“You may tell your lord that the king’s messenger has need to rest here overnight. My betrothed requires attention. My men will camp wherever space provides.”
Brother Gerald’s expression softened into shock when he saw Evie.
“Where is your dungeon?” Lord Fulk continued. “I have captured a notorious outlaw who must be secured.”
When the monk failed to answer, Lord Fulk’s voice sharpened. “Do you hear me, priest? Where’s your lord?”
The questions spurred Brother Gerald forward. “Forgive me, my lord, I am Brother Gerald,” he said as he trotted down the stairs. “Sir Hugh came under attack some days ago. I’m sorry to report the good knight is dead, along with all but one of his retainers. I came upon the manor after the outlaws left and have done what I could for the poor injured.”
“You travel alone?” Lord Fulk’s eyes narrowed.
“Alas, no. My companions and I were on pilgrimage to Lincoln. We were attacked by outlaws soon after we arrived in England. Most of my party was killed. Only one attendant survived, and a servant who traveled with us from Normandy. The woman is to meet her master in London. The three of us took shelter here from the storms.” He bowed his head. “We must travel with you now, my lord. Our poor, small group is ill equipped to fend off attacks.
Lord Fulk grunted. “A woman, you say? Where?”
“Ah, yes.” The monk flashed a glance toward Evie, his eyes devoid of emotion. “She is…” He paused. “Quite unusual. A Saracen, I believe. Her master is an English lord who lives near Lincoln. When I learned she’d been abandoned, I thought it my duty as a man of God to offer the protection of my small party.”
Evie’s heart sank. He spoke of Geoffra, she knew it. But the lady had not been present when she and Stephen left early this morn. She must have arrived after, but how? She could never travel alone. Who brought her? And where were they?
Brother Gerald’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Strange habits they have, my lord. Refuses to remove her veils for any reason.”
Evie guessed correctly. Geoffra. Did she know her brother was in England and might be in grave danger?
Lord Fulk’s face darkened; his upper lip lifted in a sneer. He must harbor an aversion to Saracens. Not surprising, if he traveled with King Richard on crusade nearly a decade ago.
He answered the monk, but Evie’s attention sought Stephen. The bindings around his ankles had been loosened. Hands still lashed together, he slid off the horse. She gasped. He might strike his head on the ground.
But he staggered enough to break the fall, managing to land on his left shoulder. He lay in the muck, unmoving. Had he lost consciousness, again?
“Who is this prisoner you bring?” asked Brother Gerald.
“A murderer and traitor,” Lord Fulk answered. “Responsible for looting, stealing, and the massacre of innocents.”
The monk sketched the sign of the cross. “A sin against God to be sure. And the others?”
Lord Fulk shrugged. “His men. They’ll all be executed.”
“As they should be,” the other man agreed.
Evie couldn’t believe what she heard. Brother Gerald, one of Stephen’s own band, agreeing to his friends’ deaths? The man refused to look her way.
Then she realized he could say nothing less if he wanted to avoid arrest as well.
He must intend to help the others escape. She’d have to find the chance to speak with him. And Macsen? Had he recovered enough to slip away, or did he yet lie abed with his broken head?
“My lady?” Lord Fulk stood at her stirrup. She’d been so lost in thought she failed to mark his movements. She accepted his proffered assistance from the saddle, ready to slip from his grasp if it lingered over long.
She needn’t have worried. He turned away immediately and ordered his men to secure the prisoners in a windowless structure built against one crumbing wall.
“Search the keep for evidence of a dungeon,” he called to one of his soldiers. Evie recognized the rough-looking man. He’d accompanied the lord on the ship.
She stepped forward. “Have Sir Stephen taken into the hall. I’ll see to his injuries there.”
“He deserves no attention. Certainly not from a lady.” Lord Fulk’s imperious tone rankled. She only hoped he employed it because of his mission and not because of an innate disregard for the feelings of his bride.
Evie intercepted a smirk from one of the soldiers. She glared at the man until he looked away. When he did, she caught a glimpse of his profile.
Impossible. She must be mistaken. Yet that crooked nose remained branded in her mind.
The man had been among her kidnappers.
Her gaze flew back to the place he’d stood and found an unknown face. She sucked in a breath. Curses. Frustration and exhaustion were playing tricks on her vision.
“You look ill, my lady.” Lord Fulk appeared at her side, suddenly full of solicitous care. “Brother, take my betrothed inside to rest. I fear the events of this day have overset her.”
For a moment, Evie thought the same. Then her old determination revived. She was not overset like some insipid child. Yet arguing at this point gained nothing. With a slight bow to Lord Fulk, she followed in Brother Gerald’s wake. But not before she threw one last look over her shoulder. All she saw were two soldiers dragging a limp Stephen toward the undercroft.
She caught up to the monk. “What of Sir Macsen?” she whispered. “Sir Geoffrey?”
The rough brown robe flapped against the holy man’s legs as he climbed the stairs. Oh, why would he not answer? Evie longed to grab the cowl at the back of his neck and pull, to capture attention. Then she heard a soft whisper float back.
“Patience, my lady.”
Evie dragged in a breath. And strove to cultivate the Christian virtue he recommended, so inimical to her nature. She bowed her head and followed.
Fulk watched Lady Evelynn climb the steps to the hall. She’d been allowed too much freedom and as a result had developed an independence unbecoming a lady, but he’d set her straight after they wed. She was a beauty. He’d appreciate having her in his hall and in his bed. Thinking of her spirit, he almost smiled. Bed was the perfect place for her to demonstrate it.
He gestured with his head for Simon to follow and stalked toward the stables. His second in command trotted over.
“Notify me immediately when Rauf arrives,” Fulk ordered. “And make sure he stays out of the lady’s sight. None of the men who survived that mission are to show their faces until Westminster.”
It was past dark when Rauf rode in. Fulk received him in the stables.
“Explain once more what in the fires of hell possessed you to exceed my commands.”
Rauf’s eyes took on a wary cast, and well they might. Few men survived such a colossal failure as that ill-advised attack. Thank God he’d been on the road when Simon found him with news of the Phoenix’ capture.
Premature news, since the man escaped. Too bad Simon hadn’t known that when he rushed back to London to alert Fulk.
Fulk had yet to deal with the remaining members of the band. He never should have relied on the untried help cobbled together at a port like Shoreham.
And Simon should never have left them in the charge of this quaking mound.
“But my lord, we been following him since Normandy,” the quaking mound said. “You said make sure he didn’t escape.”
“I told you to follow him, not attack. Why did you disregard orders?”
Sweat shone on Rauf’s forehead. He swiped the back of his hand across it, shifting from foot to foot.
“The old man at the manor. I didn’t like him,” he muttered. His eyes flicked toward the back wall, then to the floor.
Arms folded, Fulk stared at him.
Rauf cleared his throat. “Well, when the lady and her people left, I thought we’d come back and teach him better manners. Things got a mite out of hand, with all them being so old. But nobody was left to say who’s to blame.”
“Your ‘things’ got a mite out of hand, indeed. Do you have anything to show for it?”
“I got this.” His beady eyes glittered as he pulled out a dagger with an unusual thin, black blade. Turning the grip out, he shoved it toward Fulk. Three curves marked the handle. The sign of the Phoenix.
“Where?”
“From that wounded guard they left behind.”
Fulk skimmed his fingers along the hilt. One side of his mouth curled up. Here was proof, if he needed more, which he didn’t. The documents waiting at his lodgings confirmed the identity of the man who’d hounded him for much too long.
Rauf rubbed his wide, tipped-up nose and watched expectantly, but he hadn’t answered the question. Fulk stashed the blade in his belt and waited.
Clearing his throat again, Rauf said, “Seeing that you was wanting the Phoenix, I thought my bringing him would please you. But when we went to get him, he’d left the group.”
“And the lady?”
In the dim light of the stables, the other man’s pallor showed. “I swear I didn’t know you was betrothed to her. I thought since she’d been traveling with the one you did want, she’d have information. You didn’t tell us you was to wed nobody.”
“You disobeyed me because you
thought
.” Fulk paced to the wall and back before looking at the other man. Rauf lied. Simon likely knew Lady Evelynn’s identity but chose to ignore it because of greed.
“I’m sorry, my lord.” Rauf’s breath was coming fast now, his head sinking into his shoulders.
Fulk crossed his arms again. “Get out.” Rauf shivered and backed away as if he feared his lord would plant that dagger in him. He passed Simon on the way.
“Will you let him live?” Simon asked.
“For now. Choose some men who can’t be identified and take the prisoners back to London. I’ll go on ahead. The message from John may have arrived. And for the love of God, treat Lady Evelynn with courtesy. I can’t have her seeing things she’ll tell her brother. That’s one connection I want.”
He grabbed a bulky bag from a stall corner. “Here. Make sure this is lashed safely on my pack animal. Now, let me see who’s taken refuge in the hall.”
Stephen couldn’t move. His right arm stretched above his head at what looked to be a painful angle, but he had no sensation in it. Nor in the rest of his body.
When he struggled to sit, feeling returned with vengeance. He bit back a groan. Leaning his head against the rough stone wall, he squinted into the dim interior of his prison. The space looked vaguely familiar. Then it hit him. This was an undercroft, a storage area beneath the manor. Sir Hugh’s, no doubt. Looked like the original inhabitant prepared for enemies, what with the manacles embedded in the wall. At least only one of his wrists had been fastened.
He blinked, and realized his eyes opened. Not fully, but he saw. God be praised. Of any injury, he dreaded losing sight. He sucked in a steadying breath and hissed it out through clenched teeth.
His head pounded. His stomach roiled. His shoulder throbbed, and his numb arm began to prickle with needle points as it came to life. The discomfort reassured Stephen; his wounds posed no lasting threat. As injuries went, these were mild.
In the silence, he heard no breath but his own, no rustle of movement signaling the presence of others. He squinted into the deep shadows further into the storage area. Where were the men? They must be secured nearby, provided Lord Fulk hadn’t already killed them.
Had Macsen managed to escape? His friend couldn’t stand without dizziness when Stephen left this morning. If not, between them, Macsen and Brother Gerald could devise a story the king’s man would accept. D’Ambrosie gave no sign he possessed names other that Stephen’s. And the lord wouldn’t chance appearing less than heroic before Evie.
He gave a frustrated tug on his chain. Suspicious as he was of Evie’s betrothed, he had no proof the man was other than he said, an envoy for the prince. Still, instinct warned him Fulk d’Ambrosie was as false as his smile. Had his presence in the same port town truly been coincidental? Stephen learned long ago that few things in life proved coincidental.
If only he could find some particle of evidence to link the man to the Dragon.
Geoffrey! Stephen’s eyes flew wide, and he winced at the residual tenderness.
His brother had been recognized weeks ago. Had the Dragon managed to send word connecting him to the Phoenix? Christ in chains!
Macsen, Brother Gerald, and Geoffrey. Three of the most important members of the Brotherhood, all here. Vulnerable to John’s justice.
Come to think on it, just what information did d’Ambrosie possess? Something fabricated, linking Stephen and the others to a trail of robberies and attacks these past weeks. Raids conducted by the Dragon’s men.
But did the information name those responsible for the crimes as the Brotherhood of the Phoenix? Or were they only identified as general enemies of the crown?
The clatter of hooves sounded on the other side of the wall. Stretching as far as possible, Stephen tried to glimpse the activity in the bailey. More riders, it looked like. Reinforcements. For whom? The rest of his men weren’t expected before the coronation, unless proof of the Dragon’s identity had surfaced. From the shouts and laughter, he gathered the newcomers were known to d’Ambrosie.
Stephen edged back against the wall, shifted again to find a measure of ease, and forced his eyes shut. He must rest, be ready for opportunity when it appeared.
****
Inside the hall, Evie sat on a bench near Macsen. She’d been weak with relief when she entered the hall to find him slouched in a corner. At the other side of the chamber, Lord Fulk spoke with two of the men who just arrived. She didn’t like the way one of them kept glancing toward Macsen, who had been tied and shoved to the floor.
She’d had no chance to speak with him at length, but in a quick whispered exchange, he assured her the wound healed.
Lord Fulk ordered her to remain where she sat, for her own safety, he insisted. Marie had been allowed to stay at her side. The girl made no sound as she clenched her fists together in her lap. Davy had been placed in the small hut with the others of their guard. As far as Evie knew, no one had been hurt. Except Stephen.