Читать книгу Knave's Honour - Margaret Moore, Paul Hammerness - Страница 10

LIZETTE WATCHED the Irishman disappear through the trees. Could Adelaide really be married? Why would he lie if she wasn’t?

As she tried to convince herself that he must be mistaken if he wasn’t lying, Garreth rummaged in the pouch. With the flare of a magician producing a bag of gold coins, he brought forth an apple that looked rather the worse for having been battered about in the pouch.

“It’s not as fine as you’re used to, I’m sure, my lady,” he said, offering it to her with a sheepish grin, “but apples are all we’ve got.”

“I’m sure it’ll be delicious,” she replied, giving it to Keldra.

“You have it, my lady,” she demurred. “I’m not hungry.”

“I’m ordering you to eat it,” Lizette said. “You need to regain your strength.”

“That was the best one,” Garreth muttered as Keldra reluctantly took it. “I meant it for you.”

“I’ll gladly take the second-best one.”

Although still obviously displeased, the young man dived back into the pouch and this time, he produced a smaller apple. He polished it on his sleeve, which didn’t look overly clean, before handing it to her with a shrug.

“Thank you, Garreth,” she said, hoping to assuage his wounded feelings with a warm smile. Ignoring her qualms about the dirty sleeve, she bit into it.

It was indeed not as fine a fruit as she was used to; however, she was very hungry and they needed to keep up their strength. They had to get to that convent as quickly as possible.

Looking slightly mollified, Garreth brought forth another apple, slightly smaller than hers. He removed his bow from his back, settled himself on the ground at Lizette’s feet and started to eat, gobbling it up as if he hadn’t eaten for days.

Perhaps he hadn’t, or didn’t get many good meals, which was often the lot of peasants and poor folk, she knew. Iain and Gillian would believe she did not, or that she chose to ignore such unpleasant facts of life. Yet if she rarely mentioned such things, it wasn’t from ignorance or because she thought them unimportant. She didn’t speak of them because such things always made her feel helpless, and guilty.

“Have you been … traveling with Sir Oliver … Finn … a long time?” she asked, trying not to think of Iain, or home.

“Since last Christmastide,” Garreth replied.

That took her aback. “I assumed you’d known him for years!”

Still chewing his apple, Garreth said, “He saved my life. This candle maker thought I’d stolen from him and he came up behind me and hit me with one of his molds. Finn saw and grabbed the man’s arm before he could hit me again. I’d be deader than that tree you’re sitting on if it weren’t for him. The candle maker threatened to call the reeve, and Finn told him to go ahead, but he’d be sorry. It wasn’t exactly a threat, my lady, but the candle maker let go quick enough.”

Tossing away her apple core, Lizette wiped her fingers on a part of her cloak that wasn’t spattered with mud or bits of leaves from pushing through bushes. “No wonder you admire him.”

“Lots of people do—although he’s not as good with a bow as me.”

Keldra sniffed scornfully.

“What, you don’t think I’m good?” Garreth demanded, rising. He grabbed his bow and drew an arrow from the quiver at his side. “Pick a target, my lady.”

She saw no reason to stop him from proving his mettle. “How about that rowan branch there?”

“Too close and too easy.”

He was certainly a confident young man. “Then that low branch on the chestnut there,” she said, pointing at a branch about twenty yards away.

Garreth took his stance, nocked his arrow, drew his bow, took aim and let fly. The arrow zipped through the air and struck the branch, making them both quiver.

Lizette was impressed, and said so, after Garreth had trotted to the tree and retrieved the arrow.

Garreth gave Keldra a smug glance while he loosened the string again. Her maidservant ignored him, apparently more absorbed in picking bits of greenery off the skirt of her gown than watching Garreth show off his skill.

“I thought perhaps you were Finn’s son,” Lizette said as Garreth plopped down again.

“I wish to God I was.”

“Does he have any family living? His mother? A father?”

“His mother’s dead. He doesn’t like to talk about her, and he’s never mentioned a father. He’s got a half brother, though, named Ryder.” Garreth frowned and shook his head. “I don’t think I should tell you about Ryder. Finn probably wouldn’t like it.”

The man himself was a thief; how much more shame could his half brother bring to the family? But she didn’t think prying on that subject would yield any answers from Garreth—at least not at present.

“Finn’s certainly a clever fellow. He can sound just like a nobleman,” she remarked instead, noting that Keldra had found a place to lean back against a branch. Her eyes were closed, and her mouth gaped a little. If she could sleep, that would do her good.

“He fooled all the nobles at court the same way he fooled you,” Garreth replied, clearly not caring if he woke Keldra up or not. “He said they’re thieves and beggars, too, only dress better and ask for more. The king’s the worst of them for lying and cheating, Finn says.”

She couldn’t disagree. “What do you suppose Lord Wimarc wants with me?”

Garreth flushed and looked away. “Well, my lady, you’re pretty and Lord Wimarc likes pretty women.”

If she were not a lady, she might give that explanation more credence. As it was, she doubted ravishment would be his goal and worth so much effort. “I’m also a ward of the king, so surely Wimarc wouldn’t dare to assault me.”

“If you say so, my lady,” the young man replied with a shrug—and skeptical expression. “But that’s not what we’ve heard.”

And this man was after her? God help her, and her sisters, too.

Too agitated to sit, wondering where Finn was and why he hadn’t returned, she jumped to her feet.

The sudden motion of the tree trunk woke Keldra, who looked about her with confusion until she remembered.

“You don’t need to worry about Finn, my lady,” Garreth said, again ignoring Keldra. “Wimarc’s men won’t catch him. He’s like an eel in water if he’s chased. The only time he came close. But I shouldn’t talk about that, either, I suppose.”

Why not? Why shouldn’t she know more about the man who claimed to want to see her safely to some alleged convent? “He got away, I assume. By himself, or did you help him?”

Garreth shot a proud glance at Keldra. “Aye, I helped him. I shot him.”

“You shot him?” Lizette repeated incredulously.

“Put an arrow in his foot, or he would have run after Wimarc’s men and got caught himself instead of just Ryder.”

Garreth plucked his bowstring like a minstrel about to start playing a tune. “Don’t tell him I told you about that, eh, my lady? I don’t think he’d like it, and you don’t want to see him in a temper.”

No, she didn’t believe she would. “I won’t.”

He glared at Keldra. “Nor you, neither.”

“I don’t want to talk to him, and I certainly don’t care to repeat anything you might say!” Keldra retorted.

Wanting to lessen the tension between them, Lizette turned the subject to Garreth himself. “What about you, Garreth? Where are you from?”

The young man shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know where exactly I was born. London, I suppose. The first thing I remember is running through the streets with a hot loaf of bread and being chased and called a thief.”

His jaw clenched as he regarded her. “No need to pity me, my lady. I wasn’t the only lad living rough in the alleys. We was like a family, most of the time. And we had some jolly times.”

With youthful bravado, he proceeded to regale her with a few adventures, clearly proud of the narrow escapes and illegal adventures that, Lizette knew, could have ended with his death at the end of a rope. But there were a few other stories, too, of camaraderie and friendship and loyalty that made it easy to see why Finn would take him under his wing and consider him a trustworthy friend and ally, despite his lack of years.

Even Keldra’s expression held a dollop of admiration by the time he came to his rescue by Finn. “And I’ve already told you about that,” he finished.

“I hope you’re not talking the lady’s ear off.”

Lizette nearly jumped out of her skin.

Finn had come up right behind her. Blushing, although she’d done nothing wrong, she got to her feet and smoothed down her skirts to give herself a moment to regain her composure.

“I trust you’ve eaten and rested enough,” he said, starting down the path. “Even if you haven’t, we can’t stay here any longer. Wimarc’s men aren’t close yet, but they’ve got horses and we don’t.”

Garreth grabbed the pouch and hurried after him, leaving the women to follow.

“I didn’t tell them anything important,” he said as he reached Finn.

“I didn’t think you did,” the Irishman replied. “But be careful of beautiful women, Garreth. They can weave a spell around a man and make him tell all his secrets.”

As he had recent cause to know.

LADY JANE DE SHEDDLESBY knelt in front of her mother’s memorial plaque in the small church. It was an expensive thing, finely carved, the name and dates deeply etched, just as her mother had directed before her death.

“I want it to be legible forever!” she’d decreed, as if that would somehow ensure she would live on in people’s memories.

She would anyway, at least in her daughter’s, although perhaps not in quite the way she’d hoped. Lady Ethel de Sheddlesby had not been a font of gentle kindness to her daughter, or anyone else, during her long life.

In spite of that, however, her death had left a void in Lady Jane’s existence. She had her small household to oversee, of course, and since it was unlikely she would ever marry, given her age and lack of beauty, she must find her joy in that. Or become a nun, and that she didn’t want to do.

No, she would maintain the estate until she died and it passed to a distant male relative, and she would go to the church to pray for her mother’s immortal soul, although she rather expected her mother was not in heaven and never would be, no matter how many prayers and masses were said in her behalf.

Still, the building, made of stones that came pale from the earth, then turned to a warm brown, was not an uncomfortable place to spend some time, and the lingering scent of incense and damp wood and stone was a comfort in its own way.

“My lady! My lady!”

At her maidservant’s panicked cry, Jane glanced at the double doors, where Hortensa pointed a shaking finger into the yard. “There’s a … a man!”

Despite her maid’s agitation, Jane saw no need to be frightened or rush to the door. Hortensa was prone to hysterics, so this man could be a peasant, a tinker, a soldier or even a priest passing by. Instead she rose, made the sign of the cross and then, wrapping her cloak more tightly about her, started toward the door.

“I think … I think he’s dead, my lady!” Hortensa cried with ghoulish relish.

That made Jane quicken her steps. When she reached the door, she peered into the churchyard.

There was indeed a man lying prone among the gravestones. He wore chain mail and a surcoat, and his arms were at his side as if he’d been crawling toward the church when he’d collapsed on the ground. He had no sword in his scabbard, or helmet on his head, and his gray-and-black hair looked damp, no doubt from the dew. He’d probably been there at least a portion of the night.

Most disturbing of all was the dried blood on his surcoat. He’d obviously been attacked—but by whom and how had he come there? Was he alive, or dead?

Jane opened the door wider, intending to go to him, until Hortensa stuck her arm across the opening to bar her way. “If he’s alive, he might be dangerous!”

“If he’s alive, he’s unconscious,” Jane replied, certain of that if nothing else. “Look at his surcoat—that’s no thief or outlaw’s.”

“He could be one of them mercenaries riding about the countryside! Terrible men they are, robbing and raping and God knows what else!”

There was a chance Hortensa was right, yet Jane didn’t think she was. “I’ve seen the sort of mercenaries Lord Wimarc commands, and they don’t dress like that.”

“That fellow could have robbed a knight. I wouldn’t put nothing past those blackguards Lord Wimarc hires.”

Hortensa was right about that, too, and yet.” I can’t leave a man in such a state,” Jane declared as she pushed away Hortensa’s none-too-slender arm. “He might die before our very eyes.”

“What if he’s a thievin’, rapin’ murderer?” Hortensa protested as she reluctantly followed her mistress, trotting to keep up with Jane’s brisk pace. “What would your poor sainted mother say?”

Her mother had never been poor, and she would never be a saint. “Probably exactly what you’re saying.”

Despite what Hortensa might want to believe, her mother’s postmortem censure had no power to influence Jane. She’d lived too long under her mother’s thumb while she was alive not to enjoy her freedom now that she was dead.

Jane knelt beside the man and gingerly parted the torn surcoat of thick black wool where a blade had cut through both surcoat and mail into the right shoulder; the mail, cloth and flesh beneath were now crusted with dried blood.

How long had it been since he’d been wounded? How had he managed to live despite that grave injury? He must have lost a quantity of blood.

He groaned.

Startled, she sat back swiftly.

“Careful, my lady!” Hortensa unnecessarily warned.

Jane looked up at her anxiously hovering maid. “He’s too seriously injured to do us any harm,” she said before she gently rolled the stranger onto his back.

He moaned piteously and his arms flopped as if they had no muscles. More blood trickled from his full lips and matted his grizzled beard and hair. His nose arched like one of the Roman emperors whose busts she’d seen in London, and his skin was brown from hours in the sun. A soldier, surely, and perhaps a knight.

“Sir?” she ventured as she looked for more wounds. She couldn’t see any more, thank God. “Sir?”

When he didn’t answer or open his eyes, she laid a hand on his forehead.

“God’s wounds, he’s burning. Hortensa, run back to the manor and fetch two men with a wagon. We’ve got to get him home and in a bed. Then go for Brother Wilbur. This man’s wounds and fever are too severe for my skills.”

“But my lady, we don’t know nothing about him—who he is nor how he come here. Your mother would never do such a thing.”

Jane pressed her lips together. No, her selfish, querulous mother would never bring a wounded stranger into her household—but she was not her mother.

“My mother is dead,” she said firmly, “and I’m chatelaine of Sheddlesby, so if I order you to fetch my men to take this poor Samaritan back to my hall, you will do it.”

“Yes, my lady,” Hortensa replied, suitably chastised by Jane’s forceful words.

As Hortensa ran off toward Sheddlesby, Jane took the stranger’s callused hand in hers.

“You’re going to be all right,” she softly vowed. “I’ll take care of you, whoever you may be.”