By Possession (40 page)

If that was to be the last touch and sight of her, he had a right to know it. If last night was to be the final hours, she should have told him so that he could speak of things that had meaning.

He glared at the hundreds of men spread out below him. He had been dreading this battle because victory meant losing her, but now he itched to have it done. He would tear those walls down if it meant being finished with it. He would sit in his father's chair and claim the rights of his birth. He would secure his hold and make his power known.

And then, when he had done his duty, he would find her.

He stomped down to the camp and roused some men to search for her and sent another to the abbey. Hopeless, of course, but he would make sure she had not returned. Seething with frustration and disappointment he circled through the camp, informing the knights and retinues that they would move on the morrow. Like a spoon stirring a pot, his progress churned the army into an activity of preparation.

The anger sustained him until the night, when he found himself sitting with Raymond by the fire outside his tent. His old friend had been smart enough not to comment on Moira's absence or his change of temper. They spoke of the morning and the plan to be executed, until Raymond left.

Addis stayed by the fire. He had not entered the tent all
day and did not want to now. It contained garments bearing her scent and other objects of her life. If he saw and touched those remnants of her presence he might lose hold of the raft.

In the distance a small commotion inched down the hill. Like a tiny whirlwind it entered the camp and scooted between fires and tents. Addis watched it come, distracted for a moment from his thoughts. As it drew nearer it materialized into Richard and Small John pulling a peasant between them.

“Caught another one,” Richard gloated, throwing the man to the ground. “Simon must be running low on spies if he's using his farmers. Wouldn't answer our questions. Said he was of Barrowburgh bond and would speak only to you.”

The man stared around wide-eyed, his gaze finally locking on Addis. He was a young man, not much more than a youth, and Addis thought he looked familiar. To his surprise the spy crawled forward and knelt.

“I am not from Simon, my lord. I am Gerald, son of Lucas, from the village of Whitly.”

“I remember you. What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you and this army.”

That was not a welcome answer. “How did you know the army was here?”

“I didn't, my lord. Not for sure. She said it was near and that we would know when you moved and I thought about that and decided it must be south of Whitly if we would know first.…”

He froze as the rushed words made sense. “She?”

“Aye. The woman Moira.” Gerald thrust his hand beneath his tunic and pulled out a cloth.

Addis opened it over his knees. A veil. One of hers. Relief and fear drowned the vestiges of his anger. “Where is she?”

“That's why I've come looking for you, my lord. She was in the village when Owen came and he recognized her and took her. My father too …”

Addis rose and walked into the night before Gerald finished. He pressed the veil to his face and inhaled the shadowy smell of her hair. She had not left, but had only gone to visit the village where it had all started.

And Owen had found her there. Simon had Moira and she knew the army's location. He might use torture to get that information if he guessed that she possessed it.

A profound joy churned in him, mixed with heartfelt guilt that he had so quickly misjudged her and a soul-shaking terror for her danger.

He called for Richard.

“How long to get to Barrowburgh? Just the men. The wagons and supplies can follow. A forced march.”

“Five hours about.”

He scanned the heavens. The night had begun black with clouds but they had broken to reveal the bright disk of a full moon. “Before dawn then, if we left soon.”

“Certainly before dawn, but surely you cannot think to march at night.”

“I do think it. Spread the word. I want every man ready as soon as possible. We do not wait for the morrow. We go now and we carry what we need.”

“It has been threatening rain and even if it holds off we could lose half the men in the dark.”

“The moon has come out. We will not lack for light.”

Richard looked close to exasperation. “The clouds could cover it again in a snap.”

Addis gazed up at Menulius. “They will not.” He turned and smiled at the perplexed steward. “The moon will shine for us this night. As it happens, he owes me this small favor.”

CHAPTER 21

S
HE KNELT IN THE SOLAR
like a supplicant. Simon paced around her in furious frustration.

“He is still in London,” she said again. The words came as a mumble through her swollen lips.

His temper flared and he glanced meaningfully at Owen. She braced herself. The knight swung and another slap landed on her face, unbalancing her with its force.

Soon it would be a fist instead of a palm. They had spent hours trying to beat the information out of Lucas while she watched. She had come close to speaking to spare him, but the reeve's eyes had begged her to be silent.

They had carried his unconscious body away and then turned to her.

“She knows where he is,” Owen said flatly. He was enjoying this. An unhealthy glow lit his eyes even as he acted almost bored with his duty. “She was his whore in London and if she is here now she came with him.”

“Nay,” she argued, fighting a wretched fear that urged her to grovel for mercy. “He tired of me and I head back
to Darwendon and my home. I stopped to visit in the village, is all, and seek shelter until the morn.…”

Another blow cracked across her face. Pain split through her head and she tasted blood.

How much longer until dawn? If she held out long enough, perhaps any move that Simon made would not catch Addis unawares. The army at the abbey greatly outnumbered Simon's forces, even swelled as they were by his anticipation of trouble, but an unprepared army could be devastated by many fewer men.

Simon's eyes raked her. “Darwendon, eh? You are bonded to him then, but you don't appear to be a serf. If he had cast his bonded slut aside she would not still be wearing that wool robe, woman, or linen on her neck.”

“They were gifts. He let me keep them. He is not ungenerous.”

“Well pleased, was he? Aye, I can imagine he was.”

Her blood ran cold at the leering smirks that smeared both men's faces. “Apparently not pleased enough, since I was left to make my own way across the realm with naught but the garments on my back.” She tried to look resentful and peeved. “And this gown is small compensation for what he cost me. I lost an entire crop because of his insistence that I serve him in London. If he were anywhere in this shire, I would gladly point you to him.”

Simon studied her in his sly way. “Where did you learn to talk like that? Your manner is far above your place.”

She could not decide if explaining would help or hurt, so she said nothing. Owen stepped forward and yanked her hair so cruelly that she thought her neck would break. He lifted until her knees left the ground.

“Hawkesford,” she gasped. “I lived at Hawkesford as a girl.”

“Hawkesford?” The answer surprised Simon. He grabbed her chin and lifted her face. Dangerous, shrewd
eyes inspected her. He looked long enough that she saw something inside that gaze. Fear. Beneath his bluster and anger, within these walls and his power, Simon tried to hide the terror of a hunted man. The insight gave her heart.

“Hawkesford,” he mused again. “Lady Claire had a friend there who was serf-born. She spoke of her sometimes. Would that be you?”

She refused to answer. He stepped back and smiled. “Aye, it be you. If you were of that household and her friend, I think that you know about the boy. Where is he?”

“What boy?”

Owen pulled her to her feet and slammed her against the wall. Two faces, one pale and impassive, the other florid and impatient, glared down at her. “Her boy. Brian. Where is he?”

She felt grateful that Addis had never told her where the sweet child hid. They might break her but her weakness could never help them ensnare Brian. “I do not know.”

Owen slammed his fist into her body and her consciousness reeled. If not for the wall's support she would have fallen. “You waste your time,” she breathed. “I am no one. Nobody. A bondwoman of no account. Addis de Valence does not confide to his whore when his army moves and where his son is hidden. You know how it is with such as me. If I knew anything I would tell you and at most bargain for some coin.”

Simon's face pressed closer. The smell of onions on his breath and of fear on his body made her bruised stomach heave. “You know. Claire spoke of your loyalty. When she went to bed to birth that boy she asked you be called to care for him if she died. Serf-born or not, I think you knew the doings in the households of Valence and Orrick. I think that you still know them. And if you lie to help him
now, I wonder if maybe you are not more than a whore to him.”

“You speak nonsense and beat a helpless woman for nothing. Could a woman like me ever be more than a whore to you? His birth is even higher than yours. A son of Barrowburgh has only one use for baseborn women.”

“She talks too much while answering nothing,” Owen said. “Let me deal with her. If he has come she will tell me.”

Simon considered her, debating his options. A prayerful hope gripped her, dangerous because it acknowledged and released the terror she had been fighting for hours. A change in Owen's regard said that his predator's instincts had sensed the new vulnerability that the chance of reprieve had created.

“She will tell me,” Owen repeated.

Simon nodded and turned away. “Do not kill her though. She might be useful.”

Aye, he enjoyed it. Too much. He proved well practiced in creating suffering without causing the damage that would make her drop. She prayed for unconsciousness but it never quite came. Shallow, methodical blows and slaps quickly drove her to the edge of endurance. Obscene descriptions of what would happen next further assaulted her steadfastness. Pain and weakness began pushing her to the point where she might sell her soul to stop it. Knowing she was about to break, seeing it coming, she found a final drop of rebellious courage. Pursing her cracked lips, she let the bile that choked her rise and she spit into his face.

A retaliatory fist crashed into her. The chamber swirled and the stone floor rushed up. Her mind knew red and then white and then nothing at all.

Menulius lit their way, holding back the clouds that tried to obscure his glow. They used no torches, but the feet and horses of six hundred men made enough noise in the still night that anyone looking could easily find them. When mile after mile passed and no raiding parties from Barrowburgh attacked, Addis grimly accepted that Moira had refused to tell Simon what he wanted.

He tried not to contemplate what might be happening to her in that keep. The abuse would not come from Simon. It would be Owen. The Simons of the world always found the Owens who enjoyed doing the dirty work. The image flashed of that flame-haired man hurting her, and he barely resisted the urge to spur his horse and let this army catch up as it might.

He looked to his left and right at the thick shadows accompanying them. Men had silently fallen into step when they had passed Whitly, tromping alongside in the fields. All along the way more had emerged from the trees and hills. No one had asked his permission. A growing sea of bodies had simply formed on either side of the road. Some carried staffs or rough pikes or even scythes, but most merely brought their two hands and legs.

“They have heard about the reeve and the woman, you think?” Thomas Wake asked from the horse beside him.

“Perhaps. It would be the final injustice to a people who have suffered many.”

“You should send them home. They will get in the way.”

“I do not think they would obey if I did so. They are not in disorder, and appear determined. Simon is their Hugh Despenser. Each of them has made a hard choice as you and I did not so long ago.”

“But when we reach Barrowburgh …”

“They will not disrupt the plan, and we may be glad of their numbers if we fail.”

A cantering horse broke through the rhythm of marching boots and Richard pulled up alongside. “Just a mile more over that hill if we go through the woods.” He pointed. “That will bring us in from the west. There's time to rest here for a while.”

Addis looked at the sky. Three hours until dawn, he judged. His gaze fell on the flanking shadows pausing and bunching to make a large shapeless ghost.

“A brief rest. We will not stop long.”

“You are changing the plan? If we continue we will arrive too early and by dawn he will have deployed his men. Have you decided to make camp after all?”

“Nay, we will still march directly into an attack.”

Raymond paced around Wake to join the council. “You are mad, Addis. Even with the moon a night attack is suicide. We'll not see who we are fighting and …”

“We go forward. He will not expect it even if he has discovered that we are coming, especially at night.”