Sharon Schulze (25 page)

“Let’s get him into the keep and settled,” Alys said, rising and taking the lantern as, their own troubles forgotten for the moment, Padrig helped his dazed second in command to his feet.

With Alys’s help, Padrig helped Rafe to the barracks. His wounds had not borne the journey well, and needed to be cleaned and sewn up again. It made Padrig’s body twitch in sympathy just to think of it, for he’d experienced that painful process before. However, he stayed with Rafe while Alys, with the help of a maid skilled in healing, treated Rafe’s injuries.

Once Rafe was settled on a pallet in a quiet corner of the barracks, and Alys sent off with the maid to wash and change from her bloodstained clothing, Padrig sent for Lord Rannulf, then settled on the floor beside his second in command. Rafe was eager to tell everything that had happened at Winterbrooke after Padrig and Alys left. Padrig could tell the man wouldn’t rest until he’d unburdened himself.

Lord Rannulf soon joined them, dropping down to sit on the floor on the other side of Rafe’s pallet without a moment’s hesitation. Padrig wasn’t surprised to
see his lord do so, since for Lord Rannulf, arrogance was merely a tool to use when necessary, not a part of his character. Rafe, however, immediately struggled to sit up against the wall behind him.

Lord Rannulf eased Rafe back down. “Rest and heal,” he told Rafe. “You’ve served me well, Rafe. I’ve a new task for you, once you’re on your feet again.”

Rafe sent a questioning glance Padrig’s way. He shrugged, for he knew nothing of any new plans involving Rafe.

The two men listened eagerly as Rafe related his tale.

“Dickon didn’t know it, but when the Welsh raiding party attacked the village and Winterbrooke, his father escaped and headed north to tell Delamare what happened. Nigh a week had passed by the time he caught up with Lord Roger at Walsingham’s keep and they gathered their men.”

Padrig handed Rafe a cup of ale and met Lord Rannulf’s gaze. “What were they up to, I wonder?”

“Nothing good,” the older man replied. “Though their actions might turn out well in the end.” He took the cup from Rafe and nodded for him to continue.

“They got to Winterbrooke shortly after you left,” he told Padrig. “Once the Welsh saw the strength of Lord Roger’s force, they surrendered with nary a fight.”

“I doubt there were many Welsh within the manor,” Padrig remarked. “They didn’t bother with us for long, though they’d not have had much trouble taking us captive.”

“There weren’t many o’ them at all,” Rafe agreed. He laughed. “But that’s not why they let us go. Peter and the others told ’em right off that Marie was Lady Alys. Since they believed she was Lord Roger’s daughter,
they treated her well. In fact, she’s on the mend. They thought
we
were a pair of men-at-arms and a maid—not worth going after.”

“How did you know ’twas safe to come out of the caves?” Padrig asked. “Had Dickon been out exploring?”

Rafe shook his head. “When his father didn’t find the boy in the keep with his mother, knowing of the lad’s love of the place, he first looked for him in the Devil’s Lair.”

“Why didn’t you stay at Winterbrooke with the other injured?” Padrig asked.

Rafe made a rude sound. “Lord Roger thought to use me as a hostage if he needed one to get his daughter back,” he said. “He had me tied into the saddle and brought me along on their damned trek from Winterbrooke Manor.” He shook his head. “Don’t know what good I’d have been if the trip killed me,” he added dryly.

Lord Rannulf laid his hand on Rafe’s shoulder. “You did well,” he told him. He glanced over at Padrig. “You both did. Once we deal with Delamare and Walsingham—which should not take long, as each of the idiots has dug himself a deep and dangerous pit he’ll not be able to climb out of—I’ve plans for both of you.” On that cryptic note, he got to his feet. “Padrig, I expect you to join us in Lady Gillian’s solar shortly.”

Padrig stood, as well. “I’d thought to speak with my men who returned with Delamare.” He wanted nothing more than to be with Alys, if he’d even be allowed to see her, but he could not ignore his duty.

“That can wait till later,” Lord Rannulf said. “We’ve more important matters to deal with first.” He glanced at Padrig’s filthy garb. “I suggest you do whatever you can to clean up a bit, if you can do so quickly. My lady—and no doubt yours,” he added with a grin, “seem
to prefer we scrape off a bit of the dirt and gore before we grace them with our presence.”

His heart sped up at the realization that Lord Rannulf, at least, didn’t intend to keep him away from Alys. “Aye, milord.” Bowing quickly, he ignored the sound of Rafe’s and Lord Rannulf’s laughter as he turned and strode away.

L
ady Gillian had indeed planned to keep them apart that night, but as Lord Rannulf had pointed out, there was too much to resolve about both Alys’s and Padrig’s situations for the discussion to wait for long.

While Padrig stayed with Rafe, Alys returned to the keep. Lady Gillian had sent word she was to join them in the solar as soon as she’d taken the time to clean up. Though it was tempting to simply find a pallet in a quiet corner of the keep, curl up beneath the blankets and hide from the morass of her father’s demands, she knew she wouldn’t do it. The cowardly young woman who hid from life didn’t exist any longer.

Returning to the chamber she’d shared with two other of Lady Gillian’s ladies, with their help Alys quickly washed, brushed out the tangled mass of her hair and changed into a fresh gown.

When she reached the solar she was glad she’d taken the time to do so, for she’d need every bit of confidence she could muster to survive the coming confrontation. The silent scene before her reminded her of those rare
times when the FitzCliffords sat in judgment of some malefactor among their people. The air of gravity they both wore reassured her that they would protect her, as Lady Gillian had assured her earlier.

’Twas clear by Lady Gillian’s expression that she didn’t care to have the likes of Lord Roger and Walsingham tainting the sanctuary of her private rooms. Alys would rather they were elsewhere, as well, although there was much to settle before the two men left l’Eau Clair.

Left without her, she prayed.

She paused just inside the chamber. Her father and Lord Henry sat on a long bench set in the middle of the chamber. Though they remained silent, they both turned to watch her when she entered the room. She calmly met her father’s angry gaze and Lord Henry’s malicious glower. She’d not cower before them. If they didn’t deserve her respect—and she was convinced that they did not—they certainly did not warrant her fear, either.

She would trust that she and Padrig would stay safe, and remain together through this, with Lady Gillian’s and Lord Rannulf’s help.

The FitzCliffords sat in their carved chairs before the fire. Padrig stood at Lord Rannulf’s side; he’d removed his mail and changed his clothing, but he still wore his sword.

From the determination of his expression—his bearing—he stood ready to use it, should the need arise.

To Alys’s eyes, he looked as though he’d like nothing better than to do so.

“Come, Lady Alys, join us,” Lady Gillian said, motioning for Padrig to set a stool beside her for Alys. “Lord Roger, please be so kind as to close the door.”

Alys crossed the room, biting back a smile as her fa
ther, his resentment obvious at being ordered about by Lady Gillian, nonetheless did as she asked.

Padrig took Alys by the hand, gifting her with a reassuring glance, and settled her upon the stool. He moved to stand by her side, hand once again clasped about his sword hilt, his expression nigh daring Walsingham and her father to object.

“Now that Lady Alys has joined us, shall we resume our discussion?” Lord Rannulf asked.

Resume? She’d thought they’d wait for her! What had been discussed—or settled—before she arrived?

Fighting down a rising sense of panic, Alys glanced swiftly at Padrig. He appeared at ease. She immediately felt reassured; they must not have decided anything yet.

Her father stood and paced the width of the room, stopping before Alys. “You’re not wed after all, I hear.”

She raised her chin and met his accusing stare. To give him the slightest bit of power over her would be madness! She prayed he couldn’t tell how his words made her heart nigh stop.

“Am I to assume you’ve given him your maiden-head?” he demanded, his voice low, chilling. She remained silent, unmoving in the face of his anger. He glanced from Padrig to her. “I can see that you have,” he added, his disgust obvious. “Do you realize what you’ve done by your actions? You are mine to dispose of as I see fit—”

“As will best profit you, you mean.” She’d had enough! She rose as gracefully as she could, and despite the anger vibrating through her, spoke calmly. “Dispose of? Am I a broken cup, then, to be tossed upon the mid-den?” she asked, casting a scathing look at Lord Henry.

Walsingham got to his feet, his smile mocking. “I will take you, milady,” he said, the insinuation in his tone leaving no doubt as to his meaning, “whether you be a broken cup or no.” He glanced at Lord Roger. “Though if you have been ‘broken,’ ’twill cost your father dearly.”

Padrig’s growl as he nigh leapt across the chamber drowned out Alys’s cry of outrage. He was upon Walsingham before the last words left the man’s lips. Seizing the front of Lord Henry’s tunic in one hand, he dragged him up till his feet scarce touched the floor and wrapped the other hand about his throat. “Did you not learn your lesson in the bailey, you filthy worm?” he ground out. Walsingham, gasping, squirmed in his grasp, his fingers wrapped about Padrig’s arms as he sought to free himself.

“Enough, Padrig!” Lord Rannulf said sharply, though Alys noted he remained seated.

Padrig’s hold did not ease, however, and it didn’t appear anyone—even her father—was going to make any attempt to rescue Walsingham.

As much as eliminating Lord Henry would please her, she feared if Padrig killed him, they would have no chance of a life together. “Padrig.” She approached him and placed her hand upon his upper arm, careful to stay out of reach of Lord Henry’s flailing feet. “
’M asgre,
let him go,” she said quietly. “He’s not worth it.”

Padrig looked down at her, his gaze searching. Opening his hands, he let Walsingham drop to the floor. Turning to her, he took her hand, brought it to his lips, then, ignoring the man sprawled at their feet, led Alys back to her seat.

Her attention focused on Padrig as he resumed his
protective stance beside her, Alys started at the sound of Lord Rannulf’s footsteps in the now-quiet room as he rose and crossed to stand before her father.

“Delamare, you cannot possibly wish to give your daughter to that slime,” he said, casting a dismissive look at Walsingham as the man struggled to his feet. “Indeed, should you continue to attempt such folly, I’m certain I’ve the means to prevent it.”

“You’ve no right to stop me, milord. She’s mine to use as I wish—and I wish her to marry Walsingham. He’s still willing to take her despite what she’s done.”

Alys had seen that complacent look on her father’s face too many times before. Her fear mounting, she watched as he hitched his belt up over his sagging belly and closed one hand on the hilt of his sword. “I’ll not tell you again, Daughter.” He grabbed Alys by the arm and jerked her to her feet. “You shall wed Lord Henry as soon as it can be arranged.”

“No!” she shrieked. She fought his hold, but he’d grabbed her right arm, sending a bolt of agony shooting through her. ’Twas all she could do to remain on her feet.

Strong arms closed about her from behind, held her upright when her father abruptly released her. Through a haze of pain, she saw Lord Rannulf toss her father aside, heard Padrig’s voice murmur in her ear. “It’s all right, love.” He turned her to face him and gathered her close, his hand under her aching arm easing away the pain. “Neither of them will harm you ever again, I swear to you.”

Footsteps pounded into the room. She glanced over her shoulder toward the door, gaping at the sight of a pair of burly guards binding her father’s arms behind him. She turned to watch as two more men trussed up Lord Henry, ignoring his curses as they jerked the ropes tight.

He quieted when Lord Rannulf came to stand before him. “By Christ’s bones, but you are both fools,” he said, his scathing tone matching his expression as he looked from one to the other. “Did you truly believe you could discuss treason and blackmail within the confines of your camp and not be overheard? From what I hear, it was so obvious you were plotting something, ’twas an invitation to anyone you’ve harmed to spy upon you! How could you not realize there would be someone willing to tell everything he’d learned?”

Lord Roger growled and cursed, fighting his bonds. “Several ‘someones.’” Lord Rannulf laughed. “I’ve evidence enough to see you both hang, milords. It will give me great pleasure to use your secrets against you.”

Lady Gillian rose and joined her husband. “I’m certain it will reassure you to know, Lord Roger, that we will keep your daughter safe, find her a fine husband.” She took Alys by the hand and reached for Padrig’s, smiling as she placed Alys’s hand in his. “I’m certain you’ll have no objection to Lady Alys’s marriage to Sir Padrig.”

Padrig closed his fingers about Alys’s and gifted her with a smile that promised dreams made real.

Alys couldn’t help but smile in return, despite her father’s angry glare. “Do as you wish, you ungrateful wench,” he snarled. Her smile became a grin. “I wash my hands of you.”

“Under the circumstances, that is no doubt a blessing,” Lady Gillian said as the guards led the two men, both muttering curses and threats, from the chamber.

Once the door shut behind them, Lady Gillian returned to her chair and settled into it with a sigh. “Well now, my
dears—” she sent them a teasing look “—are you certain you wish to wed, or is that fate too terrifying?”

Lord Rannulf, pouring wine into four goblets, handed Padrig and Alys each a drink, then taking one for himself, brought one to his wife. “Perhaps Padrig wishes to learn the next task I’ve planned for him.”

“Or mayhap Alys would like to know her future husband’s prospects,” Lady Gillian added, chuckling.

“All I wish to know is whether my father can keep us apart,” Alys said, sinking onto the bench and looking from one to the other.

Lord Rannulf shook his head. “I believe I’ve the weapon to strip your father and Walsingham both of their power, and their power over each other. What a twisted knot of intrigue they’ve woven—treason, threats against each other and an unholy desire to wrest control of their corner of the Marches from the king. That being the case, and given the fact that we give you our blessing—” he raised his goblet in salute “—and that I wish to make Padrig castellan of a fine manor not far from here, should he choose to accept my offer, I believe you’ve both all the permission you need.”

“You may wed as soon as you like,” Lady Gillian added. “If that is your wish.”

“Thank you, milord.” Padrig bowed and raised his goblet in salute. “Milady.” He took one sip of the wine before setting the chalice on the table and turning to face Alys. His gaze was focused on her face, his blue eyes bright, his lips quirked into a smile unlike any she’d ever seen on his face. He looked free and happy, and the intensity of the way he watched her…

By the Virgin, she could not believe he would look at her like that when they weren’t alone!

He took her hand and raised her from the bench. Bending close, he murmured, “Will you come out on the wall walk with me?”

Alys nodded and set aside her untouched wine. “You know I will,” she whispered.

“You shall not tonight,” Lady Gillian remarked from her chair.

Alys’s face heated. How had she heard them?

“You’ve been alone enough already,” Lady Gillian added, her voice wry. “I doubt you should be alone any further until you’ve wed.”

Padrig cast Lord Rannulf a questioning look. “Milord?”

Lord Rannulf came round to the front of his wife’s chair, caught her up in his arms, and headed for the door, both of them laughing. “If you keep the door open, you may have a few moments together,” he told them as he carried her from the room.

“We’ll be right out here,” Lady Gillian called over his shoulder. “Don’t be too long.”

Padrig stepped closer and framed her face in his hands. “We mustn’t waste a moment,” he told her quietly, brushing his lips over her cheeks between words. “For you know they’ll not give us much time.”

Alys felt her face heat under the weight of his regard, but she couldn’t look away. He cast a glance over his shoulder, then caught hold of her free hand and led her to the window.

She wrapped her arms about him and skated her mouth along his jaw. “Then we’d best make the most of it.” She reached up to kiss him.

He returned the kiss full measure, a lover’s kiss of passion and caring. Alys pressed closer to him, rising
up on her toes to deepen their embrace, her need for him rising, her blood heating.

Padrig’s arms tightened about her, then, his touch tender, he eased back from the kiss and dropped to his knees. “Marry me,
’m asgre,
” he said, taking her hands in his and raising them to his lips. “Share my life. I vow I shall love you always.”

Her heart racing, she tugged on his hands until he stood. “As I shall love you, milord,” she told him, raising her hand to cup his cheek. “I will marry you when and where you will, so long as it’s soon.”

“Tomorrow morn?” He slid his hands to her waist and drew her close.

“As much as I might wish it, milord, I doubt it can be arranged that quickly,” Alys teased. “Will tomorrow evening be soon enough?”

He bent and brushed his lips across her cheek, sending a chill of excitement down her spine. “Aye, for I’ll not spend another night away from you after tonight,” he whispered.

The door swung wide, hinges creaking. They turned to find Lady Gillian standing in the doorway. Alys refused to step away from Padrig. Although she was not best pleased to be interrupted, she could not help laughing at Lady Gillian’s diligence. “Tomorrow evening it shall be, my dears,” Lady Gillian said with a smile. “Now kiss your lady good-night, Sir Padrig. Tomorrow she shall truly be yours.”

Padrig waited impatiently in the great hall for his bride, surrounded by the people of l’Eau Clair. Somehow Lady Gillian had created a festive air in a short time. The hall was decorated with flowers and colorful
banners, the tables already bowed beneath the surfeit of food.

The priest had agreed to marry them here, where there was room for all to gather….

Once his bride finally made her appearance.

Alys was a vision worth waiting for. Dressed simply in a green gown, her chestnut hair flowing loose about her; the mere sight of her as the crowd parted to let her through had the power to weaken his knees. Smiling, he held out his hand to her and led her to the dais at the front of the hall.