Margaret Moore - [Maiden & Her Knight 03] (21 page)

“Yes.”

“Pillow or not, you will catch your death!” Denis cried as he tossed the clothing aside.

Alexander pulled the pouch’s drawstring closed, leaving several wisps of straw protruding from the opening. “If she can live for three days in that dungeon, I can survive sleeping in the tower.”

“What will Osburn say?”

“I don’t give a damn,” Alexander replied as he threw the pouch over his shoulder like a peddler’s pack. “I don’t trust him, and I don’t trust the Brabancons. I never should have left her before.”

“Well, somebody had to take the ransom demand, and you wanted to see Sir Connor.”

Alexander couldn’t refute that, but it did little to assuage his feelings. “Now I’ve done it, and now I will protect her.”

Denis picked up a piece of straw and started to chew on it, as meditative as a scholar. “She is an amazing woman. Too bad she is already married, and to your enemy, too.”

“I just want to make sure my prize is safe until I trade her for the ransom.”

“
Oui, je comprends
. It is only her value in trade that has you so concerned—not that she is a beautiful woman of spirit and determination. Not that she is your match in pride and courage. No, only her value in trade.”

“Denis,” Alexander warned. “You’ve spent too much time with troubadours.”

“Perhaps,” he agreed. “Still, it would make a fine tale, would it not? How the Black Knight takes his enemy’s wife and falls in love with her and then … dies of a broken heart?”

“Nobody is going to die, of a broken heart or anything else.”

“Except Heinrich.”

Alexander gave him a sour look. “Very well, except Heinrich. As for the Black Knight, there will be plenty of money for other women when this is over and we are back in France.”

“Of course,
mon ami
,” Denis said with an airy wave of his straw. “Indeed, there are other women here, for that matter.” He saw the expression of distaste cross Alexander’s grim face. “Not that you are desperate enough for one of them.”

“No, I am not.” Alexander went to the door, then paused. He knew his friend had his best interest at heart. “Good night, Denis. Take care.”

With a merry grin, Denis pulled out his dagger. “I sleep with this under my pillow, in case any of those Brabancons attack or one of the wenches crawls into my bed.” He mused a moment. “I think I would prefer that a Brabancon try to murder me.”

With a more genuine chuckle, Alexander took his makeshift pillow and departed, leaving his friend staring thoughtfully at the door.

I
n a bone-chilling drizzle, Connor reined in his mount and looked at the cluster of gray stone cottages barely distinguishable from everything around them. The water in the loch below was gray, the sky was gray, the rocky hills were green … and gray.

Sir Auberan de Beaumartre had certainly come down in the world. Before his fall from grace, he had been one of the richest young noblemen in England. He had also been one of the most vain, weak-willed men Connor had ever met.

As he raised his hand to signal his small troop of soldiers to head down into the valley, Connor wondered if he should reveal that Isabelle had been abducted, or indeed, anything at all about what had happened. He could not be sure that Auberan was not still in contact with Oswald, even if Oswald seemed to have disappeared off the face of the earth.

On the other hand, if Auberan did communicate with Oswald, he would already know about the abduction of “Lady Allis.” Either way, Connor decided, he would have to be cautious of what he revealed.

When they rode into the settlement, for the collection of ramshackle buildings could not even be called a village, a boy came to the door of one of the hovels to watch them. His hair was an unkempt mess, his clothing little more than rags, and he was gnawing on the heel of a loaf of coarse brown bread.

Connor reached into the pouch at his belt and pulled out a penny. He tossed it at the lad, who let his bread drop into the mud to catch it. “We seek Sir Auberan de Beaumartre.”

The boy pointed toward the furthest low stone building.

Connor nodded his thanks as somebody behind the door put his hand on the lad’s shoulder and yanked him back inside. The door slammed shut.

Either because of the weather or—more likely—out of fear and suspicion, no one else appeared as they continued toward the far side of the settlement.

“Stay here unless I call or do not come out soon,” Connor commanded his men when they reached the cottage. The windows were shuttered, and no smoke rose from the roof. It looked deserted, and he wondered if the boy had purposefully lied for the sake of the penny. There was but one way to find out.

Fearing that Oswald might have decided to silence his former comrade permanently, Connor went to the simple wooden door held in place by a latch and leather hinges, and pounded on it. “Auberan!”

When there was no answer, he pounded again, and this time, the simple latch gave way.

Connor didn’t hesitate to enter. The building was divided into two parts, one for living quarters and the other, judging by the smell, for a barn. The scent of burning peat added to the pungent odor, although the fire had burned down to a mere glow in the hearth.

A table scarred and covered with crumbs stood near the smoke-blackened hearth heaped with ash. There were also the obvious remains of more than one meal on the table. There were no chairs, only stools and a bench, and a bed in the corner. Connor was relieved that there didn’t appear to be any blood.

The mound in the middle of the bed moved. “I told you, I’ll pay her next month,” a sleepy—and familiar—voice muttered.

“Greetings, Auberan. It’s been a long time.”

A woman with flaming red hair and freckles and a nose that, when she became old, would be described as sharp, sat up abruptly. With a little shriek, she covered her naked breasts, then dove back under the covers. After a flurry of Gaelic, she shoved the man in the bed beside her out onto the floor.

“What the devil—?” Auberan cried, still half asleep as he staggered to his feet, as naked as a newborn babe and as pale as the moon. His long hair was as unkempt as the boy’s had been.

To think that Auberan de Beaumartre had once been the jackadandy of the king’s court.

Turning, Auberan tugged the moth-eaten brown woolen blanket from the bed, exposing his female companion. Paying no heed to her squeals of alarm, he wrapped it about his waist like a long skirt.

Obviously cursing him, the girl threw on her simple gown of black wool and scurried into the part of the building that housed the animals.

As Auberan made an elegant bow Connor noticed that his face was much thinner and his eyes harder. It was as if the weakling youth had become a man through his suffering. But was he still loyal to Oswald?

“Sir Connor of Llanstephan,” Auberan said with the vestige of his former noble bearing. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this unexpected visit?”

“I need some information. About Oswald.”

He watched the man’s reaction and was pleased to see anger darken Auberan’s brow as he sat on the bed. “That creature? I don’t know anything about him, except that he escaped the king’s wrath and I did not.”

“Then I trust you do not maintain any sense of loyalty to the man?”

Auberan snorted. “I have seen the error of being a trusting fool.”

Disappointment washed over Connor. “Then if you did know anything about him, such as where he might have sought refuge, or any secret sanctuary he might possess—”

“I would have told the king’s men. Indeed, it would have gone much easier for me if Oswald and DeFrouchette
had
told me something so I could reveal it.”

Connor stared in shock as Auberan held up his right hand. The man regarded his bent and gnarled fingers as a lady might to see if there was dirt beneath the nails.

“The king’s men didn’t believe me, either,” he continued evenly as he clasped his right hand in his undamaged left one, hiding it from view. “They broke my fingers to make me tell them what I knew. When I told them I knew no more than they already did, they broke them again, one at a time. And again after that.”

“But you were sent north!”

Auberan’s lips curved up in a smile, as if Connor were an innocent, ignorant child. “So, I was not the only trusting fool. Richard said he would banish me to the north, and so he did—in his own good time, after his torturers had first ensured that I took no secrets with me.”

In one fluid motion, Auberan got to his feet, pulling a sword from beneath the straw mattress with his left hand. He had it at Connor’s throat before Connor could unsheathe his own.

Auberan’s face fairly glowed with satisfaction. “I have learned to wield my sword with my left hand, you see, and I have had little to do here but practice. Oh, and bed the local wenches who think it a privilege to lie with a nobleman, even a disgraced and dispossessed one.” He lowered his weapon, and his eyes filled with despair. “Now go, Sir Connor. I have nothing to tell you, and I do not think you will enjoy the meager hospitality I can offer.”

Connor didn’t move. “Do you still care about Isabelle?”

“What, do I still love her? No. That died in me about the time they broke my thumb for the third time.” His gaze clouded. “She meant well. She did not know it would have been more merciful to let them kill me.” He drew in a ragged breath and gestured toward the door with his sword. “Do as I say, Sir Connor, and go.”

Still Connor made no move to leave. “Did you know Rennick DeFrouchette had a son?”

Auberan shook his head.

“He did, and the man has abducted Isabelle.”

Auberan’s shoulders slumped as he sat on the nearest bench and laid his sword across his knees. “So, another repercussion of that day. It is a pity none of us foresaw what would come of what we did, isn’t it, Sir Connor?”

“Yes,” he admitted. “But we are none of us seers and Rennick never spoke of him, so I was as shocked as you when he came to demand the ransom. But there can be no doubt he is what he claims. He is the living image of his father.”

“A bastard, then?” Auberan guessed, sitting straighter.

“Aye, and he thinks I stole Bellevoire from him by killing his father.”

Auberan laughed bitterly. “Then he’s a greater fool than I was. Any traitor’s land and property are forfeit to the Crown, to do with as the Crown pleases.”

“Whatever reason he gives to us, or himself, he is bent on seeking vengeance. I am sure Oswald is preying upon that weakness, just as he tried to enlist me in your conspiracy because of my anger toward Richard for what he had done to me and my family.”

Auberan nodded. “Of course. He is an expert at exploiting men’s weakness.”

“Alexander DeFrouchette neither confirmed nor denied Oswald’s involvement, but his refusal to deny it is significant.”

Auberan’s hand tightened on the hilt of his sword.

Connor regarded him intently. “That is why I have come here. Did Oswald ever speak of any place that might be suitable for imprisoning a captive?”

Auberan shook his head. “Regrettably, no.”

“Then I shall leave you.” Connor turned to go, then hesitated. He reached for the purse at his belt.

Auberan was on his feet and had his sword against Connor’s chest before Connor could pull the purse free. “Don’t even think it! I will not take charity from you.”

Connor spread his hands, and Auberan lowered his sword.

“I have everything I need, Sir Connor,” he said. “An estate, although this godforsaken valley might not be terribly impressive.” He gestured at his surroundings. “A hall.” He nodded at the bed. “A woman to warm me in the night.” His lips curved into a sardonic smile as he looked down at the blanket wrapped around his waist. “Fine clothes. The men wear such things here, you know.”

Connor had always believed Auberan a fool, as DeFrouchette and Oswald had, but now, as Auberan stood before him, Connor was sorry things had gone as they had. If Auberan had found the right path early on, he might have been a worthy ally and possibly a friend. He might even have won Isabelle’s heart.

“I will save Isabelle,” Connor vowed.

Auberan’s smile faded. “If there is a man in England who could, it would be you.”