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Chapter 24

24

BLOODMOOR KEEP, 1291

E llyn was standing at the window of her chamber absently scratching the tip of her dagger into the stone casement, sending little grains of mortar onto the ledge. She was dressed once again in leggings and a hooded tunic. The gold velvet gown lay in a heap at the foot of the four-posted bed, ruined by the dust, blackened around the hem from being dragged across the damp earth floor of the undercroft. Bethy had reluctantly tamed the glorious cloud of her hair into a thick braid again. The lovely soft slippers had been replaced by leather boots with straps that wound around her calves up to her knees.

Ellyn dug the point of the dagger hard enough into the stone to dislodge some crumbles of mortar. "I wish I had gone to the parlay with them. I could have fired a couple of arrows and ended any discussions with Harold Falconard permanently."

Bethy gave her a startled look, but said nothing. Lord Rennwick had told them to be ready to leave at a moment's notice; he would meet them in Sabinius's room after he had dealt with the High Sheriff .

Ellyn had already put a spare chemise and shirt, a horsehair brush, and a small chip of soap into a canvas sack. Renn had warned them to bring only the absolute necessities, because they would be carrying their own possessions. The men would have their hands full with armor and weapons.

Almost as an afterthought, she collected a sheaf of loose sheets of vellum she had found in the escritoire along with three sticks of drawing charcoal. Both were almost worth their weight in gold.

Earlier, she had found a sketch in the writing table. It had been jammed so far back beneath the wooden leaf that only a yellowed corner had protruded. She had carefully wriggled it free and recognized the drawing at once as a view from the tower window. The parchment was old, the charcoal lines smudged from its confinement. It had the look of a child's hand, a child who had left a mark scrawled in the bottom corner. A simplistic E.

Had the sketch been deliberately shoved out of sight? Had ‘E' drawn it to let someone know she had been there?

Was that why Ellyn had scratched her initials in the window casement? To leave something of herself behind, some small proof that she had been here? That she had existed?

On impulse, she retrieved the sketch and tucked it between folds of vellum at the bottom of her canvas sack.

After a final, unsentimental glance around the room, she blew out the candles and hastened down the spiral staircase.

The heart of the storm had passed leaving a steady drizzle in its wake. The clouds were thick and low, the air was cold, the dampness penetrated the thickest layers of clothing. Four men had ridden across the winding road through the moor: Harold Falconard, Luther de Vos, and two knights the size of small giants, their bulk aggrandized by full suits of hammered steel and mail. The rest of Nottingham's men were once again lined up along the far bank of the moor, pennons hanging listlessly in the rain.

The drawbridge had been lowered to allow Rennwick de Beauvoir and Roger Burke to ride out to meet them. Both men were armored, both wore crested gambesons that bespoke their fealty to the Kingdom of Upper Burgundy. They also rode with two guards at their backs, under the watchful eyes of a score of archers positioned on the ramparts behind them.

As the horses clop-clopped across the wooden draw, Luther's glittering eyes were peering out from behind the descending nasal of his helm and widened slightly with recognition as the gap narrowed to a few paces.

"Rennwick de Beauvoir. Still alive, I see, and still keeping company with the cripple."

"A cripple who knows you as The Coward of Northumberland," Roger said, smiling and tipping his head slightly. "I confess, I would have thought someone would have succeeded at slitting your reptilian throat by now."

"Rennwick de Beauvoir?" Until that moment, Harold Falconard had not recognized Renn as the skinny, shaggy-haired lad who had been brought to Nottingham as a child to be fostered by Lord Alfred Falconard. As memories went, his were vague because neither he nor his brother Carac could tolerate the boy—mainly because he was smarter, faster, better with a sword and lance than either of them. They had tormented him mercilessly until he learned to stay well out of their sight and reach .

"I had forgotten you could crawl through the walls of Nottingham Castle like a rat, so I should have guessed you were involved in some way. But what is this?" He nodded at the crest of Burgundy on Renn's gambeson. "Are the rumours true, then? You have turned mercenary, selling your services to whoever will pay the most pennies?"

"Harold Falconard." Renn smiled. "You have not changed overmuch. Larger around the girth, perhaps, but still an arrogant lickspittle. You call yourself sheriff now, do you? Did you buy the position by bending over for the king's pleasure?"

"I earned it with my loyalty to the English crown," Falconard snarled. "Something you obviously disparage. It will give me great pleasure to arrest you in the name of the king."

"Arrest me? On what charge, pray tell?"

"Abduction. You stole into Nottingham Castle and abducted a ward of the king. We have orders to take the girl, Enndolynn Ware, back with us to London. Stand in our way and you will be dragged in chains alongside her."

Renn looked at Roger. "Do you know a girl by that name?"

Roger pursed his lips. "Forsooth, I recollect an encounter with an Evelyn Gare once, but she was a whore." He glanced at Falconard. "Is it a whore the king requires? Surely he can find one closer to home—unless they have all taken up the cross and declared piety to avoid him."

The iron scales of Harold's gauntlet creaked as his fist tightened around the reins, causing his steed to take a step sideways. "Where is Sabinius de Lavigne? Does he condone this blatant disregard for the king's command?"

"Sabinius thought his time would be better spent counting grasshoppers in his garden. "

Harold flushed red with the insult. "We know you have the girl. Give her to us or you risk bringing the full wrath of the crown down upon the heads of every man, woman, and child within these walls."

This last was said loudly enough for the men standing on the walls to hear and quake in their boots. Unfortunately, a gust of wind came up out of nowhere to slap the wet tail of the silk pennon his guard was holding across Harold's face and helm. For the few seconds it took to flail and untangle himself, there was only quaking laughter from the castle guards.

"The full wrath of the king, you say," Renn mused. "If the embodiment of that wrath is a few score men led by two overstuffed codpieces, then I do despair for the state of England's health."

"Mind how you speak, cur." Falconard moved his hand to the hilt of his sword. "Or I will carve out your tongue and roast it for my evening meal."

"You are welcome to try," Renn said, the green of his eyes kindling darkly.

Harold growled and when it looked like his sword was about to come out of the sheath, every single man on the wall raised their crossbows, aiming twenty steel-tipped bolts at the king's men.

A black-gloved hand and a calmly spoken word from Luther de Vos eased Harold's grip on his sword.

"Surely we can speak to this matter without inciting a war of words or weapons. Threats of tongue-roastings will accomplish nothing," de Vos said. "Neither will a hail of arrows."

"You asked for the parlay," Renn said. "We are here to listen."

Luther's smile was slick as grease "Past differences aside, perhaps we can appeal to your more…acquisitive nature. How ever much Sabinius has paid you to fetch the girl, I am prepared to double the amount if you give her back."

Renn's eyebrows lifted. "Four thousand marks? You rode through the forests of Sherwood and Lincolnwood carrying that much silver in your purse?"

De Vos shrugged. "If that is your price, I can have it here within three days."

"Three days?"

"Time enough for you to think very hard if you want to leave this place a rich man… or leave it wrapped in a linen shroud with your head on a pike."

Rennwick's eyes narrowed. "Because you sit here under the protection of the white flag, I will not violate the code. But you should ride away now, while you are still able."

"Your threats roll off me like rainwater, Rennwick de Beauvoir, for I have seen you fight. In three days time you can be a rich man. Think about it. You have until the sun sets tonight to deliver us your answer."

"Or what?"

De Vos only smiled and wheeled his horse around. He started cantering back down the road with Harold a beat behind, followed by the two guardsmen.

Renn watched until they were more than halfway across the moor before he turned his horse and galloped back across the draw. There were men inside the entrance standing by with teams of draft horses to work the winches and, as soon as Roger and the others were clear, the heavy chains started rattling through the braces as the drawbridge was lifted and the exit sealed.

Rennwick brought his horse to a skidding halt halfway across the training ground. He dismounted and tossed the reins to a boy, then crossed over to where a dozen or so melons had been piled in a pyramid waiting to be skewered on pikes for the men to use as target practice. He kicked his way through the pyramid, scattering the melons, smashing some, stomping others to red mush.

When he had taken out his fury on every last one, he stood there panting and ruddy-faced, his fists clenched and unclenching.

"Feel better?" Roger asked calmly.

"No."

"Neither do the melons, I wager."

Renn closed his eyes and blew out a harsh breath. "Dammit, Roger, you should be more enraged than me. It was your foot he took."

"Indeed, it was, and who is to say I am not just as outraged as you? Perhaps I just hide it better. Or perhaps I am thinking that four thousand marks is a lot to pay for the girl. If he was willing to offer you that much, without so much as a twitch, it makes me wonder why. There are covens of witches all over England. What makes this one… what makes Enndolynn Ware so special? And I do not refer to any talents she may have displayed in the bathhouse."

Renn's head jerked up. The two men stared at each other long enough for a bead of sweat to trickle slowly down from Rennwick's temple to his neck, and in the end, it was he who looked away first.

"We will send him an answer… and hopefully buy ourselves three days head start."

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