Chapter 23 #2
His men were coming, calling and crashing, but they were not here yet. The quarterstaff cracked on his leg even as he beat aside the sword and ducked the ax. On his next move, his weakened leg almost gave way.
One sweep of his sword, his special sword, and the quarterstaff was half its length.
Claire ran forward to seize the fallen part. With all her strength, she slammed it against the head of the axwielder.
The burly redhead staggered, but didn’t go down. Bellowing, he turned on her, mad rage in his eyes. But then he screamed as a sword impaled him. Blood gushed from his mouth as he crumpled at her feet.
Claire stood frozen, but then she realized that Renald must be swordless!
Sweet Mary mild! He dodged a wild thrust from the swordsman, but the jagged quarterstaff jabbed viciously at him. He beat it aside with his fist.
Josce charged from between the trees. He’d be too late. Renald fended off another sword slash with his arm. Thank heavens that sword could not cut through mail!
Claire ran forward and whacked the swordsman hard behind the knees, a childhood trick to bring someone down.
As he must, he crumpled. The man with the broken quarterstaff tried to run, so Claire tripped him.
To be safe, she slammed her stick on the fallen swordsman’s wrist then snatched up his weapon.
Armed with sword and stick, she glared at the men who had dared to threaten her love. “So there!”
When she looked up, she saw Renald’s men staring at her, and her lord and master helpless with laughter and exhaustion against a tree. He opened his arms, and without thought she dropped her weapons and ran into them.
“I suppose you think I’m funny,” she said, beginning to shake with relief and shock.
He stroked her hair. “I think you’re magnificent.”
She looked up. “You could have died.”
He sobered. “So could you. Next time, woman, keep out of a fight!”
“You were in difficulty. Don’t deny it!”
“I was in more difficulty after I lost my sword.”
“You should have kept hold of it.”
“By the rood, Claire, I had to throw it.” But he cradled her face. “My heart stopped. I swear it.” Then he kissed her, desperately, tenderly, and she kissed him back.
He’d almost died.
Sweet Mary, he’d almost died. Like a stream of pure water, it washed away all doubt. “Tomorrow, I want to consummate our marriage.”
Instead of delirious joy, he sighed. “Though it pains me to say it, you’re suffering battle fever, my love.”
“Are you saying I’m mad?”
“I’m saying that I can’t hold you to anything you say at the moment.”
“I’ll say the same tomorrow. I can’t live without you.”
“I pray for it, but I won’t hold you to it.”
She puffed out a breath. “I could begin to think you don’t care.”
“Never think that. Never.” His hands tightened at her waist. “My heart is yours, Claire, now and through all eternity.”
It was what she felt, but it shook her. “If that’s true, it would be very unfair to tie Felice to you.”
He kissed her forehead and pushed her away. “I hoped you’d see it that way.”
She rolled her eyes, yet couldn’t help but smile.
His smile faded when he looked at the two men on the ground, guarded by his own soldiers.
Josce had retrieved the dark blade and came over, cleaning it.
Renald straddled the white-eyed swordsman and put the point of his sword to the man’s heaving chest, leaning on it slightly so the eyes widened even farther. “Why did you seize my lady?”
The wild eyes flickered around as if searching frantically for help, but then settled again on the nemesis above. “We were paid, lord. Mercy, lord.”
“Mercy? Only in the speed or slowness of your death. Who paid you?”
“A man, lord. Mercy—”
“What man?” Renald leaned on the sword a little more and the man cried out.
“Don’t know, lord! Don’t know! He gave us gold to upset the horses and seize the lady.”
“And to kill her.”
“We didn’t know nothing about that, lord, until he spoke it!”
“Renald,” said Claire, “the man who was holding me got away. And the one who paid.”
“A shame, that.” Renald looked at the other man, who snarled like a cornered animal. He stepped away and sheathed his sword. “Come, Claire. Let’s see if we still have horses.”
She let him guide her along, but then paused, looking back. “What will happen to them?”
“They’ll die quickly.”
“Could we not—”
He forced her on, out of sight. “Not what? Let them free to savage the next group of travelers? Take them to Carrisford for trial? What point in that other than to extend their agony?”
She heard nothing, and when Josce and the men emerged there was nothing to see except, perhaps, that the squire looked a little pale. She suspected he hadn’t seen much killing yet. She was very grateful that Thomas had been left with the men guarding the camp.
The horses were all present, fed, and watered. It was only as she went to mount that Claire realized she didn’t have the book. She turned to the woods. “I must look for my book.”
Renald stopped her. “I’ll go.”
She shook her head at him. “Dead bodies don’t frighten me.”
“Live ones should. At least two of your attackers went free.”
She’d forgotten. She wasn’t used to the idea of someone wanting her dead.
She didn’t complain, however, about Renald and three men escorting her back, swords drawn. They followed the path of churned-up ground and broken branches that showed where she’d been taken. She paused to pluck a scrap of her torn skirt off some brambles. “I think I dropped the book here.”
The ground was deep in leaf mold, and settled over by fallen leaves and branches. Small plants and bushes captured drifts of them where a brown book could hide. Still, by the time they had to give up, she felt that they’d searched everywhere.
“Perhaps it wasn’t here. I can’t be sure.”
They went farther, the men poking their swords into likely spots. “Brown wooden boards could disappear here,” Renald said, kicking aside a rotten tree stump. “I’m sorry, Claire. It’s a bitter loss.”
“I hope those brigands spend their due time in purgatory. What did they want with me anyway?”
He turned her back toward the camp. “I don’t think they knew. The one who paid them? Interesting, isn’t it? You aren’t an heiress, to be snatched for property.”
“And he wanted me dead.” She shivered. “It frightens me.”
He was looking at the ground near the brambles one last time. “And me. We must press on, or we’ll have to stop on the road. I daren’t risk traveling at night now.” He put an arm around her. “I’ll keep you safe, Claire, as long as I have breath in my body.”
His strength and skill was a comfort, as was the feel of his once-hated mail. But protecting her had almost cost him his life.
He wasn’t immortal or invincible.
She had decided she couldn’t turn her back on him, but now she could lose him to this evil.
Who was the danger? Who wanted her dead?
Hours later, when they came in sight of Carrisford Castle, solid and strong with its stone walls and tower, she knew why Renald didn’t entirely trust wood.
Thick, high stone walls seemed very comforting, when wolves prowled.
Passing through gates into a long, easily defended tunnel, she felt she’d be very safe if she could be sure the enemy was outside.
“You’ll be safe here,” he said, and she could sense his relief.
She spoke her fears. “What if the man who wanted me dead can get in?”
He stared at her. “He was Norman?”
She thought. “I’m not sure. He spoke in English, but—Yes, I think so. Do Normans live in the woods with brigands?”
“Very few. And clearly the man hired them. By the rood, Claire. Do not be alone. Ever.”
“Willingly, but I wish I knew who to fear.”
She searched through her acquaintance for the villain, pausing on the Earl of Salisbury. He’d been angry at her marriage. Could he be angry enough to try to kill? It seemed impossible, but no other likely name came to mind.
Now she came to think of it, they’d never considered him as a possible murderer of Ulric. She couldn’t imagine his motive, but certain sure, if he was at court, she’d avoid him!
One enemy certainly was in Carrisford. Here she would have to face the king, and by her vow she could not show how much she blamed him for her father’s death.
But here she would consummate her marriage to Renald.
Hours of riding had settled her wildness, but not changed her mind.
She refused to think anymore about right and wrong.
Life was precarious, and she would seize what happiness she could.
On the great square keep three banners flew. One belonged to the Lord of Carrisford, one was the gold lions of the king. The other was stark bars of green and black.
“Whose is the third banner?”
“FitzRoger’s. It only flies when he’s here. He gave Imogen lordship of Carrisford.”
She turned to him. “Lordship?”
“Don’t get ideas. Carrisford was hers by right and she struck a hard bargain before she’d wed him.”
“Imogen?“ Claire tried not to sound as surprised as she was. The Flower of the West, Lord Bernard’s pretty, pampered daughter, had struck a hard bargain with Bastard FitzRoger of Cleeve?
Then she saw the lord and lady waiting to greet them and knew that Imogen had changed. She stood differently for one thing, every line proclaiming that she was no longer a girl, but a woman.
And her hair.
Claire suppressed a laugh. They’d make a matched pair. Lady Imogen’s famous hair, that had reached to her knees in honey-gold waves, now only brushed her shoulders.
“Did she cut it in protest, too?” she asked Renald.
“What?”
“Her hair.”
“Oh. Not at all. She cut one plait to escape. There was nothing for it then but to cut the other.”
“Escape?” Claire suddenly remembered that this was not a pretty tale. “Was that before or after he whipped her?”
Renald flashed her a look. “She wasn’t escaping FitzRoger. There’s no time now. Get Imogen to tell you the whole story.”
The moment of horror passed. If Imogen was to tell it, it could not reflect too badly on her husband, because Imogen was no beaten, terrified wife. She was tilting her head to make a comment to the man beside her, smile bright.
So that was the mighty and feared FitzRoger of Cleeve. Claire had expected someone bigger, someone rather like Baldwin of Biggin. She should have known Renald’s confrere would not be of that type.
He stood beside his wife but slightly back, clearly giving her the lordship here. He dominated all the same. He wasn’t a monster of a man, but Claire wasn’t sure she’d be able to drive any sort of bargain with him.
Something in the way he stood, in the lines of his body and face, said hard, said ruthless.
He reminded her of the first impression she’d had of Renald—the war-wolf ready to kill.
With Bastard FitzRoger, however, she doubted there was a softer, gentler side.
She had no trouble believing that he would whip a rebellious wife.
She pitied Imogen, even if the young woman did seem to be happy with her fate.
Had Imogen really knocked him out? The man looked as invulnerable as Carrisford’s stone tower.
But then, as the horses stopped and Claire waited for Renald to help her down, she remembered how easily her own husband had been thrown into danger. Strong men and good fighters though they doubtless were—perhaps some of the best—they were only flesh and blood, and thus vulnerable.
Even, it would appear, to a determined young woman with a rock. Or a stick. Her blow behind the knees would bring down even FitzRoger if she had chance to use it.
With some surprise she realized what had happened today.
Renald was setting her on the ground. “You look troubled.”
“I’ve just realized that I helped kill.”
She expected some kind of debate on the rights and wrongs of it—wanted it—but he simply said, “I’m very glad you did,” and led her toward their hosts.
Killing, she thought. All in a day’s work.
But he’d said she must accept the sword and now she did. Or at last, she accepted that when her loved ones were threatened, she too could become a wolf.