Mary Reed McCall (17 page)

Gray scowled and pulled it on, indicating that they should move farther away to give Elise some privacy to dress. From the corner of his vision Gray saw her stir from beneath the security of his cloak. Pulling Alban more deeply into the brush, he asked, “How bad is it?”

Alban shrugged. “Bad enough to convene a manorial court. At least five are wounded. One might not live. Many of the sellers had goods destroyed. Tables were knocked over and produce trampled. We’ve got it contained for now, but ’twill need your judgement as Lord of Ravenslock to dispense justice.” Reaching into his tunic, Alban withdrew a sealed parchment. “And then there’s this. A message arrived for you from the king.”

Gray took it and broke the seal, reading it quickly before cursing aloud. “I’m to depart without delay for a grand assize in Cheltenham. King Henry wants me there as a representative of the Crown.” He tucked the parchment into his shirt. “I’ll go as soon as the problem in the village is cleared. Elise?” he called over his shoulder. “Come, we must hurry.”

“I’m right here,” she murmured behind him. He almost jumped with her nearness. Mother Mary, but his wife was quicker at dressing herself than any woman he’d ever known. He covered his surprise with a command and action. “We must mount up and return to the village. Fighting’s broken out and I must call a manorial court to deal with the accused.”

He moved to follow Alban to the horses, but Elise tugged his sleeve, pulling him back. “Wait!” she whispered, sounding almost frantic. “Please, Gray, just a moment more. I must tell you before ’tis too—”

“We’ll have to talk about it later,” he broke in. “I cannot tarry here or lives may be lost.” Clenching his jaw, he guided her to her mount and helped her up. He struggled to mask his emotions, hiding them behind a stony expression. And he seemed to accomplish what he intended, effectively stopping any further conversation. They mounted up and headed for the village without another word between them.

Scowling as they rode, Gray tried not to think about what his wife was preparing to tell him. About the man who’d taken her virginity or why she’d kept it from him for all of this time. He only focused on the path ahead, glad that there was something tangible awaiting him in the village. Something he could handle and solve.

His secretive wife was more than he could deal with right now. For Elise, with her wide blue eyes, her sweet disposition, and her soft body was beginning to get the best of him…

And he’d be damned if he’d allow himself to accept defeat that easily.

C
atherine hunched over her mare’s neck, clutching her reins until the blood left her hands as their mounts crashed through the woods. ’Twas fortunate that Gray and Alban led the way back to the village. Even at their breakneck speed, she couldn’t seem to focus on the trail ahead; she barely managed to duck when a fir branch snapped back at her, and just a moment ago she’d almost lost her seat when her horse had stumbled on the rough terrain. Her thoughts kept dwelling on one, festering point.

How could she have been so selfish? She’d had a chance to tell Gray the truth with no one near to report of it back to Eduard, and yet she’d put her own wants, her own decadent, carnal desires, ahead of her children and their safety. Her face felt hot and
her stomach rolled with guilt and dread. She’d waited too long to tell Gray and beg his aid, and now the opportunity was lost. Such a chance might not present itself again for days. Perhaps even weeks, and by then it might be too late. Eduard might have returned to Ravenslock to demand her fulfillment of their foul bargain.

She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood, relishing the bone-jarring pace and alternating between reviling herself for her weakness and trying to plan what she could do to make it right.

They passed through another clearing and more woodland before reaching the village, which consisted of two score rough, thatched-roofed cottages clumped here and there among several larger buildings. As they entered the main thoroughfare, chickens ran squawking out of their way, but before they reached the square, Catherine saw telltale signs of the fighting that Alban had witnessed.

Ale barrels lay overturned, their rich, golden brown contents trickling onto the road. As they rode farther, the damage looked worse. Two or three wooden display stalls were cracked in pieces on the ground, and blood clotted the soil, staining it dark red. At first she thought it gory evidence of the brawl, but a closer look calmed her fears.

’Twas animal blood, she was almost certain. One of the broken stalls must have offered poultry, since fowl carcasses were strewn about the area; several dogs growled over the birds, snatching them in their jaws to lope off and rip them apart without interference. Catherine frowned, her mind straying
from her own troubles for a moment as she wondered why none of the villagers made any move to stop the beasts from gobbling up the goods. Then she saw what held their attention so inexorably.

The angry mob surrounded nearly two dozen young knights who stood bound in pairs or threes to stakes in the middle of the square. Even with many of them slumped over from exhaustion or pain, Catherine recognized some of the lads as being from among those Gray and Alban were training at Ravenslock. Four of the remaining knights were strangers to her.

All of the men were bound, but someone had tied the unknown knights’ hands behind their backs. These four looked more disheveled than the rest from what must clearly have been vicious fighting, and yet they stood rigid, their faces wary against the snarls and insults thrown at them by the crowd. They tried to hide it, but they were frightened. Aye, so much so that it made their skin gleam pasty in the late day sun.

All but one, anyway.

He was the largest of the captured knights, and he also seemed to be the oldest, appearing to be of some nineteen or twenty years. He stood firm, his blond head held at a regal angle, his bloodied face a mask of hate and derision that blasted the villagers all to hell. Catherine shuddered, unable to dismiss the thought that if this young man could have disemboweled those taunting him with a look, he would have done so without a second thought.

The shouts and jeering began to die away when
Gray strode into the circle. He stood taller than everyone, knight or villager, his head easily visible above the crowd; everyone backed away and made room for him as he passed. Alban stayed close by him, but Catherine lingered at the edges of the crowd, allowing two of Gray’s men to help her dismount so that she might stand within their protection to witness the proceedings.

Gray didn’t speak for a moment, seeming to assess the condition of those bound before him. Catherine saw his gaze flick over some of the lads he knew so well—among them Matthew Osgood, Bernard de Varienne, and wiry Derrik Lowes—before settling with stern concentration on the four unknown men.

Without looking away, he called for Stephan Baker and Clyde Potter to step forward. The two men, both freeholders of Ravenslock land, pushed through to stand proudly next to him. But in the next instant, someone from the crowd hurled a rotten apple into the square; it hit the blond knight in the chest, spattering his face. He threw himself forward against his bonds, sneering and calling out curses upon all of them as cowards.

“Enough!” Gray roared, his command ringing through the village and bringing everyone to silence. He cast his gaze around before coming to rest again on the captured knights. A shiver tingled up Catherine’s spine.

“This will be settled peaceably. As Lord of Ravenslock, I hereby convene a
hallmote
. A jury
will decide the guilt or innocence of each accused man. Clyde Potter and Stephan Baker will serve as manorial officers to choose the remaining ten witnesses of the court. Once we hear both sides of each case and the jury passes verdict, I will dispense justice.”

A low murmur of approval rumbled through the crowd, though Catherine saw the blond knight scowl and spit off to the side. But the other young men seemed to relax a little, the panicky look easing from their faces.

Soon the remaining ten witnesses were chosen from among the freeholders and knights, and the accused men, whether they were lads from Ravenslock or the strangers, were brought forward one by one. Each had witnesses stand to represent him and argue his case; for each a verdict was delivered and, if necessary, a fine imposed. In some cases, the young knight in question agreed to make restitution with work, rather than with money, to those whose property had been destroyed, while in others, the jury determined innocence of the charges.

Catherine watched Gray where he stood at the makeshift table that had been set up for the jury. She saw him working with his people—freemen, low-born, or noble—lending his view, or nodding and observing with serious concentration, but always serving as a powerful, stable presence in the center of the gathering. She marveled at his skill, his composure. It was amazing, really, his ability to arrive at
this scene of chaos and wrest a civilized proceeding from the midst of it.

Pride burned in her breast. And love. Aye, she could deny it no longer. She loved Gray in a way she’d never thought it would be possible for her to love a man. He’d won her heart with his goodness and passion, with his sense of right and wrong, and his determination to see justice done.

She brushed her finger over her swollen lips, remembering the feel of his mouth taking hers as he stroked deep inside of her this afternoon. Her cheeks burned as she stared at him now, here in the square, gazing at his striking face, his powerful body…those graceful hands that were strong enough to kill with one pass of his sword, or gentle enough to caress her into mindless ecstasy.

She ducked her head as the memory of their lovemaking washed over her again, filling her with renewed heat. Darting her gaze to the people surrounding her, she prayed her expression hadn’t given away her thoughts.

A jolt went through her. Someone was watching her. He crouched, motionless and furtive, about ten paces away through the crowd. ’Twas the deformed man, the one she’d first seen peering at her from the shadows of the corridor the night of the king’s feast weeks ago. He wore the same, swathed garments that obscured his face from full sight, but she knew by the chill up her spine that he stared nonetheless.

Just like that first night, his gaze sliced into her, hard and penetrating. Then, suddenly, he looked
away and ducked into the shifting masses of the crowd. No one else seemed to have noticed his presence—or her discomfort. All eyes were trained on the proceedings.

Catherine craned her neck to try to see where he’d gone, but he’d disappeared as if he’d been no more than a figment of her overwrought imagination. She suppressed a shiver, cursing that there was nothing she could do about him, or anyone else she might suspect as one of Eduard’s spies, other than to be more careful than usual about what she said or did.

She glanced back to the jury table. The last of the accused was being readied for trial; it was the blond knight, but as he was led from the stake to face the council, he shook himself free of those who held him and walked to the table unaided, his gait cocky.

“Your name?” Clyde Potter asked, nodding for him to stand nearer to the scribe.

“Gilbert de Clare.”

“Clare?” Gray’s gaze snapped to the young man. “Be you kin of the king’s former regent, William Marshall?”

“Aye,” the knight answered insolently. “William Marshall was my father’s cousin.”

Another low murmur swept the crowd, and Catherine took a step forward to see the man better. If what he said was true, he was aligned with one of the most powerful houses in all of England. William Marshall had been dead nearly fifteen years, and yet both the country and King Henry
still reaped the benefits of his great influence. Henry had been crowned at the tender age of nine, but in the three years William served as his Regent, he’d guided the boy-king through the intricacies of fair and noble rule.

“Any kin of William Marshall is welcome at Ravenslock. However, you’ll still need to answer to this day’s charges against you, the same as any other,” Gray said, nodding to Stephan to release the young knight’s bonds. “What brought you so far from home, son?”

“I am no green boy to be addressed so,” Gilbert scoffed, shaking his hands and rubbing his wrists to restore the feeling in them. “My travels lead me on the same path as my renowned cousin. I intend to make a name for myself.”

“I met William Marshall several times when I was a young knight, Clare. He used violence when ’twas necessary, not for the kind of lawless brawling that took place in our village this day,” Gray chided.

Gilbert’s face went white in anger. “So you say, Camville—yet what know
you
of acting within the bounds of law?”

“Enough to ensure that you’ll receive justice here today,” Gray answered sharply. “I’ve handled many disputes as lord of my estates, with results deemed just by those who received them. Fear not. You’ll be judged most fairly.”

“I do fear the kind of justice I’ll receive,” Gilbert muttered, his eyes narrowed on Gray. “And you know why.”

Gray went silent for a beat. “I’ve given you my word, Clare, and that should be enough.” He glanced to the bailiff. “Proceed.”

“Nay! I will not accept your word for my fair treatment. Your word means nothing, for I know what is spoken of you at Court—tales of your lawlessness and crimes of the worst kind, committed when you were even younger than I!”

Several of the villagers gasped, their gazes shifting from Gilbert de Clare to Gray. Catherine felt a flare of outrage. How dared this youth accuse Gray of wrongdoing? His audacity bordered on dangerous, she knew. One look at Gray and she realized that it might well prove fatal.

“Watch your tongue, lad.” Gray’s voice was deceptively quiet. “You know nothing of what you speak.”

“Think you to keep it secret, then?” Gilbert’s face screwed into a mask of derision. “For the love of Christ, man, you slew your own sister! You’ve no right to pass judgment on me, or any of these men who have been brought before you today!”

The entire square fell silent at his horrible accusation. Catherine felt as if someone had sucked the air from her lungs, and she watched, stunned, as several of Gray’s men leapt forward, obviously intending to throttle the young knight senseless. But Gray waved them off. Catherine could see the war he waged in himself for control, and she found herself holding her breath, awaiting the outcome.

Finally he cast a sarcastic smile at Gilbert. “You
continue to live right now,
boy
, thanks only to your tender age. Regardless of what some say, I am not a murderer of children.” His hands fisted at his sides, and a muscle in his jaw twitched. “You will be tried by this jury and a judgment assessed to you for any damages you caused here this day. After that, ’tis my will that you be gone from here. Never darken my lands with your shadow again.”

Gilbert looked ready to explode, yet Catherine thought his silence meant that he would abide the ruling. But then his chin jutted out again.

“I refuse to be judged by you or by any of these fools!” Gilbert growled. “Let God serve as my arbiter. Face me in an ordeal by battle and let us see who will emerge victorious!”

The crowd burst into an uproar, and Alban grabbed Gilbert by the back of his tunic, shaking him. “You insolent whelp. Think that you may command the king’s High Champion to combat and be
obeyed
? You’ll command nothing but a view from a cell while we await ransom for your worthless hide.”

“Is Camville a coward, then, as well as a murderer?” Gilbert shrieked, struggling and kicking as Alban began to drag him toward the path to the castle.

“Wait.” Gray’s voice cut through the noise in the square, but Alban seemed unable to hear it; he kept going, forcing Gray to yell, “Wait, Alban!”

Giving the youth another shake, Alban ceased his progress and stared dumbfounded at Gray. “You don’t mean to entertain the thought? Do battle with
this wretch of a…” His voice trailed off and he shook his head in obvious reaction to the look he saw on Gray’s face. “Oh, nay, this is not good. ’Tis not good at all.”

Gray walked the distance to Gilbert with rigid, even steps. Almost methodically, Catherine thought. His movements reminded her of something. Something unpleasant. The recollection flashed suddenly into her mind. Aye, that was it. It was the same as the day of the
mélée
—that horrible moment on the field when he’d seemed so stiff and detached, like an instrument of death…

Oh, sweet heaven, he was acting just as he had in the moments before he almost drove his blade through Eduard’s heart. Icy cold washed over her, but she had no chance to speak. Gray had reached Gilbert and a new hush descended over the crowd. Even in the stillness, Catherine had to strain to hear what he said.