Knight's Rebellion

Chapter Three

“You were rude to Sister Alys,” Darcy said when they were well away from the scene of the battle.

“I have greater worries than hurting the feelings of a spoiled, prideful nun,” Gowain growled, his mind on the perilous journey to safety. They rode at the head of the swiftly moving column, with a rear guard as well as men afoot to sweep away traces of their passage. It had taken time and work, but his rebel band ran as smoothly as the king’s army in France.

“She is uncommonly beautiful for a nun.”

“I did not notice.” But he had. He could still recall the feel of her small, slender body against his. His nerves still tingled from the spark that had passed between them. One instant he’d been furious with her, the next, swept by desire. Jesu, he was truly a lost cause if he lusted after a nun. And one who might well be in league with Ranulf.

And yet. She had the softest eyes he’d ever seen. Large, expressive blue eyes so dark they’d appeared black in the dim forest glade where she’d tended Stork, Sim and Martin.

“We are fortunate she was there, else we’d have lost three good men,” Darcy said.

Gowain grunted. She had spared him the terrible weight of Stork’s death, yet he didn’t want to be in her debt. In the brief few moments they’d been together, she’d made him feel things he didn’t want to feel. Especially for a nun.

“Curious she is not wed.” When Gowain refused to be drawn in, Darcy went on. “Though she is one of the most comely women I’ve seen, she is not a tender young maid, I think. No girl would have such fire. How old would you judge her to be?”

“Why, thinking of bedding her?” Gowain asked nastily.

“Of course not I did but speculate.”

“Cease prattling about her and speculate instead on whether what we took today is enough for our purpose.” Word that a trio of supply wagons moved along the road toward Eastham had prompted Gowain to risk a daylight raid. The guards and drivers had abandoned their cargo and fled into the woods without a fight.

“We hadn’t the time to examine everything,” Darcy said. “But I saw sacks of beans and flour, which we sorely need, two kegs of ale and several of salted beef.” He patted his belly. “’Twill be good indeed to eat something besides root soup.”

“Welcome as the food is, I’d rather we had taken Ranulf.” Gowain’s hand tightened on the reins. “Then we could stop living like hunted animals.”

“Soon,” Darcy said gently. “This haul brings us that much closer to making our move against him.”

“Aye.” But the knowledge that it would soon be over, one way or the other, brought little solace. Thus far, he and his men had fought defensively, to stay alive, to free those oppressed by Ranulf and to get food with which to feed them. The next step was a huge one. The taking of Malpas Keep itself. The battle required careful strategy and superb timing. “But even if all goes according to plan, we still may suffer heavy casualties.”

“The men know that. They are prepared to sacrifice—”

“Well, I am not,” Gowain exclaimed, thinking of Stork and the others, possibly bleeding to death in the wagon because a delay might cost more lives. “Jesu, do you think I want to buy back my estate with their blood?”

“It is not just your lands we fight for,” Darcy reminded him. “It is our very lives. We could not last the winter without food and better shelter. Nor can we provide for the increasing numbers who flee from Ranulf’s tyranny. The people who’ve joined us are nearly more desperate than we are.” He paused a moment, considering Gowain’s unyielding posture.” “If only the king would grant your request for a hearing.”

“King Richard has no time for dispossessed men such as we,” Gowain said bitterly. “He’s too busy granting grand titles to his favorites to even respond to my letter.” It had been sent by a priest a week after Gowain took to the woods. Father Bassett had assured him the letter was handed to the court functionary, yet no word had come from London.

“Then we must look to ourselves and take back that which Ranulf has stolen from all of us,” Darcy said firmly.

“Aye, we must.” And God save us all. “I will ride back along the line and see how the men fare,” Gowain said, as much because it was his way to check on things himself as because he was restless with the dozens of worries that beset him.

The pair who rode directly behind him were seasoned veterans who’d followed him from France. Despite long hours in the saddle, Robert Lakely and Jean de Braise sat tall and alert, ready to spring into action at any sign of trouble. Seeing Gowain change direction, they moved to accompany him.

“Keep your places,” Gowain said. “I’ll be right back.”

“I’d go with you, just in case there is trouble,” said Jean, older than Lakely and prone to pessimism.

“I’d have you here, for that reason,” Gowain replied and headed down the column. He nodded to the men he passed, noting keenly the condition of each. His soldiers had borne the brunt of both the attack on the wagons and the skirmish with Ranulf’s men, yet the farmers and tradesmen turned warrior looked the most haggard. A few sported red splotches on their rough tunics.

Arthur Jenkins was by far the worst, bent over and wavering slightly in his saddle. “Not far, now, Arthur,” he called. “Can you make it, or would you ride in the wagon?”

“Nay. I think my arm’s broke, and the wagon’d jostle it worse than my horse does,” he said through lips gone white.

Gowain’s jaw tightened with suppressed fury…against Ranulf, King Richard and even God. These good people did not deserve the suffering that life had thrust upon them. Damn, but he wished he could find a way to take Malpas without their help.

When he came abreast of the middle wagon driven by Henry Denys, Gowain turned to ride with it. “How goes it?”

Henry shrugged and jerked his head toward the back of the wagon. “Better ask my brother. I’ve been that busy trying to avoid the worst of the ruts.”

Ralph Denys sat in the back of the wagon, arms folded over his chest, dour gaze fixed on the nun ministering to her patients. “Nobody’s died…yet,” he muttered.

A sigh of relief hissed through Gowain’s teeth, and he moved a bit closer. “Sister, you have saved—”

“No thanks to you.” Her eyes were not soft or gentle, now, but blazed like hot coals in her ashen face.

Gowain drew back, the praise he’d been about to offer catching in his throat. “I do not answer to you.”

“And you can be grateful for that. If you were my father’s man, he’d whip you raw for such callous disregard of human life.”

“Would he, now?” Gowain’s eyes narrowed, studying the regal tilt of her head. “And who might your illustrious sire be?”

She blinked, then lowered her lashes, effectively shielding her eyes. “No one you would know.”

“Ah. But I might have heard of him.”

“Not all men’s names are whispered about like an ill wind.”

“I long ago ceased to care what others said of me.” He gathered the reins to leave.

“Wait.” She stretched out a hand to him, and he noted she yet wore her gloves, stained from her night’s labors. Odd she should keep her hands covered, for the air was not that chilled. “How much farther to your camp?”

“A mile, no more,” he said curtly.

She nodded and fell back on her haunches beside Stork. “Good. Send ahead and bid them heat water. I will also need bandages…clean bandages,” she added, eyeing his filthy tunic.

“You are adept at issuing orders, Sister.”

“And you slow to follow them,” she snapped. Her raised chin and contemptuous expression clearly showed her willfulness. “If you do not value their lives, think how hard it may be to replace them with other boys willing to follow you into battle.”

“On the contrary, Sister,” Gowain said icily, straining to contain a temper he usually had no trouble controlling. “It is easy to find boys who will fight for me. The water will be waiting.” He spurred his horse forward so swiftly a cry went up.

“Are we attacked?” Henry called as he passed the wagon.

“Nay.” But he was beset by a sharp-tongued shrew of a nun. He’d thought Blanche haughty, but this one left her in the shade. He wanted her gone, wished he could send her on to Newstead. If she was in league with Ranulf, however, she’d quickly tell his half brother about the size of Gowain’s force and location of his camp. Gowain could not afford to take that chance.

Nor could he be without a healer till the wounded recovered. None of the other women in camp had her skill. Much as he hated to need anyone, he needed the nun.

“We’re here, Sister.” Henry halted the wagon.

Alys shifted on her numb knees. The forest through which they’d traveled most of the night still surrounded them on three sides. Ahead lay a ridge of jagged mountain peaks. Set out against the gray sky of early dawn, they seemed to growl at the heavens like the teeth of some great, defiant monster. What a bleak, fitting place for an outlaw band, yet she saw no tents or lean-tos. “Surely you do not live in the open.”

He chuckled, revealing broken teeth set in a face as craggy as the mountains. “Nay. Camp is up there wi’ the crows.”

Alys tipped her head back and looked where he pointed. “All I see are stone and sky.”

“Aye. ‘Tis what’s made it nigh impossible for Ranulf the Cruel to find us. There’s caves up there, the entrance hidden well back among the rocks. The trail’s narrow, tricky as hell…er, if ye’ll pardon my speech, Sister…and well guarded. Even if Ranulf did find it, he’d not drag us out in a hundred years.”

Alys groaned faintly. She’d hoped Gowain’s camp would be in the forest, so that she might slip away into the trees and escape. Once trapped in the mountain, how would she ever get out?

Her throat constricted as the enormity of her situation truly sank in. She was the prisoner of a vicious outlaw, protected only by her habit and his necessity. Had Stork not assumed she was a nun, had they not needed her to keep the men alive, she’d be dead, or worse….

What would happen if they discovered she wasn’t a nun?

Alys clasped her arms around her shivering body and struggled to stay calm. There had to be a way out. She’d keep her wits calm and her eyes open for a chance to steal a horse and ride off. Better to be lost in the woods than to be the prisoner of such as these. Mayhap she could find her way to Eastham and Ranulf.

Ranulf, of course.

Alys nearly laughed aloud in relief. Ranulf had wanted to wed her. Surely he would not leave her to the outlaws’ mercy. He’d either send trackers to follow them to this hideout, or ride to Ransford for her family. Once it was known she’d been taken prisoner, they’d come to rescue her. If her father couldn’t sit a horse, he’d send for her uncles, Ruarke and Alexander, and her cousin Jamie, hero of the wars against the French.

“I thought you were anxious to see the wounded cared for,” growled the object of her thoughts. Gowain had dismounted and stood beside the wagon, eyes glaring a challenge from deep within the dark sockets of his helmet. Behind him, his crew of thieves busily transferred the stolen goods from the wagons to packhorses. They worked briskly and efficiently, doubtless with the skill of long practice.

“Come, I will take you up with me,” Gowain said, holding out his mailed hand.

“I prefer the wagon, thank you,” she said coldly.

“The wagons are going to a farm nearby, where…”

“From which you doubtless stole them.”

“What I steal, I generally keep. The wagons are mine. The farmer stores them and the horses for me betweentimes.”

“Between raids. What of the wounded? Do they walk?”

“Nay. We’ll carry them up on litters. ‘Tis a long hike, and I but thought you’d be weary after your long night.” He shrugged, as though the matter were unimportant. “Suit yourself, but don’t fall behind.”

Pride kept Alys from calling him back. She rued it during the long walk up the mountain. Her low riding boots were soft-soled, and the stones bit through the leather. Blisters sprang up on her heels and toes; her muscles, cramped and bruised from jolting about all night, screamed with every step. It took all her will and concentration to keep moving. Soon even the men carrying the wounded had outdistanced her.

“Hoping to fall back and escape?” demanded a familiar voice.

Alys spun, and would have fallen if Gowain’s hard hand hadn’t reached out and grabbed her arm. Though three layers of wool clothes separated her from his touch, the contact sent a sizzle across her skin, raising gooseflesh in its wake. It was not his anger or annoyance. What was this strange sensation?

He felt it, too. His nostrils flared, and his eyes widened, then narrowed. “What the hell?” he whispered. His gaze moved over her. Some emotion she couldn’t name flared his eyes so that the green burned bright. “Dieu, surely I am cursed,” he spat, dropping her arm and severing the connection.

Alys exhaled sharply. What had happened? She hadn’t felt his emotions, not exactly. This was like nothing she’d experienced before. “What…Where is your horse?” she asked lamely.

“Why do you wish to know?”

“I…I do not care where he is.” She tossed her head, fractious and confused. “You had offered me a ride, yet—”

“I felt the urge to stretch my legs.” He executed a bow that would have done a courtier proud, if not for the cynical twist of his mouth. “After you…Sister.”

Alys picked up her skirts, took a step and winced.

“Have you hurt yourself?”

“My boots are soft and not made for walking.”

“Like their owner, no doubt.” Before she guessed what he was about, he knelt and tugged at the hem of her skirt.

“Nay.” Alys tried to jerk free, but he held her fast.

“Show me your foot.”

“Nay.” She wore woolen hose, but it might not protect her from his touch.

“Your modesty is ill placed. Stick out your foot.”

“I do not want you to touch me.”

His expression hardened. “I have yet to stoop to ravishing nuns,” he snapped. “I am trying to help.”

“A first, I am sure.”

Gowain stood in a swift, lithe movement. “I’ve no time to bandy words with a spoiled nun. We must be inside the caves, and quickly, lest we’re spotted.” He swept her off her feet.

“Oh!” Alys waited to be rushed by his emotions, but felt only the sinewy strength of his arms around her back and under her knees, the thunder of his heart against her ribs. Yet, beyond those ordinary things, she sensed power held in check, feelings blanketed by rigid control. The realization that he was able to hide from her was more frightening. “Put me down! How dare you!”

He tightened his grip on her. “Stop wriggling, or we’ll both fall down the side of the mountain.”

Alys glanced over his shoulder at the treetops, far, far below them and stopped struggling, but the feeling of being surrounded by some terrible force persisted. She’d seen a tree once, struck by lighting. It had simply exploded from the inside out and burst into flames. Now she understood why.

“Relax. I won’t drop you.” His breath fanned her forehead, warm and soft.

“I…I am not used to being handled so.” Was that her voice? She sounded breathless and faint.

“You are the first nun I’ve carried, also. ‘Tis a bit… disconcerting. Aye, that must be it,” he added, so low she barely heard the words.

“It, what?” Talking eased her, gave her something else to concentrate on besides him and the feelings he concealed.

“Nothing.” He climbed steadily despite her weight. “How old were you when you felt the calling to be a nun?”

“Thirteen,” she said without thinking, for that was when her life had changed…and not for the better.

“Ah. I am told females do irrational things at that time.”

“Irrational! What is irrational about taking the veil?”

“Nothing, if you are suited to it. Which you are not.”

“You are an expert in such matters?”

“I know women,” he said with a contempt that grated.

“I am sure you do…and all of the low sort.”

“Tsk, tsk. Did not Christ have compassion for them? Why did you wish to become a nun?”

“Because…because I wished to serve God.” Oh, how the lie stuck in her throat. Forgive me, but I have no other choice.

“Ah. There are far too many who enter the church to avoid marriage rather than because they have a true calling.”

That stung. “I’m pleased you approve.”

“I do not.” He shifted her, ducking as he stepped forward. Instantly the dark swallowed them up. He set her on her feet, but surprised her by keeping an arm protectively around her back to steady her.

Alys instinctively braced a hand on his chest. Beneath the iron links of his mail, she felt the pounding of his heart. It raced a bit, matching her own pulse. Why this sense of connection with him, of all people? “Where are the others?”

“They are forbidden to come to the entrance lest any be spotted from below.” His low voice echoed faintly off unseen stone walls. “I but wait for my eyes to adjust to the darkness.”

Alys stood perfectly still, senses straining to pick up clues to what lay ahead. From farther inside the caves, she heard distant scurrying sounds and muted voices as the outlaws settled their stolen goods. Yet she was more keenly aware of the man towering over her in the gloom. The rasp of his breathing reminded her of the steep climb he’d made, burdened by her weight. And that on top of a fierce battle and a long ride.

If she was exhausted, he must be doubly so. She looked up, measuring him in the faint light. She’d not realized before how large he was, taller even than her father and brothers, his mended mail seemingly stretched to accommodate his powerful frame and bulging muscles. She’d been a fool to chafe at him. A shiver worked its way down her spine.

“Come. You grow chilled.” He raised a hand to take her arm, then dropped it when she shied away.

Her eyes must be used to the dimness, for she saw the bitter twist of his lips. It is not your fault, but mine, she wanted to tell him. Though why she should care, she didn’t know.

“Hang on to my cloak or my belt, then,” he said gruffly. “The way is rough and twisting. I’d not want you to trip and break your neck till I’m certain my men are like to live.”

“Thank you for reminding me of my worth.” She stumbled along behind with her hand clutched on his cloak.

“I’m a plain-speaking man.” He forged ahead, down a set of stone steps, ducking through low archways and around impossibly tight turns with her close behind.

A square of light bloomed ahead as they rounded a particularly sharp bend in the tunnel. The air was warmer and smelled faintly of past meals and stale, sweaty bodies. Alys wrinkled her nose. “Whew! It stinks worse than—”

“Gowain!” A woman dashed up the set of steps they were descending and wrapped her arms around his waist. “There were wounded, and I feared—” She stopped, frowning as she looked around him at Alys. “Who is this…this woman you’ve brought?”

“She’s not a woman, Maye. She’s a nun.” Gowain loosened Maye’s arms, then turned her and guided her down the steps ahead of him with the care a man bestows on his loved ones.

Alys followed, shocked by the keen sense of disappointment she felt. Fool. Of course a handsome, virile man like him would have a woman, be she wife or mistress.

At the base of the stairs, Maye stopped again, and glared at Alys. She was plump and older than Alys had first guessed. A hint of silver showed in the long brown braids draped across her ample bosom. Doubtless she’d been a beauty in her youth, might be still, if her features were not contorted with anger. “From whence did she come, this nun? Why did you bring her here?”

“Gently,” Gowain said wearily. “We met Sister Alys on the road. Her healing skills saved Stork, Martin and Sim.”

“And I am staying only till they’re well,” Alys said firmly. “Then I’ll be continuing on to Newstead Abbey.”

“As soon as I decide if it is wise,” Gowain interjected. He raised a hand to cut off her objections. “Your patients await you in one of the caves.” He looked over Maye’s head toward the fire in the center of the cavern. “Bette. Would you show Sister Alys the way and make sure she has whatever she needs?”

A woman detached herself from the crowd around the hearth and crossed to them. “Of course. Come with me, Sister.”

Bette was older than Maye, and far friendlier, chattering on about the camp facilities as she led Alys from the central cavern to a smaller one. But as she looked back over her shoulder, Alys saw Maye and Gowain walk off, heads bent close in companionable conversation. The sight caused an odd lurching in her midsection. Though he was a rough brute of an outlaw, he and his woman had something Alys envied. Closeness.

Fool, Alys chastised herself. She should not waste time yearning for what she could not have, but spend what energy she had on finding a way out of this terrible predicament.

Chapter Four

It was an hour before sunrise when Ranulf spurred his tired horse across the drawbridge and through the gates of Eastham, what remained of his men straggling along after him. The castle keep was dark when he reined in before it and slid from the saddle. “Where the hell is everyone?” he screamed.

The steward rushed down the stairs, hair disheveled, still struggling into his tunic. “M-my lord. Welcome home. We didn’t know when to expect you, but I can have a meal in—”

“Silence!” Ranulf backhanded the man, sending him sprawling in the dirt. “How can I think what to do with you posturing and babbling?” He stepped over the cowering servant and stomped up the steps, pulling off his gloves as he went. They were stiff with blood. “Pity it is not that bastard Gowain’s.”

“Aye, milord, that it is.” Clive hurried after him. “What will you do now?”

“Do! Do! I’ll wipe him out, that’s what I’ll do.” Ranulf tossed aside the gloves in disgust. “A hot bath…in my chambers. At once,” he bawled over his shoulder as he threw open the doors to the great hall and stalked in.

The wooden doors struck the wall with a resounding crack. The sleep-rumpled servants jumped, then froze in the act of setting up the tables. Several clung together, whimpering. An old woman crossed herself and tried to slink away.