Chapter 3
There was only half a moon out the following night, when William stood near the eastern side of the outer walls of Ardenwood Castle. Yet there was enough moonlight for him to see once he had entered the inner bailey. He moved swiftly and silently, uncertain if the guards had been warned by Arden.
She had insisted he meet her by the chapel. He counted buildings and found the second story arched window she had described.
He whistled once. Nothing. He waited. Still nothing. Women. He whistled again. Nothing. He counted to ten. To fifty. By the time—the long time—he'd reached one hundred he was not pleased. He looked around.
The bailey was quiet. Surely Arden would not be so foolish as to attack the king's man.
He drew his dagger and flattened against the rough stones of the chapel wall.
Slowly, silently, he eased along the stone wall.
His instincts had never before failed him.
He could always feel it when something was afoot.
He sensed that nothing was amiss. Yet . . .
He rounded the corner.
A second later a screech rent the air.
William froze.
Like a demon from hell, a small shadow flew out of the darkness.
Right at him. He raised his dagger and spun around.
Sharp knife tip pricks dug into the back of his neck.
The claws of some kind of crude weapon. He dropped to a squat, lashing out with his dagger.
With his other arm he reached around and grabbed his attacker by the fur.
Fur? He held a handful of squirming and screeching fur. Cat fur.
"Yeooow!" The cat bit him.
"God's teeth!" he spat, holding the animal by the scruff of its neck, ready to fling the cat to Kingdom Come if the cursed thing bit him again.
Lady Linnet came scurrying around the corner. She stopped abruptly. "Oh! You caught him!"
"Where the devil have you been?" he gritted.
"Poor Swithun got loose and I had to find him. But now you've found him for me." She sounded remarkably cheery.
At that moment, poor Swithun had turned his head around and wedged his sharp feline teeth into William's wrist. He held the cat out to her. "Here. Do something with it. I don't intend to stand here until dawn."
She took the cat and hugged it to her as if it were some holy relic, then she spun around. "I'll be back down in a moment," she called over a shoulder. "All I must do is fetch my things.”
He grunted some response and stood there, his blood still racing from combat with a cat, something that didn't sit well with him or his warrior's pride.
But when she had turned a moment before, another image flooded his mind—Linnet spinning on one bare foot as she sang in the woods. And his pride didn't matter quite as much as it had just a moment before.
A few seconds later, around the corner of the chapel, there was a loud thud. If she were truly trying to covertly escape, the whole castle would have known it. He shook his head and walked around the corner.
Thud!
Several large satchels lay like lumps on the ground. He looked up at the window just as another even larger cloth sack flew out the window and hit the pile below. He stared at the bundles. There was a commotion before another sack hit the ground.
Arms crossed, he leaned against the wall and watched. Eight more sacks flew out the window.
"Pssst!"
He shoved off from the wall and looked up just as Lady Linnet poked her head through the opening.
"Pssst!"
"What?"
"I'm going to lower this down. 'Tis very fragile."
Fragile? He looked at the sacks and doubted there was anything left in the castle.
He was wrong.
She lowered a small willow cage by a rope until it dangled just above the ground. "Pssst!"
"Aye?" he said with patience he did not know he possessed.
"Will you please lower it the rest of the way. Carefully, please."
That cat was in the cage, eyeing him the way enemies size up each other.
He set the cage on the ground. She dropped the other end of the rope.
Was not long before she came hurrying around the corner, a basket slung on one arm, tying her mantle around her neck—that same white neck in which he'd foolishly thought to sometime soon bury his lips, the same neck he was now tempted to wring.
He stood next to her belongings. The pile was taller than he was. She looked from him to the stack, then back. She smiled. He crossed his arms again and glowered down at her. "Are you certain, my lady, that you have everything?"
She eyed the stack again and tapped a finger against her lips, then said distractedly, "Aye. I believe so."
"And how do you propose we take your things on a six-day journey?"
She gazed up at him, frowning. "You sound angry. I don't understand."
He waved his hand at the pile of sacks. "Look at this."
She did. "Are you concerned that I have forgotten something?"
"God's blood, woman! You could not possibly have forgotten anything!"
"Shhhh. You are shouting."
"I'm whispering! How the devil can I shout when I'm whispering?"
"I too would have wagered 'twas not possible, sir, but you are."
"There isn't a knight in the realm who wouldn't shout at this. I will not strap your things to my back and play the ass."
"Oh!" she said as if suddenly enlightened. "I understand what you are fretting over. Wait here." She spun and disappeared around the corner.
Fret? He did not fret. He took four very long breaths. One . . . Two . . .
When he reached seventy-three she came back around the corner with a rope trailing behind her. "You needn't play the ass," she whispered brightly. "I already have my own."
Rounding the corner was a tether of pack donkeys laden with willow cages and more bundles than a sultan's caravan.
She smiled up at him as sweetly as honey and placed the rope in his hand. "Now I have everything." She patted his arm and added, "You needn't fret so. I told you I had a plan."
He stared at the rope, then dropped it and walked up and down the line of pack animals. Somewhat dazed, he turned. "You have five rabbits, two ducks, and twenty-five cats?"
"Twenty-six." She scurried over and picked up the cage beneath the window, then held it high in the moonlight. She gave him the sweetest and brightest smile he had ever received. "You forgot Swithun."
A lone figure stood on the battlements of Ardenwood Castle, quietly watching through shrewd and narrowed eyes, as the caravan, bathed in moonlight, wended its way up the north road.
Leading the procession was the Baron Warbrooke. He had a huge bundle strapped to his horse, while Lady Linnet, perched atop a dappled palfrey, trotted along behind him. They were followed by a line, a very long line, of loaded pack animals.
After the caravan had disappeared over the rim of the hills, the earl of Arden turned away, and smiled.
Linnet rode along behind her escort, soaking up the bright June sunshine and the lush beauty of their surroundings. And she was humming. Humming, it seemed, kept the peace.
Her cats had never traveled and they had begun to loudly meow protests that continued until well into the morning hours. De Ros was not pleased, but he had ceased flinching at the noise a few hours before, after he had muttered something about the blessed silence of rabbits.
She had begun to hum, something she did often. He stopped abruptly and turned to watch her rather intensely. She had clamped her mouth shut, only to have him turn back around and gruffly command her to continue.
Now, sometime later, they rounded a bend in the road, where, in the distance, a stone bridge spanned a winding silver river that shimmered in the long rays of the late sun. One of the cats began to screech.
De Ros reined in and turned in the saddle, his expression as black as his hair. "God's blood! And I had thought the battlefield loud. I never knew one cat could make such noise!"
"That's Dismas. He's the loudest and unfortunately he's here in front. "
"Dismas?"
"Aye. After Saint Dismas."
De Ros moved his mount toward the bridge. "You named your cat, that cat, after a saint?"
"All my cats," she answered brightly, trotting behind.
"My aunt, she is the abbess of Saint Lawrence convent.
She taught me letters and their order by memorizing the names of the saints.
Ambrose, Bartholomew, Crispin, Dismas, Elmo, Friard, Genesius, Honoratus, Ignatius, Jerome, Kentigern, Lambert, Michael, Neot, Osmund, Patrick, Quintus, Raymond, Swithun, Thomas, Ursula, Vitus, Wenceslas, Ximenes, Yves, Zeno," she recited.
"Most of those are male names."
She laughed. " ‘Tis why you are complaining about the noise. Male cats always whine. Being cooped up in these baskets and cages limits their territory." She paused for a moment, then added, "I've always found great similarities between cats and mankind.
He stopped and turned in the saddle, giving her a long and telling look.
She merely smiled.
He turned back around and continued silently until they were moving across the stone bridge. The farther they traveled over the rushing river, the louder the cats became. The ducks had begun to quack too.
De Ros reined in his horse and turned in the saddle with a pained look. He glared pointedly at the cages.
She winced slightly. "The noise grows worse because of the sound of the river.
The ducks like it and the cats don't." Just as she finished, four of the cats screeched so loudly even she flinched.
"They're frightened. Ignatius, Jerome, Kentigern, and Lambert were tied in a sack and thrown in a stream to drown. Can you imagine anything so cruel?"
"Aye."
She opened her mouth to respond, but stopped when de Ros spun back around so swiftly he almost made her light-headed. He sat atop his still horse, staring ahead, his body straight and rigid.
In the distance, a flash of bright sunlight caught her eye. She shielded her eyes with a hand and searched the horizon.
The sun was still high and bright enough to shine in sharp rays off the polished helm of a lone knight who blocked the road ahead of them.
With the barest of commands de Ros shifted his mount in front of Linnet.
She braced herself on the pommel of the saddle and craned her neck around his big body.
"I cannot see. Who—"
"Quiet! Stay close!" he warned quietly, his hand on the hilt of his sword.
She shifted so she could see around him.
The war- horse beneath the unknown knight was stomping and blowing as if the animal sensed a need to charge.
Neither animal nor man wore any identifying markings.
The mount's trappings were plain and the knight's shield was a field of black.
His sword was sheathed, but the steel tip of his lance glinted in the bright sun.
The knight raised a gauntleted hand.
'Twas not a greeting.
He lowered his visor with a challenging snap.
De Ros, who was sans armor, cursed violently and drew his sword. He pointed to the left of the river. "Ride into those woods!" he shouted. "Quickly!" He whirled his mount around.
But she sat, frozen.
The black knight raised his shield and charged.
So did de Ros.
They pounded toward each other. De Ros's horse was small and swifter than the huge Norman breed of war- horse the knight needed to support his full armor. But the knight's lance was pointed directly at de Ros, whose speedy mount ate up the ground between them, grass and dust flying.
They were but feet apart and Linnet held her breath for a heartbeat. A silent scream rose into her throat.
An instant later, de Ros slid from his saddle, crouched down in his outside stirrup.
Linnet gasped.
The lance hit thin air.
Before the knight could rein in and turn, de Ros launched from his mount. His arm caught around the knight's neck and pulled him off his horse.
Both men hit the ground.
There was a scuffle and they rolled into the high grasses near the river. She could not see either man, only movement in the grass, and the sounds—the loud clank of armor and male grunts.
The knight suddenly stood.
Her heart sank.
He faced her.
Her hands flew to her mouth and her scream rose again.
Then just as quickly the black knight moved to his horse, mounted in one swift motion, and he rode away.