Knight's Rebellion

Chapter Two

“Are you certain we are not lost?” Alys asked.

Lord Ranulf started. “Nay, I know exactly where we are. You can trust me to see you safely to our destination, dear Lady Alys.” His smile was patronizing yet smug, as though he knew something she did not.

Above all things, Alys hated lies and secrets. She shifted in the saddle, uneasy, suddenly, with a man she’d dismissed as a harmless fop. “I’ve twice traveled to Newstead, but nothing about this wild country seems familiar.” Not the rugged mountains glaring down at her from on high, nor the black forest crowding close to the narrow road.

“Surely you do not mistrust me.”

“Nay.” There was no reason for Ranulf to deceive her, yet the notion that he hid something persisted. She did not have her great-aunt Cici’s ability to read minds, but with her special healing gift had come an awareness of people’s nature. Her first instinct about Ranulf had been wariness. In her eagerness to leave for Newstead, she’d ignored that vague unease.

Well, her family often warned that someday her impetuous nature and penchant for wanting her own way would get her into trouble. Mayhap it had. Feeling lonely and afraid for the first time in her life, she studied Ranulf.

The raised visor of Ranulf’s helmet shadowed his smooth, pleasant features. Too smooth, mayhap. Ranulf had shown her many faces in the short time since they’d met. The bland one he had on now, the furious mask he’d worn when he’d demanded her father outlaw his rebellious brother, the beguiling face of the flatterer he’d put on for her parents. Who was he, really?

Her stomach clenched, and her palms grew damp inside her gloves. Why had he gone out of his way to escort her?

“I’d not take even the slightest risk of something happening to you,” he said silkily, maneuvering his horse closer to hers.

He sounded as annoyingly protective as her family. That must be what had ruffled her. Not some nefarious intent, but his stifling attitude. “I am not some fragile violet, sir knight. My father is a horse breeder, and I an excellent horsewoman, able to ride long distances even over rough terrain.”

“I am sure you are.” He patted her hand.

Alys flinched and drew away, but an impression filtered in through her protective glove. Something dark and murky. Her own fears or something in him?

“Forgive my forwardness,” Ranulf said stiffly, frowning at her gloved hands.

Alys sighed. “’Tis I who should beg pardon, my lord, and thank you for not peppering me with rude questions about my gloves. The truth is, my skin is very sensitive.”

“Ah. You are wise to protect your delicate self from the elements. And to wear such a modest costume for traveling.” He cast an approving eye over her gray gown and matching cloak.

Made from wool of the cheaper sort, the garment was devoid of fancy trim and cut full to resemble the serviceable robes worn by the nuns. She would be living among them for several months and wanted to dress as they did. Also, she hoped to further some of her experiments with herbal cures. Though her mother had insisted she bring along a few velvets and silks…just in case…Alys had packed her simplest things for this trip.

“I want to thank you again for escorting me,” Alys said. “Especially since I know you must be anxious to return home and begin gathering evidence against your dreadful brother.”

“Not at all. Not at all.” He smiled that eager-puppy smile that had won over her parents when he’d proposed escorting her to the abbey. “I would climb the highest mountain, ford a raging river, to see you safe.”

Alys sighed. Merciful heavens, but his devotion and courtliness were annoying. For several reasons, she’d be glad to reach Newstead and bid her courtier farewell.

“Are you tired, my lady? Should I call a halt?”

“Nay.” Alys straightened in the saddle. She’d not delay the journey even for an instant. “I am fine.”

Lord Ranulf smiled like an indulgent auntie. “You have only to say if you are weary, and we will rest. Or I could take you up before me so you might—”

“Perish the thought!” Alys exclaimed.

Ranulf blinked, his smile faltering for the first time all day. “I assure you I meant no impropriety. I had hoped you looked upon me as a friend anxious to help you.”

What could she say? How could she explain that she’d sell her soul for but one embrace, one hug that wasn’t fraught with tension and apprehension? Alas, it was not to be. “You are a friend,” she said gently. “Had you not offered your help, I’d not be making the journey to Newstead till my. father’s leg was healed or one of my brothers free of responsibility.”

“They value you greatly.” Ranulf smiled and again edged his palfrey so close his mailed leg brushed her skirts. “I would gladly be more to you than a temporary guardian.”

Alys fought the urge to retreat. “What do you mean?”

“I should speak with your lord father first, I know, but we left so quickly there wasn’t time. I’d have you to wife.”

“You what?” she cried.

“I’d wed with you.”

“Oh.” Drat. “I—I am conscious of the honor you do me,” Alys stammered. “But it is not possible.”

He stiffened. “I grant an earl’s daughter could look higher, but I’ve two castles and am engaged in a venture that will yield me wealth beyond your wildest dreams.”

“It isn’t a matter of property or money.”

“Your father said you had the choosing.” He sounded faintly appalled. “Yet you’ve not found a man to your liking.” He grinned. “Till now. We deal well together, I think.”

“I am sorry, Lord Ranulf, but it is impossible.”

His smile developed a hard edge, and his eyes turned cold. “You would change your mind…in time.”

Not in a hundred years. Alys bit her tongue to keep the words back. “We will not have time. We part in a few—”

“I realized that. Which is why I decided we’d detour to visit my castle at Eastham.”

“What?” Alys’s heart raced. “You are kidnapping me?”

“Never!” he exclaimed. “Only giving you a chance to see what kind of life I can offer you.”

“But—” Alys was torn between fear and outrage.

“Milord.” Clive and another man pounded toward them from their places at the head of the column. “Egbert reports there are abandoned wagons up ahead.”

“Why trouble me to report some farmers have deserted their goods?” Ranulf snapped. “Can you not see I am busy?”

“But I think they are your wagons,” said Egbert, a chunky man with a wicked scar across his forehead. “The ones sent to London to fetch the winter supplies.”

“What? Was there evidence of foul play?” Ranulf’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the forest up ahead. “This is far from his usual range, but it may be Gowain.”

Egbert shuddered. “There was no one about. Not the guards sent from Eastham or the wagon drivers.”

“That makes no sense,” Clive muttered. “If Gowain, or some other bandits, had waylaid them, why leave the goods behind?”

“Because they heard us coming and took flight,” Ranulf replied. “Or…” His eyes widened suddenly. “Or they are still—”

A bloodcurdling cry cut off his words. Men sprang from behind the trees and rushed onto the road. They were roughly dressed in tattered tunics and hide boots, some mounted on shaggy horses, the rest afoot. Their weapons glinted in the dimness of the tiny glade. At their head rode a mail-clad warrior, his long black hair flowing from beneath his helmet, his sword aloft.

“Bastard!” Ranulf roared. Drawing his sword, he spurred forward, crying, “Take them. A hundred silver marks to the man who kills the bastard!”

Ranulf’s men surged after him, a great screaming tide of mail and muscle. The two groups met with enough force to shake the ground, then dissolved into knots of men striking at each other with blade and ax and mace. The clash of steel on steel, the shouts of the warriors and the shrieks of the wounded rang off the trees till they filled the air.

Left behind, Alys sat transfixed, her fists clenched so tight her bones ached. She’d seen the men of her family practice on the tiltyard and attended several court tourneys, but never had she imagined real war would be so horrible. She held her breath, watching as Ranulf and his opponent exchanged blows in the center of the chaos.

The focus of the fighting shifted like a restless tide, surging back and forth across the road and into the verge of the forest. Men began to drop from view now, outlaw and soldier alike slipping from sight beneath the dreadful thrust of shimmering steel to the flailing mass of hooves below.

The healer in Alys cried out to aid them. Instinct urged her to flee while she could. If Ranulf won, he’d press his claim for her hand. If the outlaws won, she might be in worse trouble. Either way, she was in grave danger.

Just then, a man crawled out of the fighting. Blood covered the side of his tunic. He held one arm against his body. When he was halfway to her, his strength gave out, and he collapsed in a heap.

Heedless of her own safety, Alys slipped from her mount and moved toward him. Kneeling beside him, she touched his shoulder with her gloved hand. “Let me see where—”

He rolled over, a stained knife clutched in one gory hand.

Alys gasped and jerked back as the blade sliced the air just shy of her ribs. “Hold! I’d tend your wound.”

His pain-filled eyes widened, then softened. “Sister?”

Alys debated for only an instant. If it helped him to trust her, she’d lie and claim to be the nun she obviously resembled. “Aye. I’m Sister Alys. Let me see…”

He flopped onto his back, eyes shut. “I’m done fer, I fear, Sister. If ye could give me the last rites.”

“Let me see.” She parted the bloody rent in his tunic and winced at the long, jagged gash. “It’ll want stitching.” She looked at the mass of fighting men. They surged over the roadway and into the forest, careless of anything in their path in their quest to kill. “We have to get away from here.”

Though he was small, the man was heavier than he looked. She half dragged, half carried, her patient off the road and into the brush, then collapsed panting beside him.

“Sister,” he whispered.

Alys sat up and leaned over him. “I’m here.”

“Promise ye won’t leave me to die alone.”

“I won’t leave you…but neither will I let you die. If I can get the bleeding stopped and the flesh stitched—” She raised her skirts and tore a strip from her chemise. In deference to the cool, damp weather, it was wool, but it was soft and finely woven. She folded it into a pad and pressed it against the wound.

Her patient moaned softly. “Feels like I’m dying.”

Poor man, Alys thought. Then she took a good look at his face. Beneath the dirt and blood, his skin was freckled and hairless as a baby’s. “How old are you?”

“Th-three-and-ten.”

“A child. Who would send a child out to fight?”

“My lord needs every man who can heft a weapon,” he said weakly. “Least with me gone, there’ll one less to feed.”

“Indeed.” Alys was torn between pity and fury. What dire circumstances landed people in such straits? She pressed harder on the pad, then lifted it, pleased to see the wound wasn’t as long as she’d feared. But it was deep. She had needle and thread in the pouch at her waist, but her medicine chest was with her baggage. God alone knew where the carts and horse had gotten to. Wait, there was a small pack of herbs in her saddle pouch. If she could just reach it…

“Stork, I’m called…’count of my long legs,” the boy murmured. “But my real name’s Dickie…Dick of Newton. Just wanted ye to know…fer the prayers. Ye will pray fer me?”

Tears filled Alys’s eyes. “You’re not going to die, Dickie. I’m going to fix you up good as new.” She stood and looked toward the road, suddenly aware that the sounds of battle had faded. Either the trees were masking the noise or the fighting had moved farther away. If she hurried, she might be able to find her horse while it was still relatively safe. “I have to get my medicines.” She placed his hand on the makeshift bandage. “Press here. I’ll be right back.” Alys dashed away. Anxious as she was to return to him, she hesitated at the edge of the woods. A stand of young oaks and gooseberry bushes blocked her view of the road. But she could hear nothing over the thrum of her pulse against her temple. What had happened? Had they wiped each other out?

Parting the brush, Alys looked out onto a scene straight from hell. The bodies of men and horses littered the ground. It seemed no one lived.

“Oh, Sweet Mary have mercy.” Alys crossed herself, then hesitated, reluctant to walk among them. But Dickie would be added to their number if she didn’t act. She lifted her skirts and walked slowly down the edge of the road, trying not to see the details of the horror spread before her while she searched for her horse. There, a few feet into the carnage, she recognized the red-and-black trappings her father’s squire had put on her mount. Was it only this morn? Merciful heaven, but it seemed a lifetime ago.

Alys picked her way to the horse, then knelt and untied the pouch from behind the saddle. As she stood, someone grabbed her from behind, lifting her off the ground and pressing her back against a rock-hard body.

“Who the hell are you?” growled a hard voice.

The question broke through her shock. Alys erupted into action, lashing out with her feet, twisting her body. Her scream was cut off by a wide, callused hand. Instantly she was bombarded by her captor’s emotions. White-hot rage. Dark, seething frustration. Terrified, she whimpered and went limp.

“Bloody hell.” His grip gentled. Remorse now warred with his earlier fury. “I will not hurt you. Swear you’ll not scream again, and I’ll release your mouth.”

Alys managed to nod. When his hand lifted off her lips, she dragged in a lungful of air and tried to steady herself. His skin was no longer touching her skin, linking her with his deeper feelings, but the sizzle of his violent emotions remained. “Please,” she whimpered.

He spun her around to face him, and she got another shock. It was the black-haired man who’d led the attack.

Oh, no! Alys’s knees went weak. She’d have fallen over if he wasn’t holding her upright. He towered over her, his massive chest and wide shoulders straining the links of his mail shirt, his face concealed by a dented helmet.

“You!” he thundered. “You were riding with Ranulf.”

Anger sparked then, and Alys flinched. “I—”

“Sister Alys!” Dickie staggered out of the brush.

The giant released Alys and wheeled around, bringing his sword up. “Stork. What the hell are you doing here?”.

Alys forgot her own fear. Drawing the knife from her belt, she darted between him and the boy. “Get back. Leave him alone.”

“’Tis all right, Sister,” Dickie said. “We are saved. This is Lord Gowain.”

“G-Gowain.” The air left Alys’s lungs in a rush; the knife wavered in her hand and her courage with it.

“Sister Alys?” Gowain raised the visor of his helmet and eyed her skeptically. What she could see of his face, shadowed by his visor, was even less reassuring…glittering dark eyes, roughly chiseled features as stark as the surrounding mountains. “You wield a blade right surely for a nun.”

“I—I was not always one. I—I had brothers who taught me to defend myself,” she stammered, more grateful by the moment for her disguise. If the brigand dared attack Ranulf, what would he do to a mere woman? Doubtless the gown that so resembled a nun’s robe and her healing skills were all that stood between herself and ruin. “Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

“A sentiment I support.”

“Is that meant to justify your unprovoked attack on us?”

“Us?” His mouth thinned. “What are you to Ranulf?”

Alys rued her hasty tongue. “He was my escort.”

“How went the battle, milord?” Dickie asked.

“Well enough. Ranulf fled when the battle turned against him. My horse was cut from under me, but the other lads gave chase,” Gowain replied, his eyes remaining locked on Alys. “Where was he taking you?”

“Newstead Abbey,” Alys replied.

His gaze hardened. “I know that place, but it is many leagues east of here.”

“Aye, well…” She could hardly tell him of Ranulf’s insane notion to wed her. Not and maintain her unanticipated but fortunate guise as a nun. “We became lost.”

“In these woods? Ranulf knows this land right well.”

Drat. “I…I do not know.”

He grunted. “Ranulf only cares for that which profits him. What did he hope to gain by escorting you to Newstead?”

Oh, dear.

“Sister Alys,” Dickie called, weaving unsteadily.

“Dickie.” Alys dropped her knife and reached for the boy. As she wrapped an arm around his back, she fancied she could feel the life draining out of him. Dickie slumped against her, nearly dragging Alys down with him.

Gowain rescued them both by sweeping the boy into his arms before he hit the ground.

“Lay him down right here in the grass and remove his tunic,” Alys ordered. She hurried over to retrieve her knife and pack. When she returned, she found the knight kneeling beside the boy.

“Whatever possessed you to follow us?” Gowain asked. His voice was low, gentle, as he stroked back the boy’s sweaty hair.

“I heard them say how important it was to get the food,” Dickie whispered. “You needed every man.”

“That I did, Stork, but I also needed men to stay behind and watch over the camp. Men I could trust to follow orders.”

“I’m sorry, my lord.” Dickie shivered.

Gowain drew off his mended cloak and laid it over the boy, the gesture surprising and touching. “Just lie still.” He glanced around and glared at Alys. “Damn, I thought you’d run off.”

“I would never leave someone who needs me.” Alys fell to her knees on Dick’s other side.

“You’d be the first, then,” Gowain muttered.

“Sister, am I going to die?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“It hurts.”

“I know.” Alys longed to remove her gloves and touch him, to let the warmth of her flesh soothe him. But if she did, his pain would engulf her and she’d be useless. She stroked his cheek with the backs of her gloved fingers and let all her concern, all her confidence and, aye, all the love she felt for this skinny boy, show in her smile. “Trust in me, Dickie of Newton.”

He smiled. “I do.” His lashes fluttered, then closed.

“He’s fainted, thank God,” Alys said.

Gowain tugged off his worn helmet and tossed it to the ground. Leafy light gleamed dully on sweaty, well-chiseled features, a wide forehead, high cheekbones and a square, cleft chin. His hair, black as a raven feather, curled wetly against his bronzed skin. But it was his eyes that caught and held her. They’d looked black in the shadowed depths of his helmet. Now she saw they were green. A rich, velvety shade of green that reminded her of the forest at night. He might have been counted a handsome man, if not for the coldness in those dark, merciless eyes. Aye, he was all hard angles, a harsh face and remote eyes. Unforgiving. Uncompromising. “Can you save his life, Sister?”

“Aye. I need hot water, clean cloths for washing and—”

“You’ll have to make do without.”

“Do you want him to die?”

A twig snapped behind them. Gowain leapt up, sword in hand, and stood over them, as protective as a wolf defending its mate and cub. The bushes parted, and a mountain of a man stepped out.

“Ah, here you are,” he fairly sang out. “Lang Gib said he’d seen you taking to the forest with a wench, but I could scarcely credit that.” He looked down at Alys and her patient. “Dieu, it’s Stork!” His hand hovered over the boy’s head. “Is he dead?”

“Nay,” Alys replied, touched by his concern. “But he needs immediate care. If you could get me water and—”

“I’ve told you we haven’t time.” Gowain sheathed his sword with an angry motion. “Darcy, rig one of the wagons we captured to carry the wounded. Sister Alys will ride in it and tend them. Be ready to travel in a quarter hour.”

“Sister.” Darcy’s wide face was all smiles. “‘Twas a lucky thing we chanced on you.”

“She was with Ranulf,” Gowain growled, making Darcy’s smile dim. “What happened after my horse faltered? Did you manage to capture the scum?”

“He got clean away, though he left many a dead man behind. Wounded, too.” Darcy sighed. “Damn, I thought you had him.”

“So did I, but he maneuvered me into a corner. I could not take him without killing him.”

“Ranulf deserves to die,” Darcy exclaimed.

“But not by my hand.” Gowain’s jaw tensed. “I’ll not kill my own brother.”

“Aye, well. I expect there’ll come another day when we can take him and stop this.”

“I pray so.” Gowain cursed and ran a hand through his hair. “Damn. It would have saved us so much if we could have captured him and forced him to yield to our demands.” His hand fell to his side, clenched into a tight fist. “Losses?”

“Not bad.” Darcy rattled off the name of one who had died. “We’ve a handful with minor injuries and three others sore hurt…. Mayhap you’d see to them when you finish with Stork, Sister?”

“Certainly. I need hot wá—”

“We’ve no time to tarry,” Gowain said. “Ranulf could return at any time. Bind their hurts as best you can. We’ll see you have what you need when we get to camp.”

“I can’t go with you. I’m needed at New stead.”

His gaze turned icy. “So you said, but Newstead Abbey is miles from here…in the opposite direction from the one in which you were traveling, I might add.”

What could she do but try to bluff? “That’s impossible. Ranulf told me—”

“Then he lied. My dear brother has a way of twisting things to suit himself.”

“He did not lie about you,” Alys snapped.

“What did he say about me?” he asked softly.

“That you robbed, burned and murdered. That you attacked innocent travelers…just as you did us a few moments—”

“Ranulf is no innocent.”

“So you say, but I think—”

“I’ve no time to trade insults with you, Sister.”

“Fine. Give me a horse, then, and I’ll be on my way.”

“And leave the wounded behind to die?” he asked in that silky voice she was coming to hate. “Is that not against the oaths you swore to aid mankind?”

“I did not vow to aid criminals.”

Gowain tsked. “I did not know the church made such distinctions. Are not all men worthy in God’s eyes?”

Alys stiffened. He might be a brigand, but he was a clever-witted one to trap her so. “I could have ridden away when the fighting started,” she said with a calm she didn’t feel. “I stayed to help Dickie, and I will gladly see to the others. All I ask in return is an escort to Newstead when they are well. Is that too much to ask?”