Читать книгу Stolen Heiress - Joanna Makepeace - Страница 8

Clare returned from the church with Bridget the day following her brother’s funeral to find her uncle waiting for her in the hall. He turned from the hearth as she entered and she saw that he was frowning slightly, as if in deep thought.

‘Is something wrong?’ she asked as she came quickly to join him, holding out her chilled hands to the blaze. ‘You look worried.’

‘I’ve had a courier arrive from London and feel I should leave early tomorrow. There are matters decided in Council which might need my attention.’

She seated herself in the chair and leaned forward, staring into the cheerful flames which sent the shadows in the hall dancing, for the day was again a grey one and there was little light in the place. She felt chilled to the bone, for she had spent over an hour kneeling on the cold stone before the altar praying for her brother’s soul and those others who had died in the attack on the Devane manor.

Sir Gilbert turned to dismiss Bridget, who hovered in the doorway waiting for orders, and moved about a trifle fretfully until the girl had gone. He rubbed his hands together distractedly and Clare could see he still had something disturbing him.

‘You must go,’ she said mildly. ‘It is your duty. I shall be safe here. As you said, any reprisal would be slow in coming since the defending force at the Devane Manor has been decimated. It will take time for Robert Devane to muster any household sufficient even to repair the damage, let alone lead a force against us. In any case, the man is on the run and unlikely to be able to complain about the summary justice meted out to his family.’

She recalled again her uncle’s fury directed against the two guards left on duty outside the barn when he discovered his important prisoner had escaped.

‘I’ll hang the pair of them,’ he’d stormed. ‘Aye, and the drunken sots in the stables who, apparently, were so gone in ale that they heard nothing. God’s teeth, how could it have been managed? Devane had to have help. The two guards were struck down. His friends must have climbed the wall and got him clean away. That couldn’t have been easy if the fellow’s wound was as bad as you said. It was sheer negligence, the result of over-indulgence following their too-easy victory. I should hang and thrash a few to encourage the rest to remember their duties in future.’

Clare had patiently pleaded for the injured guards. Both were nursing sore heads. One had been very dazed indeed—she had wondered if he had suffered some permanent damage to the brain from the severe blow to the back of his head that he had taken from the rescuers, whoever they had been. Neither man could be blamed. Their attackers had obviously come silently and stealthily. They had accomplished their purpose and fled immediately into the night with the prisoner and Clare, for one, had been thankful.

There had been more than enough violence and death over the last few days to wish not to add to the score the Devanes would have cause to settle. Privately she had been thankful that the cheery red-headed prisoner had escaped the rope. Her uncle, though still seething, had calmed down after a while and granted the two threatened men clemency.

But he had made his anger known pithily and the sergeant had seen to it that no one in the household repeated the offence of negligence and the manor had been restored to a seeming normality—if it could ever be again when its young master lay coffined, awaiting burial.

There had been so much to be done over the past days that she had not allowed herself to think about the time when she would be left alone on the manor, unprotected. Now the moment had come upon her all too soon.

Her uncle was still restlessly prowling the room. Abruptly he stopped and faced her, his thumbs thrust into his sword belt.

‘You realise, Clare, that your position here has changed dramatically. You are now a very wealthy heiress and your prospects considerably improved, as, also, your possible danger.’

She stared at him incredulously. ‘I had not thought…’

‘There are men who will now covet your fortune, men who would stoop to take advantage of your vulnerability. It would be impracticable to leave you here, even with a garrison of my own choosing.’

She waited for his decision, a little breathless with dread. Did he wish her to go to his own manor in Northamptonshire? If so, her role would not be much changed from the one she had envisaged as poor relation to Peter and his wife. Sir Gilbert’s lady, her aunt, would not welcome her, especially since she was now to be sought after in marriage and Sir Gilbert’s own daughters, her two cousins, whom she rarely met, would feel likely to be in competition with her for suitors.

No. She straightened her shoulders determinedly. She would not go. Life there would be insupportable and she would not have it thrust upon her.

‘I have decided to place you under the protection of the Queen,’ he announced. ‘Margaret will welcome you as an attendant, and at Court you will have opportunity to see and be seen by suitable suitors. In arranging a marriage for you, the Queen would find some advantage as she could, in this way, cement the loyalty of the successful candidate for your hand, to say nothing of other suitors who would be anxious to secure her goodwill.

‘We cannot leave you now without royal protection. The country is in such disarray that it would be unwise to trust to even a loyal garrison here. Fortunately Margaret has established Court at Coventry so your journey there in this inclement weather will not be too difficult. I can escort you part of the way south when I leave tomorrow.’

‘You expect me to leave tomorrow?’ Clare rose in her chair in alarm. ‘But, Uncle, I am all unprepared and there are still arrangements to be made concerning Peter’s tomb and…’

He waved a hand, dismissing her argument. ‘All that can wait. Times are out of joint, Clare. We must take decisions hurriedly and act on them. You can take that girl Bridget and necessities can be packed tonight. Later, your clothing chests can be sent on to you. At present you will require only your mourning gowns.’

‘But don’t you see, Uncle, that my very state of mourning makes this journey and the possibilities you speak of quite out of the question? I should remain here quietly until I feel more settled and…’

He came towards her and she saw his mouth harden into an obstinate line. ‘I have already explained, Clare, that we must act quickly. In better times there would have been a need for longer reflection but these are not better times. Once my business in London is completed I shall return to my own household to see to their de-fences. You must do what I say. I’ll not accept any argument. Now go up, there’s a good wench, and see to your packing. You’ve always had practical common sense and I know I can rely on you to see the need for haste.’

She turned back to the fire, avoiding his dominating stare. She wanted to protest vehemently. She was bemused, shocked, as she had pleaded, she felt the need for a period of quiet contemplation here, but her change of circumstance had come so suddenly and at such a difficult time that she had to admit that what he was saying made sense.

She sighed, and rose reluctantly. Would Queen Margaret prove as unpleasant and demanding a guardian as Peter had often proved himself? Fervently she prayed that this would not prove the case.

Bridget chattered excitedly all through their hurried preparations. She had heard the rumour that her mistress was to be presented at Court and her head was quite turned by the prospect of the grandeur this evoked. Clare, who would much rather the girl had not been informed about the purpose of the journey, or, at least, not yet, was irritated beyond reason. Several times she was tempted to slap the girl, who would not concentrate on the task in hand and, repeatedly, tried to press Clare to take some more colourful gowns.

‘Bridget,’ she snapped finally. ‘Will you be silent! You are making my head ache. Of course we cannot appear in such gawdy clothing, when Sir Peter has only just, yesterday, been placed in his tomb. Now hurry up. Pack exactly what I say and nothing else. See you have everything you will need for a protracted stay, for we cannot return for anything once we begin the journey.’

She would have much rather relied on the services of one of the more sensible elder women, but they were all married and she could not insist that they leave husbands and family to follow her so many miles from their homes.

Once the novelty of the idea wore off and Bridget discovered that living at Court was most likely much more uncomfortable and cramped than living at Hoyland, she would probably calm down. There was no help for it. Bridget was the only serving-maid who could be spared and Clare would have to try to lick her into shape. At least she was a reasonable needlewoman, which ran in her favour.

She dismissed Bridget at last and sat down for a welcome moment of peace. Since Christmas there had been nothing but alarums in this house and very soon she would be leaving it. She had never been farther afield than Leicester Town and those visits had been rare.

She loved the old manor house and wondered, sadly, how long it would be before she would be able to return to it. Possibly, never. Only too well she knew it likely that the Queen would choose for her some Court official who would most likely not wish to live in the wilds of Leicestershire.

She peered at her features in her mirror. Fortunately it was portable. She would need it at Court. Her reflection swam mistily back at her. Her mourning gown certainly did not enhance her appearance, for black did nothing for her rather olive-tinted complexion or bring out the luminosity of her grey eyes. Sorrow had etched lines of tension round her nose and mouth and there were purple shadows round her eyes.

She looked much older than her eighteen years, she decided. She made a wry gesture of distaste. It was not a comforting thought that now she would be sought in marriage for the value of her lands and dower chests—and yet—it could not be denied that the prospect of marriage and children, a household of her own, was preferable to the dull fate she had seen in store for her only days ago.

She had no wish to be embroiled in Court intrigue. She had taxed Robert Devane with disloyalty to his sovereign in his championship of the late Duke of York and his son, the Earl of March, who must now, she thought, be accepted as the new Duke now that his father was dead following the battle of Sandal. Robert had assured her that his loyalty was to his own master, the Earl of Warwick, and he had made a convincing enough case for the succession of the Duke of York to the throne.

Even her own father, a firm supporter of the House of Lancaster, had been driven to exclaim at the inept rule of the kind but erratic King Henry.

Bouts of withdrawal from reality bordering on madness had made him more than once unfit to reign and Clare knew that her uncle’s strategy in placing her in the control of his consort, the warlike Queen Margaret, was the correct one.

Henry could not be relied upon to protect Clare’s interests as the Queen would do. Margaret would recognise the advantages to be gained by such a guardianship. Clare bit her lip thoughtfully. She also knew Margaret was arrogant and merciless. The cruel treatment meted out to the survivors of Sandal had revealed the ruthless streak in her nature. Warwick’s father, Salisbury, had been executed after the battle.

Once Clare’s father’s natural caution in gossiping about the nobility had lapsed and he had let it slip that many folk at Court believed Margaret’s son, young Edward, was not indeed the true son of the King. Since Henry was known to be unworldly and, in true saintlike fashion, frequently absented himself from his wife’s bed, it was likely enough that such scurrilous gossip would readily be accepted. Clare could not imagine herself enjoying her stay at the Lancastrian Court.

She slept uneasily, her thoughts strangely haunted by the face of Robert Devane and pictures of the ruined house and the bodies of the two slain men. She had seen to it that her uncle had kept his word. Sir Humphrey and his elder son, Walter, had been reverently interred with the village churchyard. The surviving prisoners whom Sir Gilbert had brought to Hoyland had been released and allowed to disperse. Only a skeleton household remained now at the Devane manor and it would be left to the King to decide whether the property should now be sequestered.

The morning dawned fair but still very cold and frosty. Clare breakfasted early within her own chamber and then stood, warmly cloaked and hooded, by her uncle’s side at the top of the house steps, watching the sumpter mules being loaded. Later, mounted upon her palfrey, she turned once to gaze back at the house as, with her escort of Hoyland men, she rode out under the gatehouse.

Sir Gilbert seemed wrapped in his own thoughts as he rode beside her and was uncommunicative. Clare wondered if he had received bad news from the London courier but she did not press him for information about that or for details of the Queen’s coterie. She considered, wryly, that she did not really want to know. When she arrived and was established at Coventry would be quite soon enough.

Bridget rode pillion behind one of Sir Gilbert’s men and, even from her place at the rear of the cavalcade, Clare could hear her chattering away excitedly.

At Lutterworth, Sir Gilbert took his leave of his niece, taking the old Roman Watling Street south to London, while Clare’s now smaller escort of six men-at-arms was to proceed on towards the village of Brinklow and finally Coventry. Sir Gilbert embraced her warmly on parting, but Clare could see his thoughts were still elsewhere. He assured her she had only to send a message to his manor if she had need of his help or advice. Then without further delay, he rode off with the rest of his men.

Clare felt bereft as she hesitatingly gave her hastily promoted sergeant the order to set off again. She had seen little of her father’s younger brother, but when they had met he had always been kind and, once or twice, had supported her when her brother had been deliberately cruel in his verbal attacks on her.

She felt very alone and glanced briefly at the still-chattering Bridget, then sighed. She could expect little help from that quarter. How she longed for the brusque kindness of her old wetnurse, who had unfortunately died only last Martinmas.

These were not her own men and had been given instructions to report to Sir Gilbert when they had seen her safely to Coventry. She was thankful that a messenger had been sent ahead to announce her coming—at least she would not arrive unexpectedly, which would have proved a distinct embarrassment. As she rode, she found herself trying to imagine just how the Queen would greet her. Somehow, she could not dismiss the notion that she would be unwelcome.

Queen Margaret had too much to concern her in dealing with the Yorkist lords—in particular the youthful Edward, Earl of March, the Rose of Rouen, as he had been aptly named, both for his birthplace and his exceptional physical beauty—to want to bother with a new lady in waiting who was recently bereaved and in need of eligible suitors, who would have to be persuaded to offer for her hand in marriage, however wealthy her inheritance.

‘The wound’s clean, Master Robert, and closing nicely. Mistress Hoyland did a fair job.’

Margery Lightbody got up from her kneeling position by his stool and bent to collect the basin and the pot of salve she had been using to dress Robert Devane’s leg.

She stretched, putting a hand to her aching back.

‘You should be well enough to begin the ride to London tomorrow, but heed my words, take it easy. The stitching was well done, but you could still burst them by riding hard. We don’t want the wound to start oozing pus, do we?’

‘No, we don’t,’ Robert mimicked her domineering tone and grinned back at her.

Margery was a good soul, but beauty and charm had eluded her when the good God had created her. She was one of his father’s most loyal servants, having been born to service at Devane Manor, and Robert valued her as had all the members of his family. Margery had been a younger nursemaid who had chased after him when he had toddled and his wetnurse had been too fat and wheezy to do so.

He had seen little of her lately since his stay in Calais, had not known of her marriage to Will Lightbody, but he was always glad to see her. Now that Will was gone—cut down in the attack on the manor—and though concerned for her safety, Rob had protested when she had joined the little knot of retainers determined to follow him in his flight from the district, but he had given way at last. Margery was not to be gainsaid.

She was a big, raw-boned woman, solemn of features and surly of tongue, but he knew her to be worth her solid weight in gold. She pushed impatiently at straggles of dark hair which had escaped from her cap and gazed moodily out of the unglazed window.

It had been Margery who had suggested the weary little band should rest up here in the old foresters’ hut where her grandfather had once lived. Not far from Lutterworth, the place, deserted for years since the old man’s death, was well hidden by forest scrub. It was a convenient hiding place for the needed respite, close to the London road that Rob was determined to take the moment he was recovered enough to ride.

The two were alone together in the dark and cold little hut, the other members of the band out looking for game for the pot. Margery had managed to get a sulky fire of sorts going beneath the one smoke hole, but the air in the hut was fouled by the smoke that remained in the place and it was still deadly cold. At least it had prevented them all from freezing to death throughout the three nights that they had stayed here.

Rob grinned at Margery as she moved to stir the small hanging pot over the fire. What in the Virgin’s name she had in it, he dared not think, probably herbs and roots sufficient to keep them alive and warmed. Her scolding tongue had hustled out the hunting party to search for a hare or pigeon. She’d had the forethought to bring the pot and other necessities like her herbs and salves in her flight from her home.

His grin faded as he thought how her practicality might well have deserted her. She had remained grim-lipped and uncommunicative about what had befallen her after the attack, but he had drawn his own conclusions. He turned from her now to draw up his hose and tie his points. Margery might not be as gentle in touch as Mistress Hoyland nor as skilful, but at least she wasn’t determined to hand him over to those who would see him swing at a rope’s end. No, he could not refuse her protection.

The men had been warned, on peril of their lives, to leave her unmolested; Rob grinned inwardly as he considered any man brave indeed who would even accost her. They had watched her warily as she had stolidly tramped the frost-hardened fields and rutted roads with them, grunted with relish at her culinery skills and kept their distance.

Even Piers Martine, that swarthy rapscallion who’d accompanied Rob from Calais and come timely to his rescue at Hoyland, had not dared to challenge Margery and Piers constantly boasted that all women were fair game to him.

Rob looked up sharply as his straining ears caught the sounds of approach through the undergrowth near the hut. Margery nodded imperceptibly and moved near to the door.

Sym and Diggory Fletcher knocked cautiously on the old warped door and, as warily, pushed their way in. Neither appeared to be carrying food for the pot. Margery sighed, then clucked her tongue in disapproval.

The two were brothers, men-at-arms who had served his father loyally and they had joined Piers Martine and Silas Whitcome, expressing their determination to join Rob and eventually see retribution exacted on those Hoyland men who had killed their master and damaged their home manor.

Sym crouched by Rob’s stool and his brother sauntered over to the pot and sniffed at its contents.

‘We heard some news we thought might interest you, Master Rob, and came straight back to tell you.’

‘Without so much as a pigeon for the pot,’ Margery sniffed.

Sym ignored her while Diggory simply grinned.

‘Sir Gilbert Hoyland set out this morning with an escort of about twenty men. He was making for the London road, I reckon, and though he’s got a sizeable company and won’t be expecting trouble, I think as ’ow we could give ’im some, ’specially as we could ambush the party from the scrubland. We ’eard it from a woodcutter who’d recognised the device on the men’s jacks. Most of the folk ’ereabout ’ave ’eard of our trouble and see ’ow we’d like to get even.

‘We managed to skirt the road and saw the party. I counted the men-at-arms and there seem to be fewer than was mentioned. P’raps he sent some of his men off to ’is own manor, anyway ’e’d be an easy target for us now.’ He grinned wolfishly. ‘There’s five of us and me and Diggory’s expert archers. What does you say, Master Rob?’

‘I say the master’s got enough to do in his state to see himself safely to London and on his way to Calais,’ snapped Margery. ‘There’s time enough when he’s got more support from the Earl to think about getting even with them Hoylands.’

Rob’s lips parted in a slow smile. ‘Do you know where Piers is, Sym?’

‘’E’s near enough for one of us to find him. Diggory’s a good tracker.’

Rob pushed himself up. ‘We could do with some horses,’ he said thoughtfully and Margery snorted again. They had had some difficulty in releasing one from the Devane stables under the noses of the Hoyland guards left there. One was needed for Rob’s progress to London since walking had been difficult as his wound had pained him, but the rest could manage easily enough without. She considered this proposed attack madness but, catching her Rob’s eyes, saw it would do her no good at all to say so. His blue eyes were already shining with enthusiasm for the venture.

Diggory was dispatched and, sooner than expected, returned with the Frenchman and Silas Whitcome. Piers cheerfully brandished a brace of pigeons and the company sat on the earth floor near the fire near Rob’s stool while Margery plucked and prepared the pigeons for the cooking pot. Rob spelt out his proposed ambush and Piers Martine reflectively fingered a gold hoop which danged from one torn ear.

‘’Ow many men do you think there now are?’ he questioned Sym. The lanky shock-haired man-at-arms shook his head, pursed his lips, looked to his brother for confirmation and ventured an opinion.

‘I’d say no more ’n ten, possibly fewer.’

‘With Sir Gilbert, who is presumably a skilled fighting man, that is almost two to one, mon ami.’

Rob nodded in agreement, ‘But an unexpected ambush—’ His eyes narrowed. ‘I owe this to my father’s memory and to Walter. If I could take Sir Gilbert and hold him for ransom, I could recoup some of our losses.’

‘I’d do more ’n ’old ’im for ransom,’ growled Sym.

‘I agree entirely,’ Rob said smoothly, ‘but in these matters you have to do what is best. We need ready gold and Sir Gilbert could provide it.’

‘And for how long do you intend to lie about here, waiting to be caught?’ demanded Margery sourly. She made no bones about arguing with Master Rob.

Rob smiled again in her direction. ‘There is a risk, certainly,’ he acknowledged evenly, ‘but I consider it worth the taking. We can demand that Sir Gilbert send to his own manor, which is not too far away, while we hold him and any of his men who survive the attack. He can hardly inform on us and this hiding place has served us well up to now. How fast was he travelling?’ he asked Sym. ‘Can we cut through the woods to get ahead of him?’

‘Aye, Master Rob. The company was travelling slow, loaded down with two sumpters and one maid or p’raps a wounded man riding pillion, I didn’t stop to look too closely.’

Rob rose to his feet. ‘Then the sooner we are on his track, the better.’

Piers eyed him thoughtfully, ‘Mon ami, should you not…?’

His voice trailed off as he met the full scornful gaze of those blue-green eyes. He shrugged philosphically. ‘So be it, messire. We ’ave nevaire been afraid of taking the risks before, n’est ce pas?’

Despite her protests, Margery was left behind to tend their dinner and the little party set off led by Diggory, who, true to his brother’s word, was a fine woodsman and knew his way. Rob cursed his bad leg for the first half-mile—it had stiffened over the last few days due to enforced inactivity—but as they continued he found himself walking and even running over difficult ground more easily and well able to keep up with his men.

Diggory, ahead, stopped, keeping his head lowered, and signalled that they were now getting close to the road. Rob turned and cautioned his men with a gesture to silence and warily and quietly approached to squat behind Diggory.

They were now able to see clearly from cover the road to Brinklow Village. Diggory turned slightly as both of them heard the sound of considerable number of horsemen approaching. Rob turned and signalled again to his men. Silently, without the need for further instruction, they rose from their crouched positions and began to position themselves for ambush.

Sym and Diggory Fletcher, both fine archers, began to look to their long bows. Silas Whitcome and Piers Martine had both been with Rob for some time in service, both in London and Calais. Each was preparing himself for combat in his own way. Silas was easing his sword in its scabbard as Rob was his own weapon.

The Frenchmen had already found himself a suitable tree and sat astride a branch, giving him an excellent view of the road while still affording him some measure of bare branches for cover. His own deadly crossbow was ready for action.

The company of horsemen came steadily on. Rob could hear one female voice chattering on and judged Sym had been right in assuming it was a maidservant who was riding pillion. His whole body was tensed now, ready for action and, deliberately, he quietened his breathing. It was essential that each man of his company performed now to the best of his ability and experience.

He trusted all of them. The Frenchman was a fighting machine in his own right and Silas was steady and careful, not one to rush into danger without conscious thought. The Fletchers he had not seen in action recently, but knew they were experienced men-at-arms of his father’s company; he relied on them to do well in this coming engagement.

The first two men of the advancing escort were in sight now and Rob saw Diggory rise and nock his first arrow. He did not wait for orders. He knew well enough it was necessary for the company to come further into range before dispatching his fatal feathered missile.

Rob was waiting, half-stooped, his back hand ready to signal a message to Sym and Silas behind him. Piers, he knew, had a very clear view and, like Diggory, would take his own time.

The Hoyland escort came on, riding two by two. He could see the cold winter light glinting on their metal salets and the devices on their leather jacks were easily recognisable. He breathed a sigh of relief. It would not do to attack some other poor unsuspecting wight on the road going innocently about his business.

Behind the first two came one of the sumpter mules Diggory had spoken of and a single man-at-arms, with a woman clutching anxiously at his waist riding pillion. Rob cursed under his breath as he saw her. He would have preferred the wench to have been riding at the rear of the escort with the other mule he could see. He had no wish to see her fall victim to an arrow but, already, Diggory had loosed off his first shot.

The leading man, presumably the sergeant, gave a half-cry and fell forward over his horse’s head. The beast rose, forelegs in the air, whinnying in sudden panic, and reared across the path of the fellow who rode beside him.

The man bellowed a warning shout to those of his company behind and inexpertly tried to extricate his own mount from the oncoming hoofs of his erstwhile partner’s mount.

Pandemonium broke out in an instant. Arrows flew from cover and two other men screamed and fell. The road was now blocked by a company of plunging mounts and the noise of panicked bellows from those still in the saddle. It took only moments for Rob to establish control of the situation. He had only to emerge from cover, dash into the road and seize the reins of one of the plunging, frenzied horses, pulling the beast to a standstill.

He called a crisp, decisive command to the remaining men-at-arms to surrender.

‘Throw down your arms and dismount. You are my prisoners. My men have you all well in their sights.’

All of his men but Piers, who remained at his vantage point in the tree, emerged from cover and stood, bows full-stretched, threateningly. Silas had already dashed up to another of the men who gave signs of giving further trouble and neatly held his sword too close to the fellow’s throat.

A woman’s voice broke across the confused chaos. ‘Desist. There is no point in dooming yourselves. This outlaw robber has the upper hand. I’d have no more blood spilt on my behalf in a vain attempt to protect me.’

Rob looked up, startled to see that the palfrey which was bucking under his hand on the reins was carrying Mistress Clare Hoyland.

She leaned down to try and soothe her frightened mount with a reassuring pat and, recognising Rob immediately, said coldly, ‘I see you have so far escaped the King’s justice, Master Devane. Very fortunate for you, less lucky for my escort.’

The horse quietened as she spoke to it soothingly and Rob relaxed his tight grip on the rein and gave her a mocking half-bow. Behind them the men of her escort were sullenly obeying him and dismounting. Silas was efficiently collecting up their discarded weapons. Three men still lay on the ground, one very still and two others groaning and cursing from the pain of arrow wounds.

The woman mounted pillion was screaming shrilly and hysterically beating away the hands of the soldier behind whom she’d been riding as he vainly attempted to lift her down from the saddle.

‘Bridget, be quiet,’ Mistress Hoyland snapped. ‘You cannot be hurt badly, if at all, to be able to scream like that.’

She herself remained mounted, proudly looking down at her attacker.

Silas sidled up to Rob, carrying his toll of weapons, swords and daggers.

‘There’s no sign of Sir Gilbert Hoyland,’ he murmured hoarsely. ‘It looks like he isn’t in the company.’

Rob cursed beneath his breath and turned to the girl, seemingly unafraid, who managed her palfrey skilfully despite its continued nervous sidling. She was dressed in mourning in a black fur-lined frieze cloak, suitable for travelling, and her black hood, drawn up against the winter chill, covered her simple white linen coif.

He said, his ill temper mounting at the unexpected turn of events, hardening his tone, ‘Where is your uncle, mistress?’

Her shoulders rose and fell only slightly. ‘He is on his way to London, sir, though why his whereabouts should concern you, I have no idea.’

His blue eyes were staring at her accusingly. ‘He left you to travel without his protection?’

Her chin lifted a trifle. ‘He accompanied me as far as Lutterworth and then took the Watling Street road to London.’ She hesitated for a fraction of a moment then, feeling she needed to make some excuse for her uncle’s conduct, added, ‘I understand he had urgent business at Westminster.’

‘Here’s a pretty pickle,’ Silas murmured at Rob’s ear. ‘What do we do now? Do you want me to deal with the rest of the escort? Master Rob, we should be moving off the road.’

Rob nodded in irritation. His gaze passed to the little knot of defeated Hoyland men-at-arms who had gathered defensively close together and were clearly concerned about their own fate. As yet they had made no attempt to go to the help of their injured comrades.

Rob waved a hand towards Diggory and Sym who were still mounting guard over the prisoners.

‘Get them into the wood. Is that fellow dead?’ He looked dispassionately at the still figure of the sergeant in the roadway.

‘Aye, Master Rob, it would seem so.’ Sym’s voice revealed no hint of sympathy for the victim. There had been too many dead men left to rot at the Devane manor.

‘Well, get the body into the wood and bury it. I know the ground is hard but do your best, cover it with brush-wood if necessary. Secure the horses and pinion the wrists of those prisoners on their feet, but first let them tend to their wounded.’

His hand was still holding the palfrey’s leading rein and he made to draw the horse under the cover of the trees.

Clare addressed him coldly. ‘I trust, sir, that you don’t intend to butcher my unarmed men or me?’

He swung to face her and she saw that his expression was granite set.

‘If my men did so, mistress, I could not find it in my heart to blame them. Men died in plenty at my manor, aye, and women, too, some most unpleasantly.’

He saw her grey eyes widen and a shadow of fear crossed her proud face. The maid, now on foot and gripping tightly to the panier on one of the sumpters, gave another shrill scream which was instantly halted as her mistress turned her imperious gaze upon her once more.

Clare did not resist as he led her horse under cover some quarter of a mile into the wood where woodsmen had fashioned a clearing.

He held up his arms commandingly to lift her down. For the length of a heartbeat he thought she would refuse to obey, then she allowed herself to be lowered to the ground and moved a fraction from him. Diggory had brought up the struggling maid who, once he released her, ran, panting and sobbing, to her mistress’s side and clutched desperately at her cloak.

‘Mistress Clare,’ she gulped. ‘Oh, Mistress Clare, whatever is to become of us?’

‘I do not know,’ Clare replied woodenly, ‘but I do know it will not improve our prospects for you to continue to give trouble and cry like that.’

The wounded had been conveyed into the clearing by the survivors and laid down upon the grass. Without seeking permission from Rob, Clare went instantly to them and knelt by them. She made a perfunctory examination, then said quietly, ‘They do not appear to be too gravely hurt. None of the arrows have damaged vital organs, but they should not be left long in this bitter cold without help. I ask you again, sir, what are you going to do with us? I understand, from your question earlier, it was my uncle you sought.’

‘It was indeed, mistress. He and your brother were responsible for the raid on my manor and, since Sir Peter is dead and cannot be called to account, Sir Gilbert alone must answer to me for his actions.’

‘Then you will let us proceed on our way to Coventry?’

‘Coventry?’ He raised one eyebrow in surprise. ‘You go to join the Court at Coventry? Was that in hope of seeing me hang, Mistress Hoyland?’

‘It certainly was not, sir. I was already well aware of your escape and I thanked God for it. As you have said, too many men died in that fruitless attack on your home and I would not have had your name added to the list, whatever your crimes against the King’s Grace.’

He was leaning against a tree bole, watching her as she still knelt by the wounded men. He was silent for a moment then he said, ‘You are right when you say too many men have died, but there is still a debt to be paid. You understand that?’

She rose to her feet and calmly dusted herself down. ‘These injured men are hardly responsible, Master Devane. They did but obey orders even if these men, personally, were involved in the raid.’

‘Naturally. I hold the Hoylands responsible.’

He saw her wince at the implication but still she showed no fear.

Rob turned to Piers who had come up, soft-footed as a cat, as usual.

‘We shall not want to be hampered by these men. If we take the horses as planned I think we can allow them to remain here.’

‘Pinioned?’

Rob hesitated. ‘Mistress Hoyland warns me of the danger to them of leaving them tied here in these bitter conditions, particularly the wounded men. When we have left, they can seek help for their injured companions in Brinklow. They will be on foot and unable to pursue us.’ He turned and whispered so that Mistress Hoyland could not overhear him. ‘They cannot know of our hiding place.’

‘And the women, mon ami? Since Sir Gilbert is not here—the demoiselle would bring a considerable ransom in his stead, n’est ce pas?’

Rob turned and regarded her slowly. He could tell by the very rigidity of her stance that she was struggling to maintain a semblance of courage. She lifted one hand to push back a lock of brown hair, which had come loose from its pins when she had stooped to see the wounded men. He rubbed one side of his nose thoughtfully.

‘We’ll take her to the hut,’ he said at last, ‘and consider, later, what is best to be done.’

‘Did I hear the demoiselle say she was bound for the Court of le roi in Coventry?’

‘You did.’

‘Then, mon ami, naturellement, a courier will have been sent in advance to announce her arrival. She will be sought for—assiduously—is that not how you say it?’

Rob grimaced ruefully. ‘Doubtless she will, especially when the men have reported her disappearance, that is.’ He gave a slow smile. ‘I think, Piers, these men will not be anxious to return to their service. Sir Gilbert Hoyland is no man to cross, I am sure, and will deal harshly with any he deems to be inefficient or to lack courage. These fellows will know well enough they will be blamed. I think I can guarantee they will disappear into the countryside. I can only hope they take their injured companions with them. This will give us a breathing space.’

Piers shrugged and looked towards the tethered horses. Left to his own devices, he would have made very sure there was no pursuit, but Messire Robert Devane was often unpredictable and prone to unfortunate scruples.

He moved off to see that the prisoners were informed what was to happen to them. They were all young, the dead sergeant being, apparently, the only experienced man in the company. Piers Martine considered Sir Gilbert Hoyland a fool to have trusted his niece to such an undisciplined rabble.

Clare Hoyland drew a hard breath and marched up to her captor. It had to be faced. She needed to know her fate—now.

‘I demand to know, sir, when you will release me?’

He narrowed his eyes and she saw his lips tighten. His was such a normally genial countenance that she was chilled by the sight and stepped back a little.

‘Certainly not yet, mistress,’ he said brutally.

‘But you said—it was my uncle you expected…’

‘It was, but you, too, are a Hoyland.’

She gave a sharp exclamation. ‘You intend to hold me prisoner?’

‘You have guessed it, mistress.’

‘You will hold me for ransom? But, my uncle…’

‘Will pay it gladly,’ he mocked her. ‘I have not yet decided, mistress, but, for the present, you will come with us and without protest.’ He glanced towards the band of prisoners. ‘If you resist, it may rouse some core of chivalry in those youngsters there and I am sure you realise that could only end in their deaths.’

She inclined her chin and her single word was a trifle breathy. ‘Yes.’

He turned from her. ‘Then that is settled.’

She called back to him. ‘Sir?’

‘Madam?’

‘You intend to let the men go free?’

‘Yes.’

‘Will you let my maid go? She will only hinder us and—and she will prove difficult to handle.’

His eyebrows rose again in some amusement.

‘You would go with us unchaperoned?’

Colour flooded her face, now pale with suppressed fear.

‘For her good—yes, and—’ it came out in a rush ‘—if you mean me harm or—humiliation—I do not think her presence would deter you.’

He threw back his head and the laugh echoed in the little clearing.

‘You read the situation correctly indeed, Mistress Hoyland.’

He looked towards the maid who was still hysterical with fear. Certainly the girl would be of little use to her mistress in her present state.

‘Yes, she may go, but I hope and trust she will fare better with those of your men than she would have cause to fear mine.’

‘She will have to take that chance,’ Clare said evenly.

He moved from her then to give orders for their departure and she went to the frightened girl.

‘Bridget, you are to go with those men to the nearest inn at Brinklow. I do not think they will harm you. They fear Sir Gilbert’s anger too much.’ She drew a swift breath. ‘At least I believe you will be safer with them. These ruffians cannot be trusted.’

‘But you, mistress?’ Bridget’s lips rounded into an ‘o’ of shocked horror. ‘I should not leave you.’

Clare forced a confident smile. ‘I do not think I am in any real danger. Master Devane, for all his piratical ways, is a gentleman. We must hope and pray that that is the case. In all events it would do no good for both of us to be endangered and I can trust you to raise the alarm. I do not know where I am to be taken, but my uncle’s men must be alerted and, doubtless, they will search these woods and the surrounding district so there is every chance I shall be found.’

The girl drew a quivering breath. ‘Yes, mistress.’

Clare gave her a little push in the direction of the Hoyland prisoners and turned resolutely to Robert Devane, who was striding purposefully back towards her.

‘You must mount up, now, mistress, we are ready to set off.’

The Frenchman, whose bold dark countenance and mocking grin she distrusted most, brought up her palfrey. Robert Devane prepared to lift her to her saddle and she flinched from the feel of his two strong hands upon her waist, but knew it would be useless to protest. Better Devane than his foreign henchman.

He settled her comfortably and handed her the reins. She resisted the urge to kick her horse into a canter and make for the road. It would be useless, she knew and shuddered inwardly at the thought of an arrow between her shoulder blades. She had seen how proficient these men were with their weapons. They were ruthless. Her uncle’s conduct had made them desperate and she must pay the price.

She waited docilely while the little troop mounted up behind her then, with Robert Devane’s masterful hand upon her bridle rein, she allowed him to lead her along the forest track.