Stephen made out the sagging gates as the party approached. Sir Hugh could have demanded a greater reward for his bravery years earlier, but the tragedy of his wife’s death had taken all ambition from him. Would he, Stephen, fare the same? Was he fated to live the rest of his days barely caring enough to keep his own home from falling apart?
Instinctively, he glanced at Evie. No answer there.
The gates in the wooden palisade stood open. Not a good sign.
“Ho, the manor!” Stephen urged his gelding into a trot as he approached the small wooden hall. Narrow steps at one side led up to the double doors on the first floor. One door groaned open and a stooped figure hobbled out, supported by a walking stick in each hand.
“Who is it?” The deep voice, a surprise coming from one so frail, carried easily above the grumbling sky. Another mount halted beside Stephen. From the corner of his eye, he saw the fluttering wimple. Of course.
“Ah, a lady,” the old knight boomed. “Come you in, child, before this rain melts you.” He waved one walking stick in the air, gesturing toward the gate. “Bring your men. That’s right. We’ll find a place for ’em.”
Stephen stepped down from the saddle and strode toward the old knight. “Sir Hugh. It’s good to see you’re in health. My father sends greetings.”
The gray head poked forward. “What? Who’s that?” Bushy, white-as-snow eyebrows shot up. “Satan’s toenails, it’s Stephen, if it isn’t. Get in from the rain, boy.” He motioned to them with one of the sticks.
“Thomas, there.” Sir Hugh gestured to an equally ancient man who appeared in the ground floor doorway. “Show these men to the barracks. See they have a good drink to warm up.”
“We have a wounded man, sir.”
“Well, what are you waiting for? Bring him up. Bring him up. Put him on my bed there by the fire.” He propped himself on the sticks and reared back as Macsen and William supported Matthew past him and into the hall.
Sir Hugh glared at Stephen and Evie. “Come along, then, come along.” He directed them up the steps, then herded them into the hall, waving first one walking stick, then the other, like a giant crane wading through water.
“You have a pretty companion, I see.” His thick brows hiked toward his receding hairline. “Sit there.” He gestured at benches scattered in front of the tiny fire that sputtered in the rough opening against one wall. The air was too heavy to provide a good draw, so smoke hung in a thin cloud above their heads.
Stephen came up beside Evie. “My lady, I make known to you Sir Hugh, a friend. Sir, this is the Lady Evelynn of Chauvere, Lord Ulrich’s daughter.”
The old man’s mouth hung agape. “Ulrich’s daughter is it? By God. Quite the little beauty. Don’t look much like your da, now, do you?”
Without waiting for her to reply, he forged on. “Where’s that brother of yours, what? Left you in this one’s care, has he?” He nodded toward Stephen, but the movement threw him off balance. He caught himself with one of his sticks.
“Cursed age,” he muttered. “Go, sit. Be comfortable. Hope you plan to tell me what you’re both doing so far south. Back from Normandy, is it? What do you hear of the war?”
Stephen pointed the now-shivering Evie toward warmth, but she broke away to take Sir Hugh’s arm. She urged the aged knight toward his own chair.
“Indeed, sir, we are grateful for your hospitality.” Her soft, sweet voice drifted back to Stephen. She never sounded so gentle when she spoke to him.
“You must rest now.” She helped Sir Hugh ease onto the wooden seat. “My father suffered from pain in his knees. I know this damp weather makes it worse.”
The old man’s brows lowered, and his mouth curved down. Stephen waited for the growled pronouncement that would set the solicitous lady in her place. The fiercely independent Sir Hugh wasn’t used to a female’s nagging. But without a word, he sat back and allowed her to fuss over him. As she spread a fur throw across his lap, he sent Stephen a broad wink.
“Check outside, boy.” His voice rose above a crack of thunder. “See to your men. Storm’s broke at last. Sounds like you’ll be here a while.”
Sure enough, rain thudded against the roof. Stephen checked the courtyard to make certain all the men and horses had found shelter. As he shut the scarred wooden door, a motion outside the open gates caught his eye. Frowning, he stepped back to watch the handful of riders approach.
“You have other visitors,” he called over his shoulder. “Armed men.”
Sir Hugh’s face closed into seriousness again. He waved a stick at Stephen. “See who they are. We don’t get many visitors here these days. Especially fighters.”
“Put Matthew on the pallet at the back of the hall,” Stephen ordered. “Stay with him. Lady Evelynn, remain silent.” As she drew a sharp breath, he added, “Don’t argue. Until we know who they are, we assume nothing.”
He counted a half score riders trailing through the broken gate into the small bailey. Sir Hugh’s captain, Sir Thomas, met them as they dismounted. The aged knight nodded, gestured to the barracks below. Several headed that direction, while two knights walked toward the hall. No swords drawn, no sign of threat, nothing to mark them other than what they seemed—a troop seeking shelter from the weather.
Stephen knew otherwise. He had no proof, but the same inner sense that had kept him alive for ten years warned him now.
These men were trouble.
They strode into the hall as if they owned it. Hands propped on hips, the leader swept the chamber with a glance. A side of his lip curled in a smirk. Without a word he swaggered across the floor, his insolent gaze never leaving Stephen.
His partner loomed in the entrance, feet planted apart, fingers caressing the hilt of the sword that lay against his thigh. Short with hulking shoulders and thin legs, he called to mind a wild boar Stephen had seen once. Poised, waiting, not yet decided on attack.
He recognized neither.
At last the leader paused, a step too close. The eyes that stared into Stephen’s were a muddy hazel, cold and dead. “We ask your hospitality until the storm passes,” he said.
The request was civil, but the tone of voice insulting. Stephen’s decision came instantly. He’d play the game until he discovered their intent.
“You must appeal to the host,” he replied. “I am another traveler.” He nodded toward the fire, where Sir Hugh had surged to his feet, the only sign of infirmity his two sticks, which he’d clutched like clubs. The sight was incongruous, coupled with the old knight’s voice that boomed in the brief quiet.
“You and your men are welcome to wait out the rain. We never turn away travelers in need.”
The newcomer showed no surprise as his lifeless gaze lit on Sir Hugh. He nodded, then his glance swept around the chamber.
“Do you shelter others, as well? Who’s that in the back?” He started toward the pallet when Matthew lay. Stephen stepped in his path. Before he could speak, the newcomer pulled his sword and grabbed Stephen’s shoulder.
Stephen’s temper exploded. He jerked the hand from his shoulder and twisted the wrist back, his arm snaking around the other man’s throat. “What do you mean by this, by God? Threatening a peaceful household in front of a lady. Throw down your weapon, or I swear I’ll break your neck.”
A roar from the boar-man at the door pulled Stephen around, one hand dragging out his sword, the other arm pinning the leader’s chin at an awkward angle.
“Sheath your blade or he dies.”
Macsen strode forward and relieved the second soldier of his sword.
Stephen’s prisoner stretched his chin up enough to speak. “A mistake,” he ground out. “No threat intended. Outlaws killed three of my men, and we’ve been searching for ’em. Thought they took shelter here.”
“When?” Stephen growled.
“Found their bodies”—he swallowed—“when we landed yesterday.” The man’s shoulders quivered against the awkward angle of Stephen’s grip.
Stephen released him with a slight shove.
“You just arrived in England?”
The knight shook himself with a jerk, like a lean hound twitching up from a nap.
“Aye.” He concentrated on untwisting the kinked chain links of his sleeve. Stephen caught the surreptitious look he shot toward his cohort. “They were to meet us. When no one appeared, we set out to search. Found them—what was left of them—early this morn. Followed tracks here just now.”
Stephen glanced at Macsen, then shook his head. “We’ve seen no sign of outlaws. We took shelter from the storm, just as you did.”
The thunk-thunk of Sir Hugh’s walking sticks drew close. “What business do you have here, then?”
Stephen winced at the crash of the old man’s voice, and he thought again how odd the deep, carrying tone sounded coming from the wizened little soldier.
The leader’s sharp eyes darted toward his man. Now relieved of weapons, the other inched toward the center of the hall. Stephen tensed, awaiting their next move. They’d not be allowed to threaten Evie. Finally, the leader shrugged.
The man turned to Sir Hugh. “We serve Lord Fulk d’Ambrosie. His business kept us in Normandy t’now.”
“Who’s that? Fulk who?” Sir Hugh demanded. “Never heard of him. Don’t live around here, does he?”
A silence stretched, punctuated by a cough, as a covert message passed between the two newcomers. Finally, the leader cast a smug look at Stephen. “No secret. The king awarded Lord Fulk lands,” the leader said. “Our lord ordered us t’join him in London.”
“At his new home?” Sir Hugh said, his lips pursed.
“He’s on business for the king,” the stout knight chimed in. “John trusts him as he trusts no other.”
Sir Hugh growled a dismissive “Humph,” and storked back to his chair muttering. “John don’t have the support of all the barons, yet he’s planning a coronation. Damned arrogant if you ask me.”
Evie whispered to him, and he shrugged but held his tongue. She helped ease him down once more and replaced the fur throw over his legs.
He gave another “Humph” as he changed the subject. “Well. If this Fulk’s got land around here, why hasn’t he showed himself?” he demanded. “Where’s he been?”
“He serves the king. He’s been to war.” The leader tossed a pitying glance at the old knight.
“Which land’s he taken?”
“Don’t know. It’s my lord’s now, and he’s here to claim it.”
“Lord Fulk d’Ambrosie said his land lies near Lincoln,” Evie said, her voice calm.
Both newcomers swiveled to stare at her. “How do you know this?” asked the leader.
Evie smiled congenially. “I am his betrothed. Of course he would confide in me.”
Stephen swallowed a groan. Why couldn’t she keep her lovely mouth shut? Didn’t she realize these men were not invited guests to be entertained with gossip? Didn’t she realize these were likely the same ones who pursued them in Normandy?
Of course not. How could she? But a glance at Macsen confirmed that he knew. The question remained; did the two men recognize the very quarry they’d tracked to the coast? Or were they intent only on catching up with d’Ambrosie?
“We crossed from Boulogne with Lord Fulk. He went ahead to make arrangements for King’s John’s coronation. I’m sure you will have no trouble finding him.” Evie rose. “Perhaps you would like something to drink?”
Stephen glared at her, willing her to stop behaving like the perfect hostess, to stop revealing information their enemies need not know.
Either she failed to understand his unspoken order, or she ignored it. Instead, she directed the men to benches near the fire, then corralled a lone servant to bring a tray of cups and a pitcher.
Evie chattered about the incessant rain and urged the soldiers to dry out while the chance presented itself. “For if the current weather holds, we’ll suffer for days in our journey. And I fear my brother’s captain, here, and his guard, will become even more insistent we stop with friends along the way.”
Stephen wanted to take her soft, curving shoulders and shake until her teeth rattled. What did she mean by running on and on about personal matters?
No matter how often he scowled her way, she blithely ignored him. She commented on the treacherous storm their lord survived on water, interspersing complimentary observations about d’Ambrosie’s manner and dress.
Damnation, if she didn’t sound as empty-headed as the court hens he knew she was not.
Yet the charged air of confrontation cleared as Evie worked the magic of her easy conversation. And before Stephen knew, the two strange knights stood before the glowing flames sipping ale. But their eyes never rested. Finally the one who had guarded the front door slumped down on a bench.
The danger still existed. It simply entered a lull while the leader regrouped. Who the hell was he? When Sir Hugh made some remark to the knight, Stephen took advantage of the distraction. He stepped forward to pour himself a cup, then moved to the fire, stopping close to the seated soldier.
“How long have you served Lord d’Ambrosie?” He asked in as friendly a manner as he could manage.
A wary gaze met his. “I been not long with my lord. Joined him in France.” He shot a look to his captain, who glared back ominously while answering Sir Hugh.
The seated man coughed and looked away, and Stephen knew he’d get no more from him. He’d marked the pair as mercenaries, no matter what they called themselves. He didn’t like the looks of either.
His own band of fighters was hard and tough. But deadly as they were, they possessed none of the innate cruelty that clung to the pair gathered around the fire. He could imagine them slitting a throat just to watch the blood pulse out.
If he and his men traveled alone, there was no question what course the next few hours would take.
But they did not. And Evie must not be put in danger.
Damn. Wasn’t it just like fate, the fickle bitch, to throw an enemy into his path, then prevent him from taking action?
Macsen had walked to the door and now called, “The rain’s moved on.” As if bidding farewell, a faint grunt of thunder wafted in.
Stephen set down a still-f cup. Before he could speak, the mercenary captain turned to Sir Hugh.
“We’ll go now and search for the trail of the murderers.” He cast a last, suspicious look at Stephen before giving a stiff bow to Evie. “My lady.”