Читать книгу Redeeming The Rogue Knight - Elisabeth Hobbes - Страница 9

Chapter One

‘Wake up, my lord! We have to leave!’

Urgent shouts infiltrated Roger Danby’s dreams, whirling him from the home of his childhood on the heather-covered moors to the battlefields of France. The carnage there came almost as a relief.

He’d been dreaming of Yorkshire again, as he had done nightly since returning to England: the endless, purple moors and deep valleys that he had not seen for almost four years. The people from his past were present, too, which invariably caused Roger’s dreams to darken. Even though he was somehow aware he was dreaming, his stomach twisted with loss. He wondered if they thought of him as often as he had thought of them and if his name was ever mentioned within the pink stone walls of his father’s house.

Someone was still calling his name and a dying archer was tugging at the neck of his cloak. He waved his arms to fend off the man, but the tugging continued. The shouts were not part of the dream and when he opened his eyes it was his squire, Thomas, looming over him, hands on Roger’s bare shoulder.

The young man’s eyes were wide and his hair was unkempt. Thomas had fought beside Roger in France so his presence on the battlefield in Roger’s dream was unsurprising, but it took a moment for Roger to shake his dream completely and return to the comfy bed in the manor house of a Derbyshire nobleman, so strange after months of straw pallets or bare ground.

‘My lord, please. We need to leave,’ Thomas repeated.

Dreaming of home always left Roger’s nerves as tightly strung as a bow. He glared up at Thomas in confusion and irritation from the feather mattress. Soft light peered around the edge of the tapestries covering the window. His breath made a cloud in the cold room.

‘Did I oversleep?’

‘No, it’s early.’

Roger threw himself back with a groan. They had stayed three nights with Lord Harpur at Bukestone and had planned to leave in the morning, but Roger had not intended to start so early. The maidservant who had been his companion the previous night rolled on to her side, still fast asleep. Her bare buttocks rubbed against Roger’s hip as she shifted her position and sent small throbs of pleasure through him. He reached for the wine flagon by his side, but found it empty.

‘It’s barely daybreak,’ he growled. ‘What’s the hurry?’

Thomas was already lurching around the small chamber, gathering possessions and stuffing them into his saddlebag. He threw Roger’s boots and cloak at the foot of the bed.

‘Lady Harpur decided to pay her daughter a visit early this morning,’ Thomas muttered. His face took on a pinched expression, his cheeks turning pale beneath his wispy beard. ‘She discovered Katherine was not alone in her room and hadn’t been all night.’

Roger swore. Katherine Harpur was a maid of sixteen with her mother’s fine, pale skin and her father’s dark curly hair. She was a fruit ripe for picking, but Roger had put the flirtation he’d seen pass between her and Thomas as nothing to concern himself about. Apparently he was wrong. He pushed himself from beneath the covers. The cold blast of air served to wake him fully, but even if the room had been comfortably warm his soldier’s instincts made him alert to the sudden danger they were both in.

‘You bloody young fool! Lord Harpur has every right to cut you down where you stand and I’ve half a mind to let him get on with it.’

Thomas’s round face twisted in panic and Roger was reminded of how young his companion was. Despite having survived the battlefields of Europe, the thought of death clearly terrified him. Thomas had not yet reached his nineteenth year and if he continued to act so recklessly would be unlikely to do so, Roger thought with the disdain that ten years’ seniority granted him. If Thomas was old enough to stick his staff into a willing woman, he was old enough to bear the consequences of unwise decisions.

‘How long ago were you discovered?’

‘I ran straight back here,’ Thomas said miserably. ‘Katherine was entreating her mother not to go straight to Lord Harpur, but I do not know how successful she will be.’

That bought them some time. If luck were on their side they would be gone from the house before the incensed father came searching for them.

‘I hid behind the door and slipped out before my face was seen. Lady Harpur might not know it was me.’

Thomas sounded hopeful. Roger turned away so Thomas did not see the irritation on his face. How many dark-haired visitors were staying in Lord Harpur’s house?

Two, he reminded himself, scratching at the beard that covered his own face. With luck, Katherine Harpur would confirm with which of the two men she had been indiscreet and Roger would not be put forward as a culprit. The urge to knock some sense into Thomas filled him, but recriminations and reprimands could wait for later. A quick departure was paramount. Their mission could not be jeopardised by something so trivial, not when it was Roger’s chance to make the fortune he craved.

He pulled on his linen braies, woollen breeches and tunic, casting a regretful glance at his own bed companion. He’d hoped for another tumble with her before they parted. Thomas deserved a clout around the head for that, if nothing else. Ah well, there would be another bed before long, and no doubt someone else to warm it. This way had the advantage of no tearful farewells from a girl who had hoped he would stay longer than he intended. Roger tossed a farthing on to the pillow where the girl would see it on waking. He tied his scrip with his last farthing and penny to his belt.

Thomas had gathered the leather bags containing all their possessions, including the fuller bag of money Roger had hidden rolled in his spare linens. Roger finished dressing rapidly in his thickly padded jerkin and travelling cloak and reached for his sword. He cast a final look around the room in case they had forgotten anything before leading the way to the kitchens where he knew there was a door that would be unguarded. Making friends with the maidservant was proving to have a benefit he had not anticipated and they were able to creep out without being spotted and make their way to the stables.

In silence, they wrapped sacking around their horses’ hooves and shouldered their saddles. The animals snickered in protest at the early start and Roger paused to run his hand across the rough winter coat of the chestnut courser. They led their mounts around the edge of the courtyard. Fortune was on their side as they passed through the gateway without notice.

They saddled the horses, stowed their bags and mounted. Their breath hung in the frosty morning air, but gathering clouds promised the day would be warmer and wet. The horses were not warmed through and to push them beyond a canter would do no good.

When they came to the fork in the road, Roger turned right.

‘This is the wrong direction, my lord. We came this way when we arrived.’

Suppressing his annoyance, Roger nodded. ‘Lord Harpur knows we are heading into Cheshire. If he decides to pursue us that’s where he will go, so we are going in the other direction. Now ride!’

They stopped when Roger’s stomach began to growl, dismounted and led their horses into the shelter of the trees. The rain had begun in earnest and the two men pulled their oiled wool cloaks around themselves for warmth.

As soon as they were settled Roger cuffed Thomas around the ear. The younger man yelped.

‘What did you think you were playing at?’ Roger demanded. ‘I know we’ve been out of civilised company for months—and perhaps in your case you have never been in it—but the general rule is if you’re going to bed one of the household, don’t pick the finest jewel of the lord’s treasure chest.’

‘We didn’t...make love.’ Thomas flushed scarlet. ‘We did nothing wrong. We only lay beside each other and talked through the night.’

Roger laughed. ‘You wasted your time and caused trouble for nothing! What’s a woman for besides swiving? If you’re going to risk getting your throat slit or your bollocks hacked off by an angry father, at least make sure you get your end away first.’

Thomas stuck his lower lip out sullenly. ‘Katherine and I are in love.’

Roger guffawed.

‘After three days in her company! Don’t fool yourself, lad. You may tell yourself—or better still the wench—that it’s love, but don’t confuse the twitch in your braies for the thump of your heart.’

Thomas flushed red. Roger leaned back against a tree and chewed his thumbnail, his anger subsiding now they were clear of Lord Harpur’s lands. He knew well the hot fire that riddled a man’s limbs and refused to be ignored, so his next words were spoken more gently.

‘Balance the pleasure gained with the trouble caused. I don’t blame you for responding to your pole, but you can’t let it rule you.’

Hypocrite, a small voice in his mind shouted. His own had led him into trouble often enough.

‘Not at the moment, when we’ve got work to do,’ he clarified. ‘Once we’ve delivered our message you can sard as many women as you like. You’ll be rich enough to pay for the best.’

‘And what if I don’t want to pay?’ Thomas mumbled. ‘What if I want to marry?’

Roger felt his jaw tighten. ‘Then hope the girl’s father thinks you’ve got enough in your pockets to warrant handing over his treasure and don’t leave it too long to decide she’s the one you want.’

‘Is that what you plan to do?’ Thomas asked.

Roger thought of Jane de Monsort, the woman he had briefly been betrothed to before her father decided Roger’s pockets were not full enough. Thanks to a stint in the newly formed Northern Company fighting as a mercenary, they were fuller now.

‘I have to marry eventually. I’ll find a dutiful, dull girl with good connections and a little wealth who can give me an heir to appease my father.’ He scratched his belly. ‘I can’t say it appeals.’

Thomas was silent, perhaps thinking of Katherine Harpur. Another face filled Roger’s memory, one that caused deeper pangs of regret even years after he had last seen her. He had been fond of Joanna, his brother’s wife, but had not realised quite how deeply until it had been too late. He concentrated on the pattern of raindrops falling into the puddles that were forming rather than let his mind drift back to the mistakes he had buried in his past.

‘Much better to stick to tavern wenches who will give you what you want in return for a ribbon or a kind word,’ he commented, to no one in particular.

‘Do you think Lord Harpur will send men to fight in France?’ Thomas asked.

Roger stretched out his legs, glad of something fresh to think of. He uncorked a wine flask and drank deeply.

‘We don’t get our bounty otherwise, but I don’t see why not. Leaving aside you seducing his daughter, he was interested in the thought of increasing his fortune. The peace won’t last forever, and a man prepared to fight is a man who will become rich.’

A man such as himself.

Roger drew his cloak tighter around him.

‘We’re going to stay here until the sun has passed overhead. Then we’ll head back the way we came.’

‘Past Lord Harpur’s house instead of the higher road to Mattonfield?’

The roads that bordered Lord Harpur’s estate gave it the shape of a triangle with sides of uneven length. To take the route Thomas suggested would mean they travelled on the longest side and over the steepest edge of the hill.

‘Yes. It would add more than a day to the journey if we took the other side of the hill.’

‘We’d be close to my home!’ Thomas said wistfully. ‘It’s a fine inn, the grandest on the road to Mattonfield, and my father would welcome us gladly.’

Roger considered the possible routes. There was hope in the lad’s voice, but Roger was damned if he was going to detour to allow Thomas to pay a call, however tempting a night at an inn sounded.

‘No. I want to be done here as quickly as possible.’ He stared moodily at the ground, Thomas’s mention of home raising an unwelcome thought. ‘I should visit my father before I return to France.’

Thomas looked startled by the dark tone his voice had taken on.

‘Don’t you want to see your family?’

Roger took another drink to delay answering the question that had troubled him since he stepped back on to English soil. Finally he spoke.

‘It’s been a long time. I parted angrily with my brother and I vowed not to return until I was rich and had proved myself. At least that is within my reach now. Let’s get some rest.’

He closed his eyes and settled back. The day had started far too rudely.

* * *

The weather had worsened into driving rain by afternoon. Iron clouds rolled across a steel sky as they climbed the hills into Cheshire. Early spring in England was truly appalling and Thomas looked more miserable with every twist of the road, glancing behind him and pulling his cloak forward to envelop him.

‘Of all the reasons that compel me to return to France, this weather might be the greatest,’ Roger called.

Thomas merely shivered and glanced around moodily. They passed the turning for Lord Harpur’s manor without encountering any hindrance and as they skirted round the far side of the densely forested hills Roger began to believe his plan had worked. Tension he had not known he was carrying began to melt from his shoulders and he slowed his horse to a walk, rolling his head around to ease the knots.

It was probably this slowing that saved their lives, because as they reached the brow of the hill Thomas gave a cry of alarm. The road ahead curved downward, then sharply snaked left around a pool. Just beyond the bend three riders were waiting. If Roger and Thomas had ridden a few paces further the men would have been hidden from view until they rode straight into them.

The men could have been ordinary travellers, but they lingered at the edge of the road in a manner suggesting they were planning trouble.

‘I think we’ve been found,’ Roger muttered.

Thomas let out a moan. ‘Lord Harpur’s men?’

‘Probably,’ Roger muttered. That was the simplest answer and the most welcome. The suspicion they might have been followed from France by men intent on preventing him completing his commission for the King had crossed his mind once or twice since setting foot back in England. Roger felt for his sword, wishing he had a lance to hand. He’d ended more lives with his preferred weapon than he cared to count.

‘We can’t fight them,’ Thomas whimpered.

He was right. Three men against two was not good odds. Roger stared around him. The road was crossing the highest point as it circumnavigated the forest and night would soon be upon them. Taking the easier road had been a mistake after all. In the distance beyond the forest, Roger could see lights coming from different villages and a large cluster that must be the town where both roads joined.

‘We’ll cut through the forest and try to reach the other road,’ Roger decided, wishing he had taken that route in the first place. Cross-country in the near darkness was risky, but better than riding straight into trouble. ‘If we can reach one of those settlements, we may be able to hide.’

A shout echoed in the silence of the hills. One of the prospective ambushers pointed towards them. Roger cursed his stupidity. He’d been so intent on watching the men ahead he had given no thought to their own visibility; on the hilltop they would have been in clear view. Already the horsemen were riding towards them.

Roger plunged through the trees away from the path. Thomas followed. They rode fast into the darkness, pushing their horses as hard as the forest would allow. For the first time since returning to England, Roger was thankful it was early spring. A few months more and the undergrowth would have grown up, making it impossible to ride quickly.

A quick glance behind reassured Roger they had not been followed, but he had not accounted for being intercepted ahead. One horseman appeared seemingly from nowhere to their right. His head was down and he rode directly at them, his cloak obscuring his face.

Roger swung around in the saddle, reaching for his sword, but before he could draw it something punched him in the back of his right shoulder, sharp and cold and forcing the breath from him. He had been stabbed in the leg once during a brawl over a whore in a French inn and the sensation was familiar. There was no real pain yet, but he knew from experience that would follow shortly. He looked down to discover the barb of an arrow protruding from below his collarbone close to his armpit.

Arrows! Roger hadn’t anticipated that! He gave a laugh that ended as a grunt as pain began to spread through him like ripples across a pond when a rock was hurled into the depths.

They were in real danger now. The bowman was fumbling behind in his quiver, but on horseback and amongst trees he was struggling.

‘Give me your sword,’ Roger barked at Thomas.

The boy passed his weapon, but the strength was already going from Roger’s arm. He took the sword in his left hand and wheeled around, slashing behind him blindly. He felt the sword make contact. The bowman gave an unearthly, wordless gurgle. Roger looked and saw to his disgust that he had caught the rider full in the throat. The man fell forward over the horse’s neck. Roger retched and leaned across to slap the horse with the flat of the blade. It whinnied in fear and pain and galloped away with its rider still in the saddle. He dug his heels into his own mount’s flanks.

‘Come on,’ he grunted at Thomas, riding in the opposite direction the horse had taken. There was no time to think where they were heading now, but he rode towards what he hoped was the smaller of the villages. The other two men would not be far behind, but he hoped they would follow their comrade in confusion.

Roger’s head was spinning and his arm felt like ice by the time they reached the depths of the woods. His fingers refused to grip the reins and he knew he was becoming drowsy. He bit his lip, the small pain sharpening his senses as the greater one dulled it. Instinctively Roger reached for the arrow, but stopped. Without examining the shape of the tip he did not know whether to pull back or forward. At the moment there was little blood, but he had seen what happened when such wounds were treated. Now was not the time to deal with his injury. He did not think they had been followed so finding refuge was the priority.

He heard splashing and realised they had reached a shallow river and were halfway into the water. On the furthest bank, the trees began to thin. A single light flickered in the darkness, so briefly that he thought he had imagined it.

‘Can you find your home? Will it be safe refuge?’

‘I think so. I hope so,’ Thomas answered.

‘Get me there,’ Roger ordered. They were his last words as he slumped forward in the saddle. He dimly saw Thomas dismount and take both reins. Roger closed his eyes. His last thought was that if he died tonight he would at least be spared from making the decision to return to Yorkshire and face his family.

* * *

The chickens were safely shut away for the night. Any fox that hoped to help himself would find he was out of luck. Lucy Carew picked up the lantern from the ground and made her way round the side of the brewing shed towards the door of the inn, swinging the light back and forth to light the path.

She dropped the bar across the door. Shivering as a draught blew through the rip in the linen window covering, Lucy hung her cloak beside the door. The fire was almost spent. She gave the solitary log a vigorous prod with the poker and sank on to the stool beside the hearth. The rain had eased, but the earlier downpour had meant no passing customers had called since mid-afternoon. Lucy took her cap off and let her hair fall loose from its plait.

A hammering on the door made her jump. She was halfway to her feet when she caught herself and sat back down. She badly needed the money that customers would pay for their drinks, but her head ached and several tasks remained before she could retire to bed.

Apart from the lantern and the glow from the fire, the inn was in darkness. If she sat quietly they would leave. She felt a pang of sympathy for whoever was about in the bad weather, but not enough to rouse herself and let them in.

The hammering grew louder and more insistent. It was not going to cease.

A male voice bellowed, ‘I know someone is there. I saw your light.’

Lucy pushed herself from the stool. Clutching the poker behind her, she eased up the latch and pulled the door open a crack. It was pushed open with unexpected violence from outside, causing her to spring out of the way with a gasp of alarm.

Two men pushed their way inside. One had his arm slung around the other’s shoulder and was being supported. He staggered as he walked, moaning softly, and his tangled black hair obscured his face. The second man’s head was bowed under the strain of bearing his companion who was taller and broader.

Lucy gritted her teeth.

‘I don’t want drunks at this time of night.’

‘He isn’t drunk, he’s hurt,’ the supporting man wheezed. He raised his head and Lucy gave a cry of surprise at the face she had not seen since he declared his intention to fight with King Edward’s army in France.

‘Thomas? Is it really you?’

Lucy started forward, but her brother drew a short sword from beneath his cloak and brandished it. Lucy gave a squeak of alarm at the sight of her younger brother with such a fierce expression which ill suited his kind face. Thomas was an amiable dolt and to see him acting so fiercely was disconcerting. She clutched the poker firmly in her hand and retreated to the bottom of the staircase.

The man she had taken for a drunk now raised his head, which had been lolling to one side. He gave a wolfish grin beneath his thick beard, but it was his eyes that transfixed Lucy. Brown as walnuts and studying her with such intensity that a sensation stirred inside her she had not felt in longer than she could remember. She felt a blush begin deep between her breasts that was only prevented from spreading by the dawning realisation that her admirer’s gaze was so intense because he was struggling to focus.

‘What happened?’

‘Ambush,’ the injured man slurred. ‘Don’t fear, little dove. We won’t hurt you. If you do what we ask.’

‘Are you alone?’ Thomas raised his sword again and stepped towards Lucy, dragging his companion with him. ‘Has anyone else come this evening?’

‘No one,’ Lucy answered, sweat pooling in her lower back at the sight of the weapon. ‘I’m the only one here.’

Except for Robbie. A throb of anxiety welled inside her as she thought of her son lying peacefully in his cot in the room above. A son whose uncle did not know of his existence.

‘Thomas, what is happening?’ she hissed. ‘You left four years ago. Why are you here and who is this?’

‘I’ve been in France, fighting with the Northern Company.’

Lucy gaped. ‘A mercenary? You?’

‘Why are you here?’ Thomas asked. ‘Where is Father and why is the inn in darkness so early?’

Lucy dropped her head. When Thomas had lived here the inn was always busy and open late. Now was not the time to explain why it had changed so greatly. ‘I came back...to nurse Father. Thomas, Father died almost a year ago,’ she whispered. ‘I didn’t know how to contact you.’

Thomas shook his head, his eyes filling with grief.

‘No! Oh, bad tidings, Sister.’

Lucy’s heart twisted. This was not the way a son should learn such news. Thomas would regret their father’s passing more than she did. But then Thomas had never suffered the consequences of having disappointed him as greatly as Lucy had.

The man groaned. Thomas glanced at him. ‘Tell me more later, but now we need to take him upstairs to a bed.’

Lucy took a step back, shaking her head. Not to the floor where Robbie slept in peace, blissfully unaware of the drama happening beneath him. She barred the way, finally revealing her poker and brandishing it like a sword.

‘Come, little dove,’ the injured man slurred, grinning crookedly. ‘Be sensible and we all might live.’

Lurching forward unexpectedly, he raised his left arm and knocked it out of her hand. He staggered, as if this had taken the last of his strength, and fell forward towards her. Instinctively Lucy reached her arms out to catch him, her hands sliding beneath his armpits. She stepped backwards and found herself wedged between him and the wall, his weight crushing her. She yelped in pain as something sharp scratched her left shoulder through her thick wool dress. She looked down to see the head of an arrow protruding from the man’s right shoulder.

‘He’s really hurt!’ she exclaimed.

‘Don’t let me die unmourned, dove,’ the man slurred, his voice deep and husky.

Before Lucy could think how to reply he had reached his left arm to the back of her head, tilted it back and covered her lips with his.