Chapter Twelve

T he march that day seemed longer than usual to Ranulf, though actually they made good progress considering the slow pace they kept to accommodate Rothwell’s men, none of whom had been supplied with horses, and the supply carts. Ranulf’s own thirty men, who had been with him now for four years, some longer, had mounts he had bargained for long ago, not the best or the youngest in horseflesh, and not nearly as expensive as the destriers he had supplied for Searle and Eric when they were knighted, but adequate to their needs. The thirty horses had not come cheap; had cost him four months’ service to a northern horse breeder beset by Scottish reivers, but having his men all mounted made the difference in getting certain jobs where speed was a necessity.

Usually, the time in the saddle sped by quickly for Ranulf, spent in planning the current job or even the next one, or on thoughts of the future when he would finally achieve his goal and have his own keep, rich fields to support it, his own villeins to care for. He had learned where he could about farming and animal husbandry, and about baronial court laws, for he had not received a proper education.

He had spent the first nine years of his life with the village smith, the brutish man his grandfather had given his mother to wed when she claimed the lord’s grandson had been planted in her belly. She died the year after he was born, so the smith got no bargain, only a babe to raise who was no use to him until he could learn the craft. This was sooner than he was ready, which accounted for Ranulf’s overdeveloped muscles at a tender age.

Known to be the future lord’s bastard had made his lot harder, not easier, for the village youths shunned him, the smith resented him and worked him until he was ready to drop each night, and his father, a youth himself at six years and ten when Ranulf was born, cared not what happened to him. His lordly grandfather came around from time to time to check on his development but never offered a kind word or a hint of kinship, and his father was seen rarely, and only at a distance.

He did not even meet his father until the day he was told he was being sent to Montfort to become a knight, and that likely came about only because his father had been wed five years by then, yet had produced no legitimate child in all that time. He had another bastard, one he had already made his heir in case a true heir was never born, which had indeed come to pass, for his wife was barren and yet still lived. But Ranulf did not know that at the time. For many a year he had thought he was being groomed to inherit, which was why he never complained about the hardships of being trained by a man like Montfort, and why it had been such a bitter blow to him when he did learn his bastard brother would inherit all instead.

His education at Montfort was only in the use of arms, with a bare smattering of knightly courtesies thrown in, for Lord Montfort was nowise a chivalrous knight himself. But Ranulf was knighted, had in fact earned his spurs on the battlefield when he was only six years and ten, during one of Montfort’s petty wars. That he stayed on to serve Montfort for another year was only because Walter, a year older than Ranulf, had to wait that extra year before he was knighted, too, and they had already vowed to seek their fortunes together.

If his manner bespoke his baseborn heritage, as she claimed, it was partly a result of his particular “education,” but partly deliberate, too, his dislike and distrust of ladies in general coloring his attitude toward any he must deal with. And it was his dealings so far with the Lady of Clydon that made this day drag out, for instead of pleasant thoughts of the future to occupy him as he rode along, he was plagued by anger, bewilderment, and horror over the events of the morning, or, more specifically, over what he had felt when he saw the lady up on that horse.

She in no way looked like a lady with that cloud of raven locks flowing down her back and over her shoulders, whipping about her hips. The too short shift had become shorter still, revealing legs that should have been spindly on a woman so narrow of build, yet were too shapely by half, and longer than he would have imagined them to be. Or was it that he saw so much of them?

She sat the horse with shoulders thrown back, head high, with a skill no doubt learned from the cradle, and while she galloped across the camp, she had appeared beautiful somehow, when he knew very well she was not; but more bewildering than that, she had aroused his lust.

’Twas no doubt because he had seen that breast of hers. No, that in itself had not done it. He had seen too many breasts for one to fire his blood just because it happened to be staring him in the face. And yet that single moon-white globe of hers was different. ’Twas barely a handful, though quite perfect in shape, without the slightest droop to it, as was common with larger breasts. But it was the rose nipple that made it unique, so large for such a small shape, and so sensitive! His mouth had gone dry when he saw it pucker as it was scraped by the cloth. After that, to see her with her legs spread wide in the saddle was enough to inflame his senses to lust.

And yet he still could not understand why, when she was everything he did not like, and he was horrified that it had happened at all.

He stole glances at her all day where she sat in the supply cart, just to make sure that, since she was completely clothed, there was nothing about her that was desirous, and there was not. Covered from head to toe, she was the lady again, prim and stiff, wrapped up in haughty pride, and shooting venom at him whenever their eyes should meet.

And that was another thing that aggravated his fury. Why had he not been able to intimidate the tiny shrew into giving him no trouble? He had certainly given it his best effort. Grown men quivered like jelly when he turned his wrath on them, yet not her. She threw insults at him whilst she was within his reach. No one, no one , had ever dared such a thing before.

“Do we stop at the abbey again, Ranulf?” Walter said as he rode up next to him. “’Tis just ahead.”

“Nay, not with the little general among us.”

“The little—oho. Her. But she can be left in the camp whilst we—”

“And let her get to another horse with no one to stop her next time? Nay, I am not letting her far from my sight or hearing, though the latter is like to drive me crazy.”

Walter chuckled, recalling what he had overheard before Ranulf had sent the lady back into the tent. “She does have a forceful way with words.”

“You heard only a small sampling.”

“Know you, then, what she meant about Rothwell stealing a fortune?”

“She claims he has no right to her, that he is not nor ever was her betrothed.”

“Did you not have that doubt yourself from Rothwell’s craftiness?”

“It matters not,” Ranulf replied stubbornly. “We are not being paid to discern who has what rights.”

“But—God’s wounds, Ranulf! Do you not realize what that means? If the old man has no true claim to her, why give her to him? you have her. Why not keep her yourself?”

“Bite your tongue!” Ranulf snarled, horrified. “I want no lady to wife, least of all that one.”

“Not even for Clydon?”

For a fraction of a second, Ranulf hesitated, but that was all. “Not even if she offered the whole kingdom.”

“Clydon is just as nice,” Walter noted with a grin, only to earn a black look before Ranulf spurred his mount ahead, refusing to listen to more.

But the notion had taken root in Walter’s mind, and he turned about to find Master Scot, Rothwell’s master-at-arms, and brought his horse to a walk beside him. “How did your lord learn of Roger de Champeney’s death, Master Scot?”

“Like as was in that letter he had from his nephew, the one who went crusading with the king. I heard him mention the man’s name just after the messenger arrived with it.”

“Had you ever heard of the betrothal with Reina de Champeney before then?”

“There was no betrothal,” the man snorted. “All I heard was Lord Rothwell saying as how the girl would be easy pickings with her liege lord still in the Holy Land.”

“Do you not think that is something you should have mentioned ere now?” Walter said irritably. He had not expected exact confirmation, just more doubt to offer Ranulf.

Master Scot shrugged. “The doings of barons is no concern of mine, but I did not see as how it would matter, when you had already been paid to deliver the lady.”

“Ah, but you see, Sir Ranulf has not accepted payment as yet.”

Master Scot stopped walking on hearing that. “Then why are we taking an innocent young lass like her to a devil like Lord Rothwell?”

“A good question,” Walter replied and rode off to walk his horse alongside the supply cart where the “innocent young lass” was suffering a bumpy ride due to Ranulf’s annoyance with her and refusal to let her ride a horse again. “I thought you would like some company, my lady.”

She gave him only a single cold glance before looking away from him. “Not from any friends of his , thank you.”

Walter flinched, but tried again. “’Tis true Ranulf is not easy to deal with when you know not his ways, but compared to your betrothed, you will remember him as a saint.”

“Not likely, de Breaute.”

Walter shrugged for her benefit and said no more, but still rode along beside her. He was waiting for her curiosity to get the better of her, unless of course she had lied about there being no betrothal. Then again, even if there was not, she still might know of Rothwell and so have no questions about him. In that case, he would have to try a different approach to set his idea before her.

But his ruse did work. She finally glanced toward him again, and her expression was not so frigid this time, though not openly friendly either.

“Have you met this—this craven lord who means to steal my inheritance?”

Walter had to bite back a smile at her choice of words. “Aye, I have met him. But tell me something, demoiselle. If he is not your betrothed, who is?”

Her eyes fell to her lap and she did not answer for several long moments, making him think she would not. Then she did, but ’twas not what Walter was expecting to hear.

“I have no betrothed.”

“You mean the Earl of Shefford means to keep you as his ward, as old as you are?”

“Nay, I have his blessing to marry, and would have seen the matter done within a sennight if you and your friends had not interfered.”

She was controlling her anger well to say that with only a little bitterness, but Walter still did not understand. “How can that be? If Shefford is sending you a man, then he has made contract for you, so the man must be your betrothed.”

“Nay, Lord Guy is sending no one. Not that it makes a difference now, but he had it from my father before he died that the matter was taken care of, when in truth ’twas not yet settled.”

Walter was frowning now, still not understanding. “But Shefford had to have a name to give his blessing, as well as to make contract for you, if as you say ’twas not done by your father. How, then, can you claim to have no betrothed and yet claim you were to wed within the week?”

Reina was loath to admit the unthinkable, that her father had allowed her to make her own contract. Fitz Hugh had not bothered to pick apart what she had said to him. Why could his friend not leave it alone?

“What does it matter the why or how of it, Sir Walter? The fact remains you are taking me—”

“Wait! If you have no betrothed, then you have no contract as yet. And with Shefford not here, who then will make it for you?”

Reina hissed through her teeth, “I will. And before you yap and yammer over that, know that ’tis as my father wished it. He offered me my choice of two men he approved of, but he died ere he knew my preference and could make contract himself. In telling Lord Guy ’twas done, he assured that I would still have one of these men. He could not know that it would be so difficult to reach them to put the matter to them, or that the news of his death would spread so fast that other men would be tempted to take me by force.”

Walter stared at her incredulously. “What you have said is simply not done, demoiselle.”

“Under these circumstances, ’tis most easily done. You forget Lord Guy believes my father already made contract, and on that belief I have his permission to wed. Lord Guy’s castellan, Sir Henry, was to come to the wedding to accept my husband’s homage to Shefford, and to obtain copies of the marriage contract. That is all that is necessary to see the matter done legally and without further consequence.”

“Nay, it sounds to me as if your willingness is also needed to prevent further consequence. Yet Rothwell means to have you. What do you think will be the end result?”

“Forced marriages are not familiar to me, Sir Walter, so I do not know what you expect me to say. I can tell you that unless this Rothwell kills me ere Lord Guy returns, I will see to it he knows I was forced. What will happen then is a matter between men. But I can also tell you that Lord Guy loved my father and so loves me also. ’Tis as like there will be war to have me back, whether there is issue from the union or not. But that is not your concern, is it?” she added resentfully. “From what I understand, your duty is only to deliver me to Rothwell.”

“But if you were willing to wed Rothwell?” Walter had to know.

“Then who is to know he is not the man my father chose for me?”

“God’s wounds, lady, you are mad to tell me that! If I so informed Rothwell, he would have reason to kill you ere Shefford returns.”

“Then he would also have to kill those close to me who know the truth, and thereby kill everyone at Clydon, for I will die under torture rather than reveal any names to him. One way or another, Lord Guy will know if I am forced or not, so do you tell him that, too, if you mean to tell him aught. Now ’tis your turn to answer questions, Sir Walter.”

“Aye, fair is fair,” he agreed.

“Then do you tell me if there is a chance I might agree to wed this Rothwell without coercion. He obviously lacks honor, but is there aught else to recommend him?”

“You want the truth, demoiselle?”

“That would be helpful,” she replied dryly.

“Then as to his character, there is naught to recommend him. But whether you could be persuaded to accept him regardless of that depends on what you would deem important. He is wealthy enough, if that matters to you. He is a great lord with vassals aplenty, come from his many previous marriages, if that matters to you. That none of these men like or respect him is due to his manner, which is offense to one and all. If children matter to you, you will get none from him, but will have to wait until you are widowed and remarry, and that only if his large family is willing to give up any portion of your inheritance, which is doubtful. They are a greedy lot, just as he is. As to—”

“I think that is enough, Sir Walter,” Reina cut in, her complexion paler than it had been. “Just tell me why children would not be possible. Is he crippled or for some other reason unable?”

“Nay, just old, my lady, though not too old to—ah—try.”

She had paled even more, as he had hoped, though her eyes were ready to fry him when she hissed, “ That is who you would sell me to?”

’Twas not easy to pretend indifference at this point. “When you need the money, you do not question the job too closely, and ’tis our livelihood, selling our service. If we did not accept the job, Rothwell would only have hired someone else to do it. But his offer was too tempting to ignore, especially when it will enable Ranulf to buy the fief he wants.”

“If ’tis land he wants, I will give him a rich fief myself, does he take me back to Clydon.”

Walter groaned inwardly. Ranulf would kill him if he ever found out that he was going to refuse in his behalf. “’Twould take much more than that to make him change his mind. He has a reputation to uphold, after all, one that has never failed to finish a task begun, nor failed to succeed at that task.”

“Is that all? He did not give his word or accept the fee already?”

“Nay, he did not.”

“Is that normal?”

“It is not,” Walter admitted. “But he liked Rothwell no more than you will.”

“Then there is no problem.”

“There is a very big problem,” he countered. “A reputation is naught to scoff at in our profession.”

“Is it worth two fiefs?” she offered.

Walter nearly choked. Ranulf really would kill him if he heard about this, and he would deserve it. But he was determined to hold out for all or naught.

“You seem to forget your present position, Lady Reina. Why would Ranulf settle for so little when he holds you and could have all by wedding you himself? ’Tis too bad he cannot be persuaded to do so, for I think you will agree he is the lesser of two evils.”

Her color was back with more besides. “Mayhap I would not agree. Your friend is a churlish lout with the manners of the meanest villein!”

“Aye, he is that.” Walter grinned. “But then he has not had much association with ladies willing to correct his manners. He is also young, strong, and not without means. He might be landless now, but he has the wherewithal to correct that, a small fortune that he has been saving to do just that.”

“A few thousand marks?” she scoffed.

“More like fifteen thousand,” Walter was very happy to tell her.

“How?” she asked suspiciously. “Mercenaries do not earn such high fees, no matter how good they are. How is it, too, that Rothwell was willing to pay so much?”

“Rothwell was desperate to have Ranulf for the job after hearing he never fails at any task. He had meant to offer only a hundred marks, a high enough fee for so easy a task, one taking so little time. But Ranulf refused that and each higher offer, until it reached five hundred, an amount too high to refuse outright. As for the other, ’tis true mercenary work does not pay well. ’Tis the possibility of loot and ransom that makes it worthwhile, and in that we have been fortunate. In one skirmish several years ago, Ranulf captured fourteen knights single-handed. The ransoms for these account for the bulk of what he has now. So you see, he would not come empty-handed to a wife. But I should not even have mentioned it. As I said, he cannot be persuaded—”

“ He cannot be! As I see it, I am the one who must be persuaded if it is to be done with the earl’s blessing. Do I not clear the way in saying he is my father’s choice, then his position would be no different from Rothwell’s. And how dare he not be tempted, when his fifteen thousand marks do not come anywhere near the equal of Clydon and all it entails?”

“Methinks he does not see it as plainly as that, my lady. He sees that you do not like him—”

“And so I do not,” she retorted stiffly.

“Well, there you have it. He would not force you to wed him, so he rejects the idea altogether. That you might prefer him to Rothwell does not even occur to him.”

“What I would prefer is neither of them, de Breaute, and well you know it. And you are discounting the fact that my vassals will come after me, and not at this snail’s pace that we are traveling.”

“Will they? Even should they think you will be killed if they attempt to take you back?”

Her eyes narrowed on him like glowing blue coals. “Why would they think that?”

“Because that is the warning I put in the letter Ranulf left in your chamber.”

“ Would you kill me?”

“Nay, but will they risk it?”

She did not answer, too furious for several moments to say anything, and then she hissed at him, “Why have you bothered to imply I have choices when you also say I have none? What is your purpose, de Breaute?”

“Curiosity, I suppose, on which choice you would make if you were given the choice. And I did wonder if I could bring Ranulf around to the idea. If anyone can, it would be me, since no one else dares to browbeat him as I do, and even I dare only so far. But there is no point in trying unless I have your leave, so it comes back to ‘what ifs.’”

“You could be lying to me about Rothwell,” she pointed out bitterly.

“True, but you need not take only my word for it. The men who march behind us served him this past year. Ask any one of them and you are like to have the same opinion. I doubt they are smart enough to lie, but neither do they have reason to lie. They every one of them hate the man for his meanness and cruelties.”

“I have a neighbor like that who inspires the same sentiments in his people. You crossed swords with some of his men yestermorn, for which I was grateful at the time.”

“But not now?”

That did not even deserve an answer, or so her expression told him. “Let me see if I have this aright. If I tell you I will willingly wed Fitz Hugh, offering him the same contract I would have offered the man of my father’s choosing, then you will make the effort to convince him he should wed me himself, cutting Rothwell out of it?”

“Correct.”

“How long do I have to consider this?”

“Only until we make camp in those woods,” and he pointed to what was no more than ten minutes away. “I will need time to work on Ranulf, and if he does agree, it needs be done tonight—”

“How can it be?” she gasped.

“Those woods belong to an abbey that is a bit farther up the road. If Ranulf agrees, there is a resident bishop who can marry you. It must be done tonight, for Ranulf cannot be allowed time to think long on it or he is like to change his mind.”

“I know I am not beautiful, de Breaute, but I also know I am not that sore on the eyes. Why would thinking about it—”

“’Twould have naught to do with you personally, demoiselle, but with Ranulf’s distrust of all ladies. He has had bad experiences in the past that have soured him against them. So being, I will use Clydon to tempt him, you understand? You will have time enough to bring him around to trusting you after you are wed.”

“You do not further your cause by telling me that , Sir Walter.”

“Mayhap, but you must allow that Ranulf is young enough to change his ways, whereas Rothwell is not.”

“Then begone, for I will need every single second I have to consider it.”