Читать книгу Stolen Heiress - Joanna Makepeace - Страница 8

Clare struggled to keep her fears under control as her captor led her along the woodland paths. Already she was convinced she was totally lost even if she were able to evade her guards. Her heart was beating painfully as she realised that allowing Bridget to remain with the members of her wounded escort had left her completely compromised. She gave an inner laugh. Bridget’s presence, as she had been at pains to point out to Robert Devane, would hardly have proved any real protection but, though the girl was feckless and often silly, Clare was missing her now sorely.

The men did not speak but pushed steadily on, sure-footed, the leader clearly knowing his way. Clare stole a glance at Robert Devane, who rode serenely beside her. She had noticed that he was still limping when he walked to her in the woodland glade and she wondered how well her treatment had progressed. She knew, only too well, that the very real danger of such a deep wound was the possibility of infection setting in. If that occurred, the patient either lost a limb—or his life.

The man in the lead paused and turned. Robert Devane shortened the leading rein of her palfrey and rode in close.

‘We are very near to our destination now,’ he informed her coldly. ‘When we arrive I want your promise that you will make no attempt to escape, otherwise I must keep you pinioned.’

She looked back at him proudly. ‘I shall give you no such promise, Master Devane,’ she said icily. ‘I am completely at your mercy and expect no soft treatment from you.’

‘Nor will you get it, Mistress Hoyland,’ he returned, but without rancour.

He was smiling and she had no way of knowing whether there was malice in the words or merely an amused rejoinder.

A hut loomed up before them suddenly, almost hidden by the dense foliage. It was a poor place of wattle and daub with a roughly constructed and warped door of split logs. Smoke was escaping from a hole in the ill-thatched roof.

The hut had obviously been used occasionally by some woodcutter or charcoal burner, Clare thought, for it was hardly substantially built enough for winter weather. She shivered inside her fur-lined cloak and was glad of its warmth and the protection it afforded her from Robert Devane’s eyes observing how she was trembling.

One of the men slipped inside and, almost instantly, a woman emerged, big, raw-boned, unfriendly looking. She stood, arms akimbo, regarding Clare stonily as Robert Devane lifted her down from her palfrey.

He greeted the woman cheerily, ‘Ah, Margery, as you see, we have a prisoner. This is Mistress Hoyland. I wish you to keep a very close watch on her.’ He gave a brief bubble of laughter. ‘Especially since she decided to dispense with the services of her maid. Didn’t trust the lass to our menfolk.’ He looked over at them jovially. ‘A sentiment I can well understand. But now she is without chaperon and will need you to act as such.’

The woman addressed as Margery looked even more sourly from her master to his prisoner.

‘And she is the prize, is she? What of her uncle, Sir Gilbert?’

‘Had left her on the road to our mercy, gone on to London about his own concerns.’

‘What you’d expect from a Hoyland,’ the woman spat out vituperatively. ‘Has no care for his own womenfolk nor any respect for others.’

Clare felt herself going even paler and, stiffened from her ride, almost fell as Robert Devane’s supporting arm was withdrawn from round her waist.

The woman stood aside as the prisoner was marched through the hut doorway.

‘So you intend to hold her for ransom instead of her uncle?’

Clare was sure that the woman was a servant yet her familiarity of expression showed she had been close to Robert Devane over a number of years. Clare’s eyebrows rose as she stared at her. Was she his mistress? No, Clare decided, unlikely, the woman was now revealed as much older than her master and by no means comely. She was strong, though, and Clare doubted that, in any trial of strength with the woman, she would come off best. Margery, whoever she was in the Devane household, was trusted and her strengths well known.

Her hostility towards Clare probably proceeded from the attack on the manor. Had she lost some kin in that raid? If so, she would prove as formidable an opponent as any of the men, yet the sight of another female in this place was some small measure of comfort.

The fire gave little warmth but there was protection from the wind in the hut and Clare sank thankfully down on a pile of dried bracken that Robert Devane indicated. She made no effort to remove her cloak or put back her hood.

Robert Devane stood directly in front of her, his thumbs thrust deep into his sword belt as he grinned down at his captive. She waited anxiously for his answer to Margery’s question.

‘Ransom?’ he said slowly, his eyes raking over Clare’s huddled form. ‘It is a possibility. At any rate I’ve forbidden any of my men to touch her until I’ve finally decided. I’ll need you to guard her like a dragon, Margery, both from her own desire to escape and lose herself in this unfriendly wood and from the others—’ his eyes twinkled merrily ‘—particularly from Piers.’

Clare controlled a shudder as she recalled the predatory gaze of the Frenchman. She looked up to meet Margery’s cold brown eyes in direct appeal.

‘Aye, I’ll keep my eyes on her, you can be sure of that, Master Rob,’ the older woman said with a disparaging glance at the prisoner.

There was a savoury smell issuing from the pot suspended from a roughly made iron support over the fire. Clare was made aware for the first time that she was actually hungry. Her escort had not paused on the journey to eat. Sir Gilbert had been anxious to press on and Clare had thought to stop at an inn in Brinklow. She looked away, flushing darkly, as she saw Robert Devane’s amused glance follow hers to the pot.

‘Don’t worry, Mistress Hoyland, I have no intention of starving my prisoner. I have an excellent memory and was very grateful for your hospitality extended to me in your barn. Without that fine wine to give me strength, I might never have managed the escape when my men came for me.’

If he had expected her to make some spirited comment that she would have done better to have held her hand from such kindness, he received no reply. He turned his attention to arranging for adequate guard to take turns while the little company ate. A slight stir outside informed Clare that the rest of the group had returned. Soon they were all crowding into the small hut.

The Frenchman was eyeing her speculatively again and she turned from him stonily to look fixedly at the rough daubed wall.

Robert Devane placed two men outside to keep a close watch and he himself sat down very close to Clare while Margery began to deal out the stew into wooden bowls. Someone had come well prepared from the Devane manor, Clare thought. Robert Devane handed her a bowl and wooden spoon and gratefully she began to eat. The stew was good—rabbit or pigeon, she thought—seasoned with herbs from the wood.

The men ate steadily, again with little comment, and Margery sat down at last to consume her share of the stew, after taking rations to the two outside. The Frenchman Robert Devane had called Piers sat back idly after he had finished, swinging his wooden spoon loosely from the fingers of one hand and emitting a tuneless whistle which both irritated and alarmed Clare. In some subtle way he managed to raise her fears without one word or action of threatening behaviour.

She had the notion that he was no servant of Robert Devane, but a close companion, and any control Rob Devane had over the man lay in the friendship each had for the other. Were she to be separated from either Devane or Margery, she would become very frightened indeed.

The light in the hut was beginning to fade and Clare realised it would soon be full dark. The guard outside had been changed and Rob Devane had been discussing with his men his plans for the following day. She had been kept with Margery Lightbody—as she had discovered the woman’s full name to be—at the other end of the hut and, strain her ears though she might, she could not hear what was said.

Margery took her outside at last so she might obey the call of nature and Clare was embarrassed to see not only that the woman kept her in sight all the time but they were shadowed by another of Rob Devane’s men, though at a somewhat discreet distance. She was beginning to get more and more fearful about the sleeping arrangements, but kept trying to reassure herself with the thought that Robert Devane had declared his intention of holding her for ransom. Were she to be molested by him or any of his men, she would prove virtually worthless, so, surely he would see to it that she was kept safe throughout the dark hours.

He came to her side as she and Margery returned to the hut, still followed by their watchful guard.

‘You will sleep in this corner of the hut.’ He indicated the pile of bracken which had been drawn out into the shape of two rough beds. ‘Margery will lie beside you and you will remove your shoes and hand them to me now.’

When she was about to protest he said, ‘If your feet are cold in the night you must accept that as a consequence of your refusal to give me your word you would try no tricks. Wrap them up in your cloak. You are lucky I do not intend to carry out my threat and keep you tightly pinioned. That, I’m sure you realise, would prove acutely uncomfortable.’

Mutinously she lifted her gown and began to remove her shoes, conscious that covert glances were being cast at her from the far side of the hut. The Frenchman’s regard was not in the slightest covert. He continued to smile as she withdrew both soft riding shoes and handed them to Robert Devane.

‘Good,’ he said tersely. ‘You would find it extremely painful to try to hobble through the wood without these, mistress, and, I warn you, there are predators out there, animal as well as human, so lie down now and do your best to sleep. We have quite a way to travel in the morning and will set off at first light.’

‘How will you send to my uncle and demand ransom?’ she asked. ‘I trust you will do so very soon and allow me to be free of your hateful presence as quickly as humanly possible.’

He made her that little, mocking bow she found so annoying.

‘I assure you, Mistress, I am as anxious as you are to see an improvement in my fortunes. Your brother’s conduct has forced this hateful necessity upon me. I can only hope that your uncle is as willing to value your freedom as you hope he will be and makes no delay in meeting my demands.’

She turned from him angrily. She did not wish him to see her expression and was grateful for the dimness within the hut, the one horn lantern being furthest away from where she was to lie. She, too, had her doubts about her uncle’s intentions. He had been in such a hurry to further his own interests that she feared he would take some time before he considered the welfare of his niece, who had been thrust so quickly as an unwelcome burden upon him.

Her thoughts sped to the Queen at her Court in Coventry. By now messengers would have been sent alerting her to Clare’s arrival. Soon it would be recognised that she was overdue. Would the Queen consider herself at all responsible for her newest attendant—and one, at that, whom she had never seen—and send out a search party? Clare rather thought not.

Both the King and Queen had overmuch upon their minds during these uncertain times to worry themselves about the safety of some hapless and unimportant girl. Her only hope lay in being ransomed. If her uncle could not be contacted soon…or should he refuse to cooperate with Robert Devane—she thrust that fear aside as being too terrible to contemplate.

Margery Lightbody saw to it that the fire was safely banked down and eventually lay down beside her charge. Not once since she had first seen Clare had she addressed one word to her and Clare felt she could expect no help or mercy from that quarter. Margery was entirely devoted to her master and would obey his commands to the letter.

It was becoming bitterly cold and Clare lay huddled in the corner. The men had also settled themselves to sleep some distance from the two women. Robert Devane had gone outside to take his turn on watch. Clare lay sleepless, unwilling to turn or move and disturb Margery Lightbody. Her thoughts went over and over the events of the day and her fears for the future.

She wondered if Bridget had been able to alert someone at Brinklow who would return to the Hoyland manor or send word of her predicament. Surely Bridget would not be feckless enough to forget her duty and run off with some man from the escort. Sighing inwardly, she had to admit that, knowing Bridget as she did, that was quite within the realm of probability.

She had to face the bitter knowledge that she was helpless in Robert Devane’s hands and unlikely to receive succour from any outside source—at least within the next two or three days.

Clare was roughly shaken awake at first light. Again she went outside with Margery and returned to the hut where the men were dividing up a quantity of dark rye bread and sharing ale. Robert Devane silently handed her a hunk of the bread and a wooden cup containing ale. He made no apologies for the poorness of fare and she made no complaints. It was still very cold, but the wind had dropped considerably and she had noticed a lightness, compared to the previous day’s leaden sky, which heralded the possibility of a wintry sun showing itself later.

She saw the men making preparations for departure, packing their meagre supplies and checking their weapons. She became anxious to know if Margery Lightbody was to accompany the party. Hostile as the woman was, she represented Clare’s one female supporter amongst this motley company of men.

Robert Devane soon disabused her of that fear.

‘Margery is to go with us. Unfortunately, she cannot ride alone and must go pillion. Have I your word that you will be sensible? Otherwise, I must carry you face down upon my saddle bow.’

Clare grimaced. The very humiliating idea of the threat convinced her that, for the present, she must cooperate with her captor.

‘I will agree to ride with you throughout this day only,’ she rejoined coldly. ‘Later, I will make no promises.’

He nodded and gave the signal for the little group to leave the hut and saddle up.

She was glad of her own palfrey, who whinnied with pleasure at sight of her. Margery watched stolidly while Robert Devane assisted Clare into the saddle. Then, somewhat apprehensively, she mounted behind Sym Fletcher, who made some ribald remark that made her snort as he insisted she tuck her arms firmly round his waist. Clare noticed that the Frenchman rode companionably close to Robert Devane and, though he said nothing, his black snapping eyes showed his amusement at her discomfiture.

The company rode as silently as they had traversed the wood the previous day, only the clopping of the horses’ hooves and the faint snapping of an occasional twig marking their passing. She still had no idea where Robert Devane was taking her and was much too proud to enquire. They fell into single file as the woodland path grew narrow and Clare saw Silas Whitcome was bringing up the rear leading the sumpter mule.

She looked about her constantly and, at last, realised they were heading south, eventually taking a well-worn path, which she thought ran parallel to the Roman highway that ran to London and St Albans. While they were still comparatively close to Clare’s own manor, Robert Devane was taking no chances of riding along the main highway, with the risk of Clare being recognised and the company challenged.

Some miles further south he issued an order. Apparently, he now thought it was safe enough to run onto the main Roman thoroughfare. Were they riding to London? Clare wondered. Perhaps Robert Devane was intending to join his master, the Earl of Warwick, whom she had heard had now left Calais and landed on English soil. If so, then the Yorkist lords were already beginning to once more gain ground and confidence after their defeat at Wakefield.