Chapter 20

20

B efore the morning mist had lifted off the moor, Falconard's men had broken camp and were now stretched out in a single long line across the far side of the moor. They were still as statues, silent as ghosts, as ominous as only men in full armor with faces hidden beneath steel helms could be. There was no doubting who they were. Nottingham's colors were prominent along those of Edward Longshanks.

"I do not suppose they have come to wish us a safe journey," Terrowin remarked.

He and Rennwick along with Roger and Baldor were standing on the roof of one of the barbican towers. From their vantage point they could see beyond the thick blanket of forest, miles beyond the rolling hills to where lightning flickered through roiling banks of dark cloud and warned of an approaching storm.

Somewhere behind them, the muted sound of a bell rang to toll the hour of prime.

"Did the courier get away?" Rennwick asked.

Terrowin nodded. "Aye. He rode out before dawn and if he cleared the moor without being seen, we should see sails in the bay by nightfall tomorrow. Not that we will be able to row out to meet it. The sheriff is bound to put sentries on the hill, which is the only way down to the bay."

Three of the four knights turned to look in the direction of the western edge of the moor. Where the forest ended, there was thirty feet of hard ground along the top of the promontory where it gradually sloped down to the bay. Terrowin and Baldor had ridden it the day they arrived. The slope was littered with rocks, and took over an hour to navigate safely, but it was the only way down to the bay that they could see. Unfortunately, because of the way the land curved, it provided an excellent vantage point for Falconard's men to watch the western ramparts of the castle.

"The trouble with building a castle with only one way in and one way out—" Terrowin began.

"Is that there is only one way in and one way out," Renn finished.

"Surely the man who conceived such a fortress would not have allowed his people to become trapped here," Terrowin said. "There must be another way out. Perhaps Sabinius knows of it."

Baldor made a rumbling sound in his chest. "God's ballocks, spare me if it involves ropes and scaling cliff walls."

"You need not worry, my bulbous friend," Terrowin quipped, glancing at the big man. "Certes, there would not be enough rope in all of Christendom to winch you down these cliffs."

Baldor growled again and Terrowin stepped nimbly out of range of a swung fist. Having missed and hit empty air, Baldor stalked after the retreating knight, leaving Rennwick and Roger standing at the wall. The latter had remained uncharacteristically silent thus far .

"Something troubles you?" Renn asked.

Roger glanced down as he felt a sharp stab of pain where his left foot should have been. "The same thing that troubles you, I expect," he said quietly.

"Luther de Vos." The name was cast-off like a bitter taste on the tongue.

Roger nodded. "Difficult to mistake his armor, even at this distance. As black as his soul."

"You did not look surprised to see him there."

Roger pursed his lips. "Ellyn may have mentioned he was among the king's guard expected at Nottingham Castle."

"And you thought not to mention it to me?"

"What would you have done if I had?"

Without admitting anything, Renn looked out over the moor again but there was little to see beyond the banks of drifting fog. "He will undoubtedly signal a desire to parlay."

Roger nodded, "If for no other reason than to set every man on the walls shitting in their breech-clouts. If you listen closely, you can already hear the whispers beginning."

"If we agree to a parlay, will you be able to keep your sword sheathed?"

"Will you?"

"I make no promise."

Roger smiled wryly. "That was why I did not tell you. The girl needs you to see her safely to Burgundy. Challenge de Vos now and you put us all in jeopardy."

"Your faith in my ability is flattering."

"I have every faith that you could split the fiend in two, but do you honestly flatter yourself so much as to think you would survive the encounter completely unscathed? Sabinius is abed and useless, thus his men might hesitate to take up the sword. If you go down it leaves only Baldor and Terrowin to take the girl to Burgundy and while I would trust them both with my life, I would not place a wager on them to find their way across France without somehow ending up in Spain."

Rennwick glanced over at the two men who were still playing catch-as-can.

"You have left out your own fate in this account."

"I would be dead, of course. Because I would be obliged to avenge you." Roger let his words sink in then reached out and laid a hand on Renn's shoulder. "This is not the right time or place. It will happen. We will have our blades in his gut, but not here. Not now."

The rage and distaste were obvious in Roger's eyes and Rennwick knew what the need for caution was costing his friend.

"And if he draws his blade first?"

"If Luther de Vos draws his blade first—" the hand on his shoulder squeezed, then gave a sound thump— "we will have to see to it that the two bodkins have a good map of France."

Viewing it from the outside, the window in Ellyn's tower room was a tall, narrow slit, barely wide enough to fit her two hands with thumbs touching and fingers splayed. From the inside, the wall was shaped like a broad wedge with a flat sill where an archer could stand and fire down into the courtyard. Huddled in the warmth of a blanket and standing in the niche, she had an excellent view of the moor and the forest. The storm was as yet too far away with too many miles of rolling hills standing in the way of any sounds of thunder reaching Bloodmoor. Nevertheless, the air tasted metallic and the darkness of the distant sky reflected her mood: Gloomy with flashes of intense mortification.

She had wanted to sink below the surface of the water and drown herself when Terrowin had burst into the bathhouse. There was surely no mistaking what she and Rennwick had been doing; they were both flushed and out of breath, wrapped in each other's arms. Terrowin had instantly done the chivalrous thing and turned his back, though she suspected it was only the unwelcome news he had brought that had repressed remarks he might otherwise have made. Renn had helped her out of the tub and bade her dress quickly, as he had done, then escorted her to the bottom of the tower staircase before leaving her there, wet and cold and shaking in a welter of confused emotions.

Hearing that Nottingham was camped on the far side of the moor would have been more than enough to unsettle her. But having just had one of the most shattering experiences in her young life, it left her too dazed to think of much else.

She had not known her body could respond the way it had to Rennwick de Beauvoir. For the past sennight she had thought of him in every unflattering way she could imagine, as an abductor, a mercenary, a callous bastard who she had even thought, at one point, to try to poison. The deed had only been thwarted by the accidental spilling of the nightshade berries intended for the morning porridge. But for that the four knights would have been dealing with the bloody flux and she would be out in the forest on her own.

Here she stood instead, her inner thighs tenderly chafed, tingling with the memory of him thrusting between them.

Could she ever look at him again without recalling the feel of his heartbeat pounding next to hers, or the taste of his lips, the rasping warmth of his breath against her neck, or the urgency of her own begging whispers?

Or the pleasure? Gracious sweet God, the sharp drenching pleasure they had shared that had made her cling to him and never want to let go.

What had possessed her?

Indeed, what had possessed either one of them? He had just finished claiming his duty was to protect her from harm, but who was going to protect her from herself? What she had done, what she had allowed him to do was foolhardy and inexcusably rash… and so sinfully magnificent she would never be able to sink into a tub of water without reliving the touch and feel of him. Even now, even stripped of the wet clothes and wrapped in a thick, warm blanket, she felt shivers racing up and down her spine.

Part of that, she allowed, could be due to the sight of the High Sheriff and his men standing in a solid, unmoving line that ran the width of the moor. Bloodmoor Keep was a fortress, but Rennwick had already proven how easy it was to enter a supposed stronghold unnoticed and leave with a captured prize. From what she had seen, Sabinius's castle guards numbered less than half of Nottingham's. Moreover, there were any number of unarmed villeins, women, and children inside the walls, none of whose fate would matter a wit to the sheriff if he managed to breach the gates.

Rennwick had ordered her to stay in her chamber until he came to fetch her, but who could simply stand around and do nothing when there was a small army on the moor whose sole purpose was to capture her and take her to London?

And she still had no real idea why.

She suspected Sabinius did, however. He knew far more than he was willing to say and unless he wanted her to walk out the gate and take her chances on the moor, he would have to meet the same demands she had made of Rennwick de Beauvoir: truth and honesty!

The door to her chamber squeaked open and she whirled around, fully expecting to see Rennwick standing there, and fully prepared to demand answers.

It was Bethy, her arms full of clothing.

"Beggin' pardon, milady. I thought you might be abed."

"As you can see, I am not."

The girl flinched at the curt response. "My lord Sabinius is awake and barking orders like a demon. He has sent you some nicer things to wear. He said the sight of you in a handmaid's cote did little to improve his health. I have some lovely clean chemises too. And stockings."

When Ellyn said nothing, the girl set the small pile of linen underpinnings on the bed then proceeded to hang the outer garments on a long board studded with wooden pegs. There were three long tunics in green, aubergine, and pale gold, each with corresponding sets of sleeves. The gold velvet caught Ellyn's attention. It shimmered with different shades of pale yellow and silver between the folds.

Bethy saw where Ellyn's gaze lingered and brought the velvet tunic over to the bedside.

"I cannot possibly wear something so fine. The smock I have been wearing will—"

"Will require a good washing in strong lye soap to get the smell of sweat and camphor out of it. Moreover, a milchmaid's apron is not a fit garment for a lady to wear in the company of such a handsome knight as Lord Rennwick, who even sets the old crone's heart aflutter."

"I doubt he thinks of me as a lady," Ellyn murmured.

"I warrant he thinks of you a great deal, my lady. His eyes follow every move you make, more so when you are not looking."

"That is because he does not trust me."

Bethy smiled. "He does not trust you when you are fast asleep? Or when he places a shawl across your knees when he fears you might take a chill? Or when he deliberately takes the worst cut of meat on the platter and leaves the best for you?"

Ellyn had no ready response. Nor did she balk when Bethy whisked the blanket away from her shoulders and floated a clean, soft chemise over her bare shoulders. Next came stockings that Bethy unrolled up to her thighs and tied with delicate silk ribbons. She tapped each foot in turn so that Ellyn could step into soft leather shoes that were then bound by thin straps around the ankles.

The gold velvet tunic was slipped over her head and laced up each side, with Bethy taking extra care to ensure the fit was snug enough across the bodice to emphasise the round fullness of her breasts. The sleeves were then laced in place, each fitting tight to the elbow before flaring into long pendant cuffs that touched the floor. As a final touch, Bethy added an embroidered girdle that sat low on Ellyn's hips and dipped into a vee to show off her slender waist.

Bethy stood back to admire her handiwork, then chided herself with a cluck of the tongue before leading Ellyn over to the fire. She bade her sit, then unwound the long braid of damp hair and attacked it with a wide-toothed comb and horsehair brush until it was fully dried and fluffed into a silvery cloud of glossy waves that spilled down to her waist. She then plaited two new thin braids at each temple, pinning them together at the back with a small pewter comb.

She stood back again and smiled. "There now. It would be a blind man who cannot see how beautiful you are, my lady."

"Beautiful? Me?"

"Oh aye, my lady. I've never seen such a color of hair or such pale, lovely blue eyes. And you have all your teeth!"

When Ellyn still looked dubious, Bethy took her gently by the hand and led her over to stand in front of the looking glass. Ellyn kept her eyes downturned for several long moments, but a gentle poke on her arm bade her slowly raise her lashes and dare to look, fearing she might see a fool standing there.

But it wasn't a fool. She was looking at her own reflection but she wasn't seeing Ellyn the Fletcher. In her mind's eye she was seeing the other girl, the one with the sparkling eyes and lovely smile, the lush silvery curls and glowing skin… the one who was holding up a…

Ellyn gasped and looked down.

… a yellow velvet tunic.

"It was not me," she whispered aloud. "But who—?"

Bethy leaned in so her reflection appeared over Ellyn's shoulder. "Certes, it is you, my lady. Elegant and beautiful."

Ellyn backed away from the looking glass. She shook her head, banishing the other image from her mind and focussed instead on the hopeful look on Bethy's face.

She offered up a weak smile. "Let us hope that I do not trip over my own feet, for that would be as elegant as finding a turd on the floor."