men.”

  “Then ‘tis time she learned to do so.” Hugh glanced down the length of the field. Vincent of Rivenhall was mounting beneath a red banner.

  In spite of his irritation with Alice, Hugh was becoming increasingly uneasy. The prickling sensation on the back of his neck was not caused by anticipation of the coming clash with Vincent.

  Something was wrong.

  He had assumed that Alice had failed to take her place among the onlookers out of sheer pique. Hugh was well aware that she had not cared to be told that she must attend the jousts. He assured himself that she was sulking and determined to deal with the matter later. After he had gone against Vincent of Rivenhall.

  Hugh and Vincent were forbidden the satisfaction of open aggression against each other because of their mutual allegiance to Erasmus of Thornewood. Erasmus had no intention of allowing his best knights to expend their energy and squander their incomes warring against each other. The two were obliged to limit their encounters to those rare occasions when they found themselves on the same jousting field. At such times the old feud could be conducted under the guise of sport.

  The last time they had engaged in mock combat, Hugh had felled Vincent with a single blow of his lance. As the joust had been a major event sponsored by two great barons, there had been no tame limits on the ransoms. The victorious knights had been free to claim whatever they could get from their victims.

  Everyone had fully expected Hugh to set a high price on Vincent of
Rivenhall. At the very least he could have claimed his opponent’s expensive war-horse and armor.

  Hugh had taken nothing. Instead, he had quit the field, leaving Vincent on the ground as though he were of no account. The insult had been outrageous and unmistakable. Ballads had been sung about it and another tale had been added to the growing legend of Hugh the Relentless.

  No one but Hugh and his sole confidant, Dunstan, knew the real truth. There had been no need to strip Vincent of his costly armor and horse. Hugh had plotted a far more subtle and infinitely more effective stratagem against Vincent of Rivenhall, one that would unfold in the fullness of time. Another six months or a year at most.

  The final triumph would be complete. Hugh was convinced that it would calm the storm winds that swirled across his soul. He would know peace at last.

  In the meantime these occasional meetings on the jousting field served to whet the appetite of the Bringer of Storms.

  Hugh tucked his helm under his arm and looked down at Benedict. “Take two of the grooms and look for your sister among the peddlers’ tents.”

  “Aye, my lord.” Benedict started to turn away. He hesitated. “Sir, I must ask you what you intend to do with Alice when she is found.”

  “That is Alice’s problem, not yours.”

  “But, my lord—”

  “I said, that is between Alice and myself. Go, Benedict. You have a task to fulfill.”

  “Aye, my lord.” Reluctantly, Benedict turned to make his way back through the crowd of men clustered near the refuge tents.

  Hugh prepared to address the small company of men who rode beneath his black banner. They faced him eagerly. There was always money to be made when they took the field with Hugh the Relentless.

  Hugh had discovered early on that there was a secret to winning tournaments as well as battles. The secret was discipline and a sound stratagem. It never failed to amaze him how few men practiced those arts.

  Knights were, by nature, a rash, enthusiastic lot who thundered out onto the jousting field or into actual combat with no thought to anything except individual glory and booty. They were encouraged to do so by their peers who vied for the same honor and loot and by the troubadours who sang songs about their heroism. And then, of course, there were the ladies. They preferred to bestow their favors upon the heroes of the ballads.

  Such undisciplined antics made for amusing poems, in Hugh’s opinion, but they also made victory in either mock or real combat a haphazard event.

  Hugh preferred his victories to be predictable. Discipline and adherence to the stratagem that he had determined before the conflict were the keys to predictability. He had made them the cornerstones of the techniques he used to train his men.

  Men-at-arms and knights who put their own lust for glory and plunder before their willingness to follow Hugh’s orders did not last long in his employ.

  “You will maintain orderly ranks and follow the stratagem that we discussed earlier,” Hugh said to his men. “Is that plain?”

  Dunstan grinned as he donned his helm. “Aye, m’lord. Never fear, we’re ready to follow your plan.”

  The others grinned acknowledgment,

  “Remember,” Hugh cautioned. “Vincent of Rivenhall is mine. You will occupy yourselves with his men.”

  There were sober nods in response. All of Hugh’s men knew of the ill feelings that existed between their lord and Vincent of Rivenhall. The feud was no secret.

  Satisfied that all was in readiness, Hugh started to mount his war-horse. He would deal with Alice later.

  “My lord, wait,” Benedict yelled.

  Hugh looked back impatiently. He saw raw fear on Benedict’s face. “What is it?”

  “This boy, Fulk, says he knows where Alice is.” Benedict pointed to a dusty youth of about his own age. “He says that two men with daggers have gone in pursuit of her. He says he will tell us where to find her. For a price.”

  It occurred to Hugh somewhat belatedly that the reason Alice was not sitting with the spectators or sulking in her tent was because she had gone in search of Gilbert the troubadour.

  Surely she would not have been so reckless.

  But even as Hugh tried to reassure himself, a cold feeling settled deep inside his guts.

  An image of the hapless Clydemere peddler lying, throat slit, in a pool of blood, temporarily clouded his vision.

  Hugh looked at the grinning Fulk. “Is this true?”

  “Aye, me fine lord.” Fulk’s grin widened. “I’m a merchant, ye see. I trade in information or anything else that conies me way. I’ll be happy to tell ye where the red-haired lady is. But ye best hurry if you’re planning to rescue her afore those two footpads catch up with her.”

  Hugh ruthlessly quashed the rage and fear that threatened to well up within him. He forced all evidence of emotion from his mind and his voice. “Speak.”

  “Well, now, as to that, me lord, first we must set the price.”

  “The price,” Hugh said softly, “is your life. Speak the truth now or prepare to pay.”

  Fulk stopped grinning.

  Alice ran for the storage shed. Her only hope was to reach it before the two dagger-wielding thieves caught her. If she could get through the door she might be able to barricade herself inside.

  “Stop her,” the man with the eyepatch yelled to his companion. “If we lose that damned stone this time we’ll never get paid.”

  “The wench runs like a hart,” the other man panted. “But she won’t escape.”

  The frightening thud-thud-thud of her pursuers’ booted feet behind her was the most terrifying sound Alice had ever heard. The storage shed seemed very far away. She was hampered by the weight of the heavy green stone and by her own skirts.

  The two thieves closed on her.

  Alice was ten paces away from the small outbuilding when she heard the thunder. It shook the very ground beneath her feet.

  Some part of her awareness registered the fact that the sun was still shining. There was no sign of a storm.

  The thunder was an ominous drumbeat behind her.

  And then she heard one of her pursuers scream.

  The horrible cry brought Alice to a stumbling halt. She whirled around in time to see the thief with the toothless grin go down beneath the hooves of a black war-stallion. The beast seemed not to notice the slight obstacle. It surged forward, seeking fresh prey.

  Alice recognized the great war-beast and the un-helmed knight astride it. The black manes of horse and rider alike snapped in the wind. Steel flashed in the sun.

  Alice clutched the stone and stared at the awesome sight she beheld. She had seen knights and war-horses enough in her life but she had never seen anything so fearsome as this.

  Hugh the Relentless and the black juggernaut he rode came forward as one, a great engine of battle that nothing could stop.

  The one-eyed man yelled and veered sharply from the chase, seeking refuge in the bushes that bordered the stream. He did not have a hope of outrunning the stallion. Apparently realizing that he was doomed, he turned helplessly to face his fate.

  Alice started to close her eyes against the inevitable scene of death and destruction. But at the last instant the highly trained war-horse, obedient to its rider’s unseen command, altered course. The huge creature brushed past the thief, leaving the one-eyed man untouched.

  The big animal came to a shuddering halt, swung around on its haunches, and paced back to where the one-eyed man cowered. The stallion tossed his head, blew heavily, and stomped one massive hoof as though to protest the end of the chase.

  The one-eyed man fell to his knees in terror.

  Hugh glanced at Alice. “Are you all right?”

  Alice could not find her tongue. Her mouth had gone dry. She nodded quickly.

  Satisfied with her response, Hugh turned his attention to the thief. When he spoke his voice was terrifyingly soft. “So, you would hunt the lady as though you were a hound in pursuit of a hare.”

  “Do no
t kill me, m’lord,” the one-eyed man pleaded. “We meant no harm. We was just frolicking with the lass. Only wanted a good tumble. Where’s the harm in that?”

  “The lass,” Hugh said with exquisite care, “is my betrothed wife.”

  The thief’s eye widened as he saw the ground open beneath his feet. Hell clearly awaited him. He made one more stumbling effort to defend himself.

  “But how was we to know that, m’lord? She looks like any other wench. Found her comin’ out of the bushes, we did. Naturally, we assumed she was looking for a bit of sport.”

  “Silence,” Hugh commanded. “You are still alive only because I have inquiries to make of you. If you do not watch your tongue I may well decide that I don’t need your answers.”

  The thief shuddered. “Aye, m’lord.”

  Dunstan came pelting around the corner of the old stone wall. Benedict, moving with the surprising speed he could affect with the aid of his staff, followed close behind him. Both men were out of breath and red in the face.

  “Alice,” Benedict yelled. “Are you unhurt?”

  “Aye.” Alice realized that she was trembling. She did not look at the man who had fallen beneath the war-horse’s hooves.

  Hugh glanced at Dunstan. “See to the one on the ground. He went down beneath Storm’s charge and is likely dead.”

  “Aye, m’lord.” Dunstan ambled toward the fallen man. He prodded the still body with the toe of his boot and spat casually into the grass. “I believe you’re correct in your assumption, sir.” Dunstan bent down to take a closer look at the object that lay beside the fallen man. “He carried a nice little dagger.”

  “‘Tis yours if you want it,” Hugh said as he dismounted. “Along with anything else you can find on him.”

  “That will not amount to much.”

  A collective shout went up in the distance. The sounds of the latest clash on the jousting field were borne on the wind. Dunstan and Benedict both looked back in the direction of the tournament grounds.

  Alice was conscious of an acute tension.

  “I believe Vincent of Rivenhall has taken the field,” Hugh said after a moment,