Sharon Schulze (24 page)

“W
hat are you talking about?” Lady Gillian caught Alys by the hand again, led her to the bench and made her sit. “Quickly, tell us!”

Alys, stunned by her father’s arrival here so soon after their own, scarcely knew where to begin. “I thought we’d have more time! ’Tis too complicated to explain it now—”

Lord Rannulf turned to Padrig. “
Has
she reason to fear for her life?” he demanded.

“’Tis very likely,” Padrig said.

The conviction in his voice, his expression, the unwavering belief in what she’d told him, heartened her, gave her hope they would find a way through this morass.

He shook his head. “You should not ask me for advice, milord. I love her, and I will carry her away from here myself before I allow her father to take her.”

A roar of sound built in the bailey, then ended abruptly. Into the silence shouted a voice she recognized all too well. “FitzClifford! Where the hell is my daughter?”

Alys wished she could melt into the floor and disappear.

“Bring the blasted wench to me at once,” Lord Roger bellowed. “Alys! Get down here now!”

Lord Rannulf leaned out the window and gazed down at the scene below, his expression fierce. “I’ll be damned if any man comes into my wife’s demesne and shows so little respect for her—or for one of her ladies,” he snarled. “Silence, Delamare! You’ve more than a young woman to deal with,” he shouted. Hand on his sword hilt, he backed away from the window and drew the weapon. “Padrig, come with me.”

Padrig cast Alys a reassuring look before drawing his own sword and following Lord Rannulf from the chamber.

The thunder of their boots on the stairs had barely faded away before Lady Gillian sat down beside Alys and drew her into her arms. A scant moment of her warm sympathy brought tears to Alys’s eyes…tears of frustration and determination.

She returned Lady Gillian’s embrace, then rose to her feet. “I’ll not let my father harm
anyone
to get to me,” she said, her voice vibrating with fury. “He’s a vicious man, ruthless. He’ll do anything to get what he wants. He always wins, milady. But he shall not succeed this time. I’ll not let him.”

She headed for the doorway, but barely made it two steps across the room before Lady Gillian caught her by the arm and stopped her. “
We
shall not let him.”

Alys met her gaze. “Thank you, milady.”

“Wait, Alys.” Lady Gillian reached for the sheathed knife on Alys’s belt, drew the blade free and, shaking her head, slipped it back just as swiftly. To Alys’s amaze
ment, the other woman bent, raised the hem of her gown, and drew a dagger from a sheath strapped to her leg.

She held the knife to Alys hilt-first, its long, thin blade gleaming in the candlelight. “You never know when you might need it, and your eating knife’s naught but a pretty toy compared to this.” She gave a rueful laugh. “I’ve been remiss in your training, I fear. Perhaps there are other things beyond housewifery I should be teaching my ladies.”

Alys took the weapon and tucked it into her belt alongside her own, much smaller, knife. “Thank you, milady.”

“Have a care, Alys, and don’t be afraid to use it if you must,” Lady Gillian called out to her as she ran from the room.

Her boots slid on the loose rushes covering the floor of the great hall, forcing her to slow her headlong pace. ’Twas just as well, for her body had yet to recover from her adventures. Her right arm was nigh useless, her balance uncertain. At the rate she’d been moving, she’d likely have tumbled down the stairs into the bailey.

Right into her dear father’s loving arms.

She could hear men’s voices shouting, but from here she couldn’t discern who was speaking or what was being said. Slowing her pace further, she left the hall through the buttery instead of the main stairs outside. Using this route, she’d come out in a shadowy part of the bailey near the front gate.

She’d be able to get near her father without him seeing her coming.

She crept undetected out of servants’ passageway into the area beneath the wall walk. Her father was still ranting, his shouts interspersed with Lord Rannulf’s
more reasonable tones. They stood in the midst of the bailey, surrounded by a restless crowd—her father’s men on the side near the gate, the men of l’Eau Clair ranged between them and the keep. Torches and lanterns lit the area, flickering in the wind and lending the scene an eerie glow.

She’d come out behind her father, but could clearly see Lord Rannulf and Padrig. Both men looked furious but controlled, their swords drawn, their bodies poised for action.

Her attention was focused so intently upon the scene before her, she didn’t notice the man sprawled upon the ground nearby until she nearly tripped over him.

He moaned when she accidentally nudged him with her foot. Kneeling, she moved aside so the light spilled over him, then sat back on her heels, astonished. ’Twas Rafe!

“Sweet Mary save you,” she whispered fiercely. She caught hold of his arm and carefully dragged him up to prop him against the wall, grimacing at the dark stains on the dirty bandage wrapped round his wounds. “Rafe, what are you doing here?”

“Milady.” He groaned, his head lolling back against the rough stones. “Didn’t know if we’d find you here. I should have known Sir Padrig wouldn’t let any more harm befall ye.” His lips twisted into a feeble smile. “You’d best have a care—your father’s lookin’ for ye.”

“What are
you
doing here?”

He blinked several times before he focused his eyes on her face. “Your father came just after you left. Dickon’s father’d gone to yours for help when the Welsh came. He brought back an army and they routed the Welsh with nary a drop o’ blood shed.”

“Marie and the others?” Alys asked, her heart nigh stopping as she spoke the words.

“Alive, every one o’ them.”

“Thank God,” she murmured, swiftly making the sign of the cross. “What of Dickon?”

“Happy to be back with his family once more,” Rafe said, the words slurring together and trailing off. He sagged back against the wall and closed his eyes. “Have a care,” he muttered again. “Your father’s brought Lord Henry with him.”

Padrig stood to Lord Rannulf’s right, his sword drawn, his temper frayed beyond mending as he listened to Lord Roger’s never-ending tirade. He hoped Alys remained inside and didn’t hear any of it, for ’twas a foul stream of insults and arrogance fit to disgust any reasonable person.

How was it possible that Alys was of this man’s blood? ’Twas beyond his ken to imagine they were related in any way at all.

Before they’d left the great hall for the outer stairs to the bailey, Lord Rannulf had paused a moment. His face and voice both had borne the unflinching air of command Padrig knew better than to ignore as he cautioned Padrig to remain silent no matter the provocation, to allow him to do the talking.

’Twas damned hard—nigh impossible—to follow those constraints when Lord Roger kept insulting the woman Padrig loved. All he wanted was to run over and grab the miserable bastard by his heavily embroidered tunic, smash his head against the nearest stone wall till he shut his foul mouth once and for all.

He understood now how Alys had so easily believed
her father capable of selling off his children to the highest bidders. From what little he’d seen of the man, ’twas clear he had nary a speck of decency hiding anywhere within his pathetic soul.

The only good thing Padrig gleaned from Lord Roger’s tirade was that he’d taken back possession of Winterbrooke Manor, and that Lord Rannulf’s people were safe.

For which assistance, of course, Delamare believed he deserved a reward.

Lord Rannulf had finally had enough, evidently, for he stepped forward at that suggestion and smiled.

“The only reward you’re likely to get from me, you foul knave, is your life. I’d set Padrig after you like the dog you are, but the pleasure now wouldn’t be worth the headache later.” He laughed. “Besides, I’m sure the church—and the king as well, no doubt—would frown upon a man killing his wife’s father, no matter the provocation.”

Lord Rannulf’s last statement rendered Delamare speechless—and he was not the only one. Padrig could only stare at Lord Rannulf in disbelief, unable to give voice to a single thought.

The man who came hurtling out of the crowd toward Padrig, sword raised, jolted him from his daze in a hurry. He’d just time to raise his sword to parry a hard thrust, else he’d have taken the blade in the throat.

Fortunately he’d not had a chance earlier to remove his mail. He needed it now! The crowd surrounding them drew back as his adversary fought like a madman, slashing and stabbing with his blade, smashing and grabbing with his fist. Padrig drew his dagger and feinted with it, forcing his opponent off balance.

The tip of the man’s sword raked along the edge of Padrig’s hauberk, however, and caught in his coif, which
lay in useless folds on the back of his neck. The blade snagged into the heavy mesh, wrenching Padrig’s head around and also pulling the other man, who refused to let go of his weapon, within reach of Padrig’s own blades.

Padrig turned hard on his heel in the opposite direction and jerked the blade from his coif, then thrust hard at the other man, sending him staggering to the ground. Padrig kicked his opponent’s sword away and set his own sword to the man’s throat. “Do you yield?” he asked, breathing hard.

His opponent sneered, but remained silent, his dark eyes blazing with a hatred so intense ’twas unmistakable.

Padrig didn’t know who the man was, but he didn’t feel inclined to free anyone who had attacked him for no apparent reason. “Do you yield?” he growled.

Suddenly someone flew out of the shadows behind him and stomped down on his opponent’s left hand.

A dagger hit the ground, blade flashing in the torchlight. “I wouldn’t touch that if I were you, Lord Henry, unless you want to lose your hand.” Alys bent over the man—Walsingham, it could be no other—and thrust a vicious-looking knife toward his wrist, pressing the point against his flesh. A drop of blood oozed from the wound and he whimpered, but his fingers still curled toward the hilt. “I mean it,” she growled, her voice as fierce as her expression. “Move your hand away, now!”

The glare he sent promised retribution, but he shifted his arm as far from Alys as he could without moving from beneath Padrig’s sword.

Her father moved toward her. “Drop the knife, Alys, and step back at once,” he demanded. “And call off your Welsh dog of a husband.”

Neither Padrig nor Alys moved away, though she straightened enough to meet Padrig’s gaze over the man sprawled on the ground between them. “What shall I do, milord?” she asked Padrig, her eyes blazing. “He deserves killing for trying to kill you.”

He could see the strain she tried to hide, her body shaking, her right hand limp at her side. She had used the last of her resources to come to his aid.

Still holding Walsingham in place, Padrig shifted around the man, pinned the man’s arm beneath his boot and motioned for her to move aside. “Perhaps we should let Lord Rannulf deal with him,” he said. He thrust his own dagger into its sheath and cast a sidelong look at his commander before leaning down to pick up Walsingham’s knife. “I’m certain he has some interesting ideas of how to resolve all this,” he said, shoving the knife into his belt as he stood.

He
hoped
Lord Rannulf did, at any rate. For himself, once he’d secured Alys’s freedom and protection, he’d no thought of anything more than discovering the condition of his men, removing his filthy armor and getting some sleep.

All this, of course, after he learned just how Lord Rannulf planned to account for calling Alys Padrig’s wife.

And worked out a way to turn that falsehood into truth.

He smiled at Alys, then called for several of the guards to take Lord Henry away and lock him up. Lord Roger Delamare he’d leave to Lord Rannulf, and let
him
explain to Alys’s father how she and Padrig came to be “wed.”

Afterwards he could explain it to them, as well, Padrig thought with a laugh.

But for now, his only thoughts were of Alys.

As soon as Lord Rannulf strode into the midst of the crowd and took charge, Padrig wrapped his arm about Alys’s waist and led her toward the shadows beneath the wall walk. All eyes were focused on Lord Rannulf out in the bailey. No one bothered to follow them.

She leaned her weight into Padrig’s hold, her body tense and shaking, yet she walked beside him with her head held high, a slight smile on her lips and hope brightening her eyes.

Gone was the Alys who scarce noted the world around her, who sought to disguise the truth of her strength and beauty.

If, indeed, she’d been aware of it at all.

It seemed to him that that quiet young woman had disappeared somewhere along the journey away from l’Eau Clair—perhaps on the morn when she’d followed him to the pool and first teased him with the true Alys, the one she’d kept hidden away.

That Alys had attracted him, but the Alys at his side tempted him to throw away his old plans for the future, to replace them with hopes and dreams he hadn’t known he had.

As soon as they were concealed by the shadows, he swept her into his arms and kissed her with all the passion only she could elicit.

Gasping, she drew back and framed his face with her hands. “Do you think Lady Gillian will try to keep us apart till we’re truly wed? If they allow us to marry,” she added with a frown.

“They’d better let us,” he said. He covered her hands with his own, raised them to rest on his shoulders and drew her close. “As for Lady Gillian, what do you think?”

“I think there are places aplenty hereabouts to work on our lessons, if we can but slip away from her notice,” she said with a laugh. “Mayhap we’ll have a real bed someday, but we’ll find somewhere until then…”

“Until then,” Rafe said from nearby, his voice dry, “perhaps you ought to find someplace else to play.”

“Rafe!” Easing his arms from around Alys, Padrig crept out into the bailey and jerked a lantern from a hook by the stairs, returning to find Alys kneeling by Rafe’s side.