“May I fetch you something else to drink?” he asked, gesturing toward the cup which had tilted and was spilling onto the ground at her feet.
“No, I am not thirsty. I thank you for the offer, though.” Will was one of the few men in their party who was wearing his hauberk; Salisbury and most of the others had shed their chain-mail as the sun rose higher in the sky, loading them onto one of the packhorses. Studying Will now, Eleanor asked, “Are you not hot in that armor? I never did understand how men could abide hauberks in the heat of the Holy Land.”
“They wore tabards over their hauberks to shield them from the worst of the sun.” No sooner had Will spoken than he cursed himself for a clumsy fool. Here he was, instructing the queen about crusading warfare when she’d been there to see it for herself, which was more than he could say. He would have loved to discuss her experiences with her, to hear her firsthand account of the disastrous Second Crusade, but a queen could not be prompted or, worse, interrogated. “These are not the most comfortable garments,” he admitted. “But I’ve gotten used to the weight by now and—”
He cut himself off so abruptly and oddly that Eleanor frowned. “Will? Is something amiss?”
“No . . . probably not.” He was still staring intently toward the horizon even as he gave her a sheepish smile. “It was just that I thought I saw something in that grove of trees up ahead, like the flash of sunlight hitting a hauberk or sword . . .” He shifted to get another look, and then drew an audible breath.
“Uncle!” Whirling, he shouted to Salisbury, “Men-at-arms in those woods!”
Salisbury trusted Will’s judgment enough to take the warning as gospel. Scrambling to his feet, he headed for the packhorse holding their armor. Eleanor had responded just as swiftly, and she had reason now to be thankful for Will Marshal’s coolness under fire. She was reaching for her mare’s reins when he shook his head.
“No, take my horse. You can ride faster astride.”
She at once saw the sense in that, for sidesaddles were not meant for flight. Within seconds, he’d assisted her up onto his stallion and was running toward Renée. Jordan had kept his head, too, and was already swinging up into the saddle. All around them, men were racing to reclaim their chain-mail or to mount their startled horses, cursing as the animals shied away. But by then their foes had realized their ambush had been discovered and they were spurring their stallions out onto the road.
“Madame, go! We’ll hold them here!” Salisbury paused only long enough to make sure Eleanor was heeding him before swinging back toward the plunging packhorse. Appalled that he’d let himself be taken unaware like this, as if he were a raw stripling, he was relieved to see the queen send her horse across the field at a dead run, with Jordan and Renée following behind. His nephew had caught the closest horse and leaped into the saddle, sword in hand. Their assailants were splitting into two bands, one group of horsemen peeling off in pursuit of Eleanor, the other intent upon eliminating her defenders as quickly as possible.
“After them, Will!” Salisbury roared a command that was not needed, for Will was already racing to intercept the queen’s pursuers. Christ, there were so many of them! Salisbury fumbled hastily for his hauberk, but even as he struggled to pull it over his head, he ran out of time. He was bitterly aware of how badly he’d failed his queen, but he never saw the weapon that claimed his life, a hunting spear flung with deadly accuracy, burying itself in the small of his back.
Will had sent his stallion crashing into the closest of the queen’s pursuers. As the man’s horse foundered, Will drove his sword into that unprotected area under the armpit, then pulled the blade free in a spray of crimson. To his left, he saw a familiar figure, one of his uncle’s knights, closing fast on a man astride a screaming bay stallion. Sir Roger swung a spiked mace in a lethal arc, smashing into bone and ripping away flesh. Will spurred his stallion after a knight wearing a kettle-shaped helmet without a nasal guard. Drawing alongside, he parried the other’s thrust, then used his shield to club the man from the saddle; there was no time for finesse, for any of the skillful swordplay he’d learned as a squire to the Chamberlain of Normandy. He glanced over his shoulder, could not find Sir Roger in the mêlée. That distracted moment was to cost him dearly, giving one of his foes the chance to kill his horse.
As the stallion stumbled, Will kicked his spurs free of the stirrups before it went down, and hit the ground rolling. Regaining his feet, he was almost trampled by a man on a lathered bay. He was hopelessly outnumbered by now, stranded in the midst of his enemies. Retreating toward a thorny hedgerow that would offer some protection to his back, he blinked sweat from his eyes, tasting his own blood on his tongue. Swords drawn, they feinted and dodged, cursing him freely. But they kept out of range of Will’s gory sword. By the time he realized what they were up to, it was too late. There was movement in the hedgerow behind him, a blade slashing through the branches. Pain seared up Will’s thigh. His strength draining away in a gush of blood, he wobbled and then sank to his knees, still clutching his sword even as they closed in.
HER ESCORT’S HEROIC EFFORTS had given Eleanor the time she needed to reach the woods. She checked the stallion just long enough for Jordan and Renée to catch up to her. If they were found, it would mean Jordan’s death, for she knew he’d never stand by helplessly and let her be taken, not even if she ordered him to yield. Renée would likely be ransomed—eventually—but she was far too pretty to be unmolested. As for her own fate, she knew how great a prize she’d be. The fools thought Harry would pawn Heaven and earth to secure her release. She preferred not to put his devotion to the test. Moreover, she could not be sure that she’d be luckier than Renée. Men desperate enough to capture a queen might well be careless of the conventions of warfare, the dictates of honor. And if her suspicions were right about the identity of her assailants, they could have taught the Devil himself about sin.
There was no time to explain herself. Jordan and Renée would have to take her on trust. As Will’s stallion had outdistanced his pursuers, her brain had been racing, too, weighing her options. Even if they could elude these men, they were too far from Poitiers, would never make it back. Thank the Blessed Lady Mary that these were her lands! She’d grown up here, hunted as a girl in these woods, knew the roads and rivers and trails as well as any poacher. Their only possible refuge was the castle at Lusignan. But a return to the Poitiers Road would be madness, would result in their capture straightaway.
Jordan’s face was flushed with exertion; he was no longer in the prime of youth. Renée was perching precariously on her sidesaddle and Eleanor spared a moment to damn the fools who’d decreed that women should not ride astride. Renée’s veil and wimple were gone, ripped off by an overhanging branch, and there was a smear of blood on her cheek. Eleanor knew, though, that the girl had courage. She’d need it; they all would. She gestured silently to her left and turned her stallion in that direction. Jordan and Renée exchanged baffled looks, but they followed after her without hesitation.
It was slow going. Like threading a needle, Eleanor thought, and she’d never been one for ladylike pastimes. A laugh welled up in the back of her throat and she quickly suppressed it, recognizing the symptoms, for this was not the first time she’d faced physical danger. Fear could breed an odd sort of excitement, an emotional rush that had something of the giddiness and caprice usually bottled in wine casks. She ducked under a jutting tree limb, but not in time; it snagged her veil. They were leaving a trail a blind man could follow, but that was the least of her worries at the moment. If her memories were false, they’d be ridden down soon enough, anyway. She resolutely refused to dwell upon that possibility, and soon thereafter her faith was rewarded by the glimpse of a familiar oak tree, splintered and seared by lightning, towering above the spring greenery like a pale, timbered tomb. This time Eleanor did not stifle her laugh. Beckoning to Jordan and Renée, she forged ahead and within moments had emerged onto a woodland path, narrow and winding, but to Eleanor as welcome a sight as the widest of the king’s highways.
The wind carried to them the distant sounds of male voices, hunters tracking their quarry with too much confidence for stealth. She could understand their cockiness, their certainty that she’d soon be so mired down in the heavy brush that she’d be easily overtaken. They would stumble onto the path, too, but she knew she was less than a mile now from safety. The odds were even, and she’d never asked for more than that.
The ground was too irregular to let their horses run full out. They urged the animals forward as fast as they dared, and suddenly the woodland canopy blocking the sun was gone and they were emerging into a blaze of light. The Vonne’s placid surface gleamed like a polished looking glass, and shimmering ahead in the heat was the hilltop town of Lusignan. It lay in a horseshoe curve of the river, and Eleanor felt a grudging admiration for her husband’s military skills; the castle looked well nigh invincible and yet Harry had taken it in less than a week.
“Listen to me,” she told her companions. “I suspect there are men in hiding, watching for our approach. I’d wager my chances of salvation that the de Lusignans are the ones on our trail. If I’m right, they’ll have remembered that this forest track cuts through the woods to the castle. By now they’ll have sent scouts to wait for us. They’ll be out of sight, not wanting to alert the garrison. But as soon as they see us, they’ll have nothing left to lose.”
Jordan’s beard and hair were incongruously seeded with flecks of torn foliage, but his smile never faltered. “So it’s a race, is it?” he said, and Eleanor nodded. Renée was ashen. She offered a smile, too, though, or at least a game imitation of one, and Eleanor gave her an encouraging look, then assured them there was a shallow ford just ahead.
Leaving the cover of the woods, they had gone only a short distance before horsemen came bursting out of hiding, closer than Eleanor had expected. Giving Will’s stallion his head, she raced for the river. He slackened speed only slightly as he splashed down the bank, and she blessed the young knight’s foresight; her own mare was skittish around water. She heard a choked scream from Renée, but the girl was on her own now; they all were.
Risking a glance over her shoulder, she was sorry she had, for their pursuers were only a few yards behind. A spear struck the water to her right. If that was an attempt to intimidate her into giving up, it was a waste of good weaponry. As her stallion scrambled to shore, a flock of arrows flew over her head, but these shafts had been launched from the walls of the castle. She could see faces peering over the battlements and she opened her mouth to demand entry, but there was no need. A postern gate was opening. She asked her stallion for one final burst of speed and he surged forward, galloping through the gate into the bailey.
Reining him in, she turned in the saddle, just in time to see the gate slamming shut behind Jordan and Renée. Men were crowding around her, shouting questions, asking if she’d been attacked by bandits, if there were others in danger, any deaths. Eleanor waited until she got her breath back, and by then, someone recognized her. An incredulous cry went up: “The queen!”
Hands reached up to her and she slid from the saddle. The faces surrounding her were so alarmed, so solicitous that she thought she must look like the Wrath of God. Jordan shoved his way toward her, a supportive arm around a stumbling Renée. If she was as disheveled and wet and dirtied as they were, no wonder these men were staring at her as if doubting their own senses. “Where is your castellan?” She was still somewhat breathless but pleased by the level tones of her voice.
“Madame!” A path was clearing for him. He was one of her husband’s handpicked constables. She could only hope that he was as capable as Harry thought him to be, for there was no time to lose. Stilling his questions with an upraised hand, she told him, as concisely and quickly as possible, what had happened and her belief that the de Lusignans were the ones behind the ambush. He at once put the castle on a war watch in the unlikely event that the de Lusignans should launch an attack upon Lusignan itself. He then led the rescue mission himself and that, too, won him favor with Eleanor. Only then did she let them escort her into the hall.
Renée gratefully accepted the assistance of the castellan’s wife, but Eleanor declined. She had her share of vanity, as most beautiful women do, but washing her face or tending to scratches and bruises seemed of small matter, as long as the fate of her men remained unknown. It was only when she noticed that her skirt was ripped from waist to hem that she agreed to change into clothes provided by the Lady Emma. As soon as possible, she returned to the great hall, where she interrogated the garrison until she found a man who seemed reliable and dispatched him to Poitiers with a terse letter in her own hand. After that, there was nothing she could do but wait.
The two hours they were gone seemed interminable to Eleanor. Jordan and a still visibly shaken Renée had joined her vigil by now. Unfortunately, so had the Lady Emma, and in no time at all, she was rubbing Eleanor’s nerves raw with her well-meaning, smothering attentions.
Eleanor understood her agitation, even her compulsive need to play the lady of the manor, offering every hospitality to England’s queen, Aquitaine’s duchess. But the last thing she wanted was to commiserate with Emma about “the outrage,” as the castellan’s wife kept calling it. Jordan finally took Emma aside and, as politely as possible, explained that the queen had faced down bandits before. She had been in a caravan attacked by the Saracens; she had thwarted several attempts at abduction by would-be suitors; her ship had even been captured by the fleet of the Emperor of Byzantium, rescued in the nick of time by the King of Sicily’s galleys. Emma listened, openmouthed, to this recital. Agreeing meekly that the queen’s earlier experiences were indeed more harrowing than this encounter with the de Lusignans, she promised to say no more of the unfortunate events of the day, at least not in the queen’s hearing. Jordan sighed with relief, grateful that he’d averted bloodshed at least once today.