Читать книгу Knight's Ransom - Suzanne Barclay - Страница 8

Bordeaux, France

August 10, 1375

“Which ones are we going to steal?” asked Maslin.

Bernard de Lauren glared at his henchman. “None if you keep shouting our intent for all and sundry to hear.”

“You couldn’t hear a catapult being launched over the din of so many beasts galloping about,” Maslin grumbled, but he stooped from his great height to whisper the words in Bernard’s ear.

Though he hated to be corrected, especially by a hireling, Bernard silently conceded the point. Between the thunder of so many steel-shod hooves and the whoops of the knights putting them through their paces, it was hard to hear. Still…He glanced surreptitiously at the other spectators.

Seasoned knights, veterans of the English campaigns in France, stood alongside youths eager to win a rich purse in the tourney being held two weeks hence to celebrate the peace treaty between France and England. The men’s attention was firmly fixed on the mock battle being staged so they might judge the merits of the stock Ruarke Sommerville had offered for sale.

Bernard had been judging, too, but he hadn’t come to buy.

“Sommerville charges a fortune for these grays, but from what I’ve seen, they’re worth every livre,” Maslin said.

“If a man intended to buy. Which I don’t. I’d not enrich these cursed English by one sou.” Bernard spat the last word.

Maslin winced but resisted warning his volatile master against such open displays of hatred whilst they were in English territory. Bernard was not rational when it came to the English. Despite the peace treaty just concluded, the English would doubtless leap at the chance to hang the infamous Bernard de Lauren did they realize he was here. For the thousandth time since embarking on this scheme, Maslin wished it hadn’t been necessary to leave the rest of their men leagues away in Toulouse. However, Bernard could hardly have upheld his image as an honorable knight come to attend the tourney if he’d appeared with his band of cutthroats at his back.

“ ’Twill be pleasant to even the score by stealing from a knight who played such a major role in conquering our country,” Maslin said. “Despite this peace treaty, King Charles may even restore your sire’s titles when he hears how you bested Ruarke.”

“What care I for Charles’s favor or an empty title? I want money and revenge against these English bastards. Had they not killed my father and put it about I was a traitor, I’d not have been forced to change my name and hide inside Crenley Keep.”

Actually, Maslin knew Frenchmen had killed Odell de Lauren after he had attacked them. And as to the rest, reputedly Odell had been ruthless beyond belief, and Bernard had taken up where the old man had left off. ‘Twas the main reason Maslin and his brothers worked for Bernard, or Jean Cluny as he was known to his extensive band of outlaws. Though Bernard scoffed at what they’d gained, few brigands lived as well as they did. “This peace with the English will cut mightily into our livelihood. ‘Twill be difficult now to raid the farms of the Languedoc or waylay rich merchants on the roads and blame the attacks on the English.”

“Aye.” Bernard spat onto the grassy plain. “A pox on them and their peace. We’ll starve do we not find another source of revenue. With the profit from these horses, I’ll buy lands of my own and tenants to farm them.”

“First we must get the horses. And it won’t be easy.”

“I know. We’ve spent the past three days watching them.”

Actually Maslin had sat in the rain and thus knew how closely guarded was this valuable horseflesh. The grazing pastures were ringed by Sommerville’s tents, and at night the patrols guarding the horses were doubled. Nor would they be easily overpowered. Ruarke had retired from soldiering some years before, but he had put his considerable expertise to use. His men trained daily on these very grounds, honing their skills under the exacting eye of the man King Edward had declared the greatest knight in his realm. “It won’t be easy at all. Mayhap we should wait until after the tourney, then follow some of the victors and relieve them of their prizes.”

Bernard scratched at the whiskers on his pointed chin. He was still a handsome man, but forty years of hard living had marked him. His skin was pasty, his eyes red-rimmed. “The idea has merit, but I want Ruarke Sommerville’s horses.”

“What did he do to make you hate him above his countrymen?”

“‘Tis not who he is, but what.” Bernard transferred his scowl from Sommerville’s silken tents to the young men fighting their mock battle. Equipped with the finest armaments, their mail so highly polished it gleamed in the autumn sun, they fought with wooden swords and brightly painted shields. “All this was bought and paid for with booty wrested from France.”

Maslin nodded, familiar with the story. Ruarke had left England an impoverished third son and returned a hero laden with plunder. Though he’d refused the grand titles his grateful king would have granted, ‘twas rumored Ruarke was the wealthiest man in England. “We also turned a tidy profit from the war.”

“Tidy profit?” Bernard snarled. “All the rich prizes were snapped up by the English. I mean to make my fortune ere peace settles over the land and stifles it. And Sommerville’s horses will make a fine start. Why, I may even keep one. Mayhap that huge stallion he rides.”

A roar from the onlookers drew Bernard’s attention back to the field. The battle had ceased, and the war-horses were lined up for closer inspection.

“Have you seen one that interests you?” asked a deep voice, and Bernard found himself facing the very man he’d come to rob.

Clad in a black wool tunic finer than Bernard’s feast-day best, Ruarke Sommerville sat tall in the saddle, staring down his haughty nose at Bernard. Despite his, what, three and forty years, Ruarke had the bearing of a man half that age. His broad shoulders and thick chest tapered down to a lean belly. The tiny lines fanning out from sharp brown eyes and a hint of silver in his sandy hair were the only signs of aging.

“They are fine specimens,” Bernard said, his hatred increasing.

Ruarke’s expression grew distant and wary. “You come from the South of France.”

“How can you tell?” Bernard asked, masking his apprehension.

“My wife is from there, so I recognized your accent.”

“Ah. I was born in Narbonne,” Bernard lied. “But I’ve lived outside Paris for many years. My name is Jean Cl-Clarmont,” he stammered. Jesu, he was so rattled he’d nearly forgotten there might be men here who’d recognize his false name as readily as his birth name. “And this is my groom, Maslin Sauveur.”

Ruarke inclined his head, but his eyes lingered overlong on Maslin’s scarred face and serviceable sword, and Bernard could read the disbelief in them.

“The cessation of hostilities have forced many of us to find new occupations,” Bernard said smoothly. “Yourself, as well. Who would think to find the hero of Poitiers turned horse breeder?”

The flattery didn’t take the chill from Ruarke’s rough-hewn face. “My older brother and I have worked hard to build up the finest fighting stock in all Christendom.”

“Well, they are certainly that, and ‘twas clever of you to come so early to Bordeaux. With the tourney drawing fighters like bees to honey, you are sure to sell the lot.”

“Has one of them caught your eye?”

“Ah, several.” Bernard blew a lock of lank brown hair from his face and looked away lest that piercing gaze read his intent. He seized upon the first horse he spotted. “That large stallion looks promising. The one ridden by the lad in blue.”

“Lad in blue?” Ruarke turned his head. “Ah.” The corners of his hard mouth softened in unmistakable affection.

Bernard blinked. Lord Ruarke favored boys? Interesting, and mayhap a weakness upon which he could capitalize. Not that he shared such a fetish. Girls were his preference…the younger the better. His blood warmed as he recalled the pair awaiting him at home. Thirteen-year-old twin sisters acquired when he’d attacked their merchant father. The sooner this business was done, the sooner he could get back to teaching them his preferences.

“Philippe,” Ruarke roared, stopping conversation on the whole field and making Bernard cringe.

A knight clad in Sommerville’s crimson and black materialized at his elbow. “My lord?”

“Sir Jean would take a closer look at Thor. Have the lad bring him hither.”

“Lad?” Philippe followed the sweep of his lordship’s arm. “But Thor is being ridden by—”

“I know who rides the stallion,” Ruarke said softly. “But Sir Jean has not yet met the lad.”

“Ah.” Philippe shot Bernard a grin and departed.

“Did you watch the lad during the exercises?” Ruarke asked.

“Aye. He rode well.”

“That he did,” Ruarke boomed proudly.

“You, er, taught him yourself?”

“Aye. Though we had to sneak about for fear his mother would discover what we were about.”

“I see,” Bernard murmured. “It has been my experience that if you pay them enough, the parents don’t object.”

Ruarke’s rugged features tensed. “What the hell are you talking about?” he demanded, his voice like the crack of a whip.

Bernard recoiled but was spared a reply by Philippe’s arrival. “Here is the lad, milord,” the knight announced.

“Shall I put Thor through his paces for you, sir?” inquired a low, melodious voice.

“Er, I suppose.” Bernard glanced up. The slender build and smooth cheeks were expected, the thick lashes framing the dark eyes were not. It took him a moment to realize the rider was a female…another to realize the eyes laughing down at him weren’t blue but a startling shade of purple.

Purple! He’d only beheld their like once before. On his sister Gabrielle. He’d last seen her nineteen years ago on the road to Chinon. She’d been surrounded by the soldiers who’d just chopped off their father’s head. Bernard had left her there and saved himself. Served her right. Prissy little bitch. He’d always hated Gabrielle…and thus hated this unknown woman on sight.

Still, Bernard had been forced to play many roles in his life and knew well how to hide his feelings. Schooling his features into a mask of chagrined surprise, he exclaimed, “By the rod, Lord Ruarke, you’ve tricked me well. What is such a comely wench doing fighting in the melee?”

Ruarke grinned. “This is my daughter, Lady Catherine.”

“Daughter!” Bernard cried, while Maslin choked on what sounded like laughter. Bernard felt like biting something…preferably a Sommerville. “My apologies.” He gritted his teeth instead and forced himself to bow, his hatred of these haughty, rich English so strong it nearly choked him.

“Accepted,” the chit said cheerily. “Papa is ever the trickster,” she warbled, smiling fondly at her parent. The look that passed between them was ripe with love and understanding.

Bernard flashed back to his own youth and the night Odell had gifted him with his first woman. A girl, no older than Bernard’s thirteen years. They’d beaten her, then shared her. Too bad the old man was dead. Odell would have liked the twins.

“Papa, I think you’ve discomforted Sir Jean.”

“Nay.” Bernard pasted on a smile. “I was but thinking that a melee, even a mock one, can be dangerous. ’Tis surprising you would agree to allow so tender a maid—”

“Allow?” Ruarke threw back his head and laughed. “I gave up on trying to manage Cat when she was still in the cradle.”

“Are you hinting I’m spoiled?” She shoved back her hood to reveal a coronet of honey-colored braids. She was older than Bernard had supposed, mayhap seventeen or eighteen, but lovely. The aura of fragility was ruined only by her determined chin.

Willful, Bernard thought. No doubt her doting papa had indulged her shamelessly. It occurred to him that although she was only a female, her father seemed to value her greatly. An interesting fact, that. One he might be able to use, though just how he did not yet know. Anxious to be away and make plans, he said, “It takes spirit to control such a large animal. You are indeed a fine horsewoman, and I will definitely consider putting in a bid on your Thor.”

Bernard took his leave, but he and Maslin had gone only a few paces when a troop of thirty men-at-arms trotted onto the field, led by a pair of knights. Between them rode a woman dressed in blue velvet. Gold chain glinted at her neck and waist; a fortune in pearls banded the hem of her skirts.

“Mama!” Catherine Sommerville cried.

Bernard stopped and looked back just as the lady drew rein before Ruarke and their daughter. “This is a pleasant surprise, my love.” Ruarke’s powerful baritone had dropped to an intimate purr. His austere features glowed with the joy usually seen on small children at feasts.

“You received a message from the king,” the wife said.

“What does Edward want?”

She cocked her head. “What makes you think I read it?”

“Because I know you.” He leaned forward in the saddle and gave his wife a surprisingly passionate kiss…considering they had likely been wed for many years.

Bernard watched with interest this confirmation of his earlier theory that the fierce warrior had an uncommon fondness for his daughter and wife. ‘Twas the sort of weakness he had learned to identify and then turn to his advantage.

“I did read it,” the wife admitted when Ruarke released her. “We are called home to England.”

“What?” Ruarke shouted. “But we’ve only just gotten here.”

The lady’s sigh was audible over the shifting of onlookers anxious for a bit of court gossip. “The Black Prince’s health has taken a turn for the worse and he would speak with you. Princess Joan needs me to come and bolster her spirits.”

Ruarke scowled as he looked around the field at the horses. “I’ll go, of course, but…”

“I would be honored to stay and see to your business here,” said Sir Philippe.

“My thanks. We had a devil of a time getting this lot here, and I’d just as soon not ship them back home.”

“What of me?” Catherine edged her mount closer to the center of the discussion. “Must I leave before the tourney?”

“Absolutely,” her father said. “I’d not leave you here unguarded.” His voice dropped off to a whisper, but Bernard was adept at reading lips. “Not after what happened with Henry.”

The girl flinched, and her chin came up. “That was two years ago. I’m older…and wiser. What say you, Mama?”

“I hate to cheat you of the spectacle.” She turned to smile at her daughter, and Bernard got his first good look at Ruarke Sommerville’s wife.

The shock of recognition punched the air from his lungs. “Mon Dieu…” he gasped.

“What ails you?” Maslin growled in his ear. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

His henchman’s words broke the spell, awakened Bernard to the danger. “Aye. I have.” Trembling with disbelief, he spun around and tucked his chin into the neck of his cloak. A shiver worked its way down his spine as he pulled the cowl over his head for good measure. “I thought she was dead. She should be dead.” He quaked again. “How comes she to be here, wed to Sommerville?”

“Who?”

“My sister.”

“Your sister? Where?” Maslin looked around.

Bernard grabbed his arm and shoved him in the direction of their horses. “Come. We must get out of here. Gabrielle might recognize me, though it’s been years, and I’ve…aged. She hasn’t, though. She’s still as beautiful as ever. The bitch.”

By the time they reached their mounts, Bernard had pulled himself together. “We will ride back to the inn,” he said. “Slowly, as though naught had happened.”

“What will we do then?” Maslin asked, fascinated by the change in his usually fearless master.

“We will pray Gabrielle didn’t recognize me. Tomorrow we will return to Toulouse and gather my men.”

“Without Sommerville’s horses?”

“They’ll do me no good if Gabrielle recognizes me. It’s been nineteen years since I tried to kill the Black Prince, but the English still have a price on my head.”

“What will we do for coin, then, rob a merchant or sack a nunnery?” Maslin asked, knowing neither would yield much.

“We could kidnap Sommerville’s daughter and hold her to ransom,” Bernard said softly.

Maslin stopped mid-stride. “What?”

“We’ll take the daughter. You’ve seen how Ruarke values her and his wife. Much as I’d enjoy having Gabrielle as a hostage, she’s leaving for England. But Catherine…Did you hear if the spoiled brat had cajoled permission to stay behind?”

“Aye. At least I think so.” Maslin risked another look. “His men will guard her even more diligently than the horses.”

“True, but once the tourney starts, they’ll be busy.”

“We’re returning for the tourney? I thought you said there were people coming who might recognize you.”

“So there are. But none will know my nephew.”

“Gervase? How will you get him here? He has done naught this past year but slave to rebuild that stupid keep of his.”

“‘Tis for exactly that reason Gervase will come. He hates the English even more fervently than I do. With good reason. They destroyed everything he held dear.” Bernard grinned. “He’ll get the girl and bring her to me.”