Sharon Schulze (13 page)

P
adrig’s expression, so dark and forbidding but a moment earlier, changed in an instant. He grinned, his teeth bright against the dark beginnings of a beard covering his chin and jaw, his eyes flashing blue fire.

She breathed deep in reaction, even as she returned his smile.

One hand on his sword hilt, he sketched a bow. “Thank you, milady. ’Tis precisely what I wished to know.”

He turned and headed off at a jog to catch up to the others.

After he’d gone a few paces, however, he halted and spun to face them. “Come along, you laggards,” he called. “Just imagine—hot food, hot baths, clean clothes…” he coaxed, his expression more carefree than Alys had ever seen it. “You don’t want to be the last ones through the gates, do you?”

Not awaiting a response, he set off along the road once again.

Alys shook her head as if to free it from some strange enchantment. She turned to Rafe, opened her
mouth to speak, and found she didn’t know what to say.

A most unusual reaction for her, under any circumstances.

Rafe had leaned over to adjust something on the saddle. He sat up, looked at her face, and groaned. “Jesu save us, you’re as bad as he!”

Though she could feel her face heat, she raised her chin and held his gaze. “Whatever do you mean?” she demanded.

“You’re a pair of reckless fools.” His movements abrupt, he picked up the reins and urged Arian into motion. “This path you’re headed down is madness! You’re a lady, nobly born and bred. He’s a landless knight who owes his service—his very position in life—to another’s whim. What do you think I meant?” he asked, his tone as brusque as his movements.

“We’ve done nothing—” she protested.

He cut her off with a look. “Doesn’t matter what you’ve done or haven’t done,” he growled. “That’s none o’
my
business, at any rate.” He lowered his voice as they caught up to the others and took a position at the end of the line.

When she would have turned away from him completely, he caught her by the arm and held her there. “It’s where the two o’ you are headed that has me worried, Lady Alys—for both o’ ye.”

Tears welled in her eyes, but she blinked them away before they could fall. “I thank you for your concern, Rafe.” She wasn’t able to keep her emotions out of her voice, however, which sounded odd even to her ears.

“Here, lass, I never meant to make you weep,” Rafe said quietly. He glanced ahead at Padrig, then back at her. “He took it little better when I spoke to him this morn.”

“You spoke to Padrig about me?” she asked, all the while knowing ’twould be better if she let this entire subject fade away.

Rafe hesitated, then, perhaps realizing he’d already admitted as much, nodded. “Warned him o’ the foolhardiness of where it seemed he was heading. Told him he’d do your reputation no good if he kept lookin’ at you the way he was.” He shrugged, then continued, “You know what I’m sayin’ without my having to explain it all to you, just as he did.”

Now she truly had no idea what to say. Not that she could have forced a word to pass through the tightness in her throat.

To hear another say what she already knew deep in her heart only served to compound the pain of it.

“’Tis the way o’ the world, lass,” Rafe said wryly. “Ye might as well get used to it.”

To Alys, the remainder of the journey passed in a blur. Rafe had, blessedly, kept silent once he’d had his say, perhaps realizing he could do no more than he’d already done.

Perhaps he’d known if he’d continued to speak of it, she’d have done more than blink her eyes free of tears and listen in relative silence.

She could not have said even now if her reaction would have progressed to outright weeping, or whether she’d have instead erupted into a seething, snarling ball of anger, lashing out at everyone and everything.

She
was
angry with herself for tossing aside, in her thoughts, at least, her dreams of joining the abbey. One heated glance at Padrig, one touch of her lips to his, and she’d been ready to abandon the future she’d planned and hoped for for years.

And for what? Padrig had made her no promises. They’d scarce discussed much of anything at all, the few times they’d been together. Rafe was correct, that any contact beyond the most basic between her and Padrig would be looked at askance, questioned and frowned upon—if not worse.

Their worlds might touch repeatedly, overlapping along the seams of their day-to-day existence—yet no one would expect either of them to become an intimate part of the other’s life.

She’d do well to remind herself, as often as it took, of the hopes she’d nurtured. To write was an essential part of her being. She knew of no other way to attain that goal other than what she’d hopefully set in motion.

Straightening her spine, she also firmed her resolve. If her parents would not send her to the abbey, she’d follow whatever path
she
chose.

She fixed her gaze upon Padrig’s loose-limbed stride, the strength and grace of his movements despite the armor he wore.

She smiled with pleasure at the sight. Aye, she would most definitely take the path she desired.

The top of the small watchtower standing guard over the rear approach to Winterbrooke Manor stuck up above the distant tree line, the crude stone ramparts a stark gray against the vivid green of the trees.

Alys noted the sight with a sigh of relief. She didn’t know how much longer she could manage to hold herself upright in the saddle. Rafe had lent her his support, and she’d finally accepted it, leaning back against his armor-clad chest and permitting him to hold her about
the waist, but even with his help, she was nigh drooping in Rafe’s loose clasp.

She glanced ahead at the rest of their party. Everyone seemed to move with the sluggishness only true exhaustion could bring. They’d all reached the end of their reserves.

This close to the keep, less storm damage was visible, mayhap because most of the trees and brush had already been cleared away for some distance all around the outside of the curtain wall to add a measure of defense.

As they drew nearer, she could see that the gate was closed and there were guards clearly visible on the low rampart above it. Her father would be pleased by Sir Cedric’s vigilance. The responsibility of commanding any Marcher holding this close to the Welsh border could be a daunting task. Sir Cedric was evidently up to the test.

The guards called down a challenge as their party reached the gate. Once Sir Padrig identified himself, pointing out their need for assistance, and that he’d their lord’s own daughter with him, as well, the gate swung ponderously open.

Several men-at-arms appeared in the opening, motioning for the first riders to come in. Padrig moved to allow them space to do so, then made his way to where Rafe and Alys, still mounted on Arian, hung back and waited for the others to enter first.

“Hopefully they will be able to care for everyone,” he said as he paused beside the mare. “It’s been a grueling journey. Any respite will be most welcome.”

Rafe shifted around and slid down, groaning. “I’ve grown spoiled. Can’t ride bareback without getting a fierce pain in my ars—” He coughed. “Beg pardon, milady. Didn’t mean to offend.”

“You didn’t,” she said, shaking her head. Rafe seemed to always be entertaining—merely by being himself.

Alys’s back suddenly cramped without the support Rafe had provided. Gasping, she flexed her shoulders to ease the spasm, and instead set loose a sharp, throbbing pain in her right shoulder.

Padrig reached up for her at once, grasping her about the waist. “Let me help you down, milady,” he said as he easily lifted her from the saddle.

When he set her on her feet, she was able to stand by leaning heavily against him.

Her legs felt as though they might simply fold up beneath her. If not for the fact that Padrig kept his arm firmly around her waist to steady her, she’d likely have crumpled to the ground.

“Give yourself a moment for the feeling to return to your legs,” he cautioned. “We can wait a bit longer to get inside.”

She continued to lean into him, letting him bear some of her weight for a moment. The cramp faded, leaving behind more of an ache than before and making her glad he hadn’t let go of her yet.

For any number of reasons, only one of which that she still needed his help to stand.

Since she’d been given the opportunity, she allowed herself the guilty pleasure of savoring his strength wrapped around her, of feeling the warmth of his body seep into her where they touched, of enveloping herself in his scent.

“Everyone’s made it inside,” Rafe said, jolting Alys’s attention from Padrig to the world around them. “Should we go in now as well, or will you be needing to rest a moment longer, milady?”

“Nay, I can manage, with Sir Padrig’s help,” Alys said. “Shall we?”

With Rafe leading Arian and Padrig still lending Alys his support, they slowly headed for the gate.

They were almost halfway there when Padrig paused. His eyes intent, he scanned the wall, his gaze coming to rest on the gate. He shook his head. “Something doesn’t feel right,” he muttered. “Though I cannot determine what it is.”

Rafe passed the reins from his right hand to his left and glanced uneasily around them. “’Tis very quiet, but this
is
the rear gate. Mayhap ’tis the lack of noise from the village, the fact that there’s no one around, that makes it seem so strange.”

“Mayhap.” Padrig loosened his hold on Alys slightly, as if testing her ability to stand on her own.

She stepped away from him, noticed her legs shook, and grabbed hold of his arm to steady herself. “A thought just occurred to me. Shouldn’t Sir Cedric have come by now, to see how we fare?” she asked.

“’Tis possible,” Padrig agreed. “Though not all castellans would necessarily be so polite.”

Their disquiet had spread. She could feel it now, too—an odd sense of something not quite right. “You told the guards I was here, I heard you. They ought to have informed him at once. For myself, I care not for such ceremony, but Sir Cedric’s not the kind of man who would dare offend my father in any way.” She met Padrig’s gaze and drew no comfort from the fact that his eyes had paled to a frosty shade of blue. A shudder passed through her and she tightened her grip on his arm. “He’d certainly not risk Father’s wrath by slighting me.”

Padrig reached down, took Alys’s hand in his and, after giving it a reassuring squeeze, closed her fingers about his heavy leather belt. “To keep my hands free,” he told her quietly. He slid his arm lightly about her waist as though he continued to hold her up.

“I can walk on my own,” she whispered fiercely.

She made to let go altogether, but he wouldn’t let her. “Nay, Alys—let it seem you still require my help. If I need you to let go, I’ll tell you.”

He turned to Rafe. “Come, we cannot linger here forever.” He added more loudly, “If we don’t bestir ourselves, there will be nothing left for us to eat.”

They’d scarce taken two steps closer to the gates when the silence was broke by a ruckus just on the other side of the wall.

“Sir Padrig,” Peter shouted. “Don’t come in, ’tis a trap!”

Padrig caught Alys by the wrist, tugged her hand loose of his belt and, drawing his sword in one hand and his dagger in the other, spun away from her and raced toward the portal.

Rafe dropped Arian’s reins and took off hard on his heels, the two men covering the distance to the wall in but a few long strides.

The two guards who’d stood waiting in the passageway ran to the gates, each grabbed one of the heavy wooden doors, and began to tug them closed.

Alys caught Arian by the bridle and held the mare steady as she watched.

Padrig on the right, Rafe on the left, they hurtled into the guards, weapons slashing furiously as they pressed their attack.

Several more men rushed out to join the fray, till all Alys could see was a chaotic melee of flashing steel and
flailing limbs. Everyone seemed to be shouting, as were the men who appeared along the wall.

She couldn’t understand a word they were saying, but she knew they were speaking Welsh.

By the saints, the Welsh had taken Winterbrooke!

How dare they, she fumed, letting go of Arian. She gave the mare a slap on the rump, knowing that otherwise, the horse was like to follow close on her heels. Arian didn’t go far, but at least she was less likely to get in the way.

Left hand fumbling at her belt, Alys finally got hold of her eating knife and slid it from its sheath. ’Twas not much, as weapons went, but she could hardly stand by and do nothing while Padrig and Rafe were so outnumbered.

Her knees felt a little unsteady, her stomach roiled, but she pushed herself into motion and began to walk as swiftly as she could toward the fray. Before she reached it, however, the men who’d rushed out to fight abruptly broke away and raced back through the gates.

She halted, waiting to see what would happen next.

Before Padrig and Rafe could stop them or follow them through, they’d jerked the tall doors shut. The loud thud of the bar being dropped into position on the other side sounded loud as thunder in the sudden silence.

Rafe ran up and kicked the massive door, yelping with pain and earning a reproving look from Padrig.

Padrig said something to Rafe. They turned to go. They had nearly made it back to Alys when several archers, bows already drawn, appeared just behind them, up on the wall.

“Archers! Run!” she screamed, turning to do so herself without waiting to see if they obeyed her.

’Twas near impossible to run with one arm bound
tight to her body, but stark fear was a great motivator. She got to Arian just as the first volley of arrows hit, the soft, strange thumping of the arrows sinking into the ground all around them frightening the mare as the clash of steel had not.

Arian ran toward the distant trees. Alys, terrified to provide a target by remaining on her feet, flopped face first onto the grass.

She stayed there, sprawled uncomfortably atop her right arm and muttering vengeful prayers, until she felt Padrig drop down beside her.