Kim Iverson Headlee Page 17

  Together they genuflected toward the altar and left by the same side door Alain had used. He resisted the urge to question Ruaud’s behavior, but after they stepped outside, he could no longer contain his curiosity.

  “What in heaven’s name are you doing here, on a—what?” Alain took a moment to recall how many days he’d been held captive. “A Saturday afternoon? You, who would rather darken the doorway of a tavern than a church, even on Sunday mornings? Did those outlaws scare you into taking vows?”

  Ruaud’s paunch-shaking laugh was a joy to hear. “This attire was the only garb the abbey’s wardrobe master could find to fit me, for the outlaw’s gear got shredded during the fight.” His expression sobered. “But I am fulfilling a promise. The good Lord does answer prayers.”

  “For me?” Alain couldn’t disguise his surprise.

  “And the Lady Kendra. Is she all right?”

  “Yes.” Alain snorted. “Somewhat. At present, she lodges with her cousin—and my chief rival.”

  “And how, pray, did you permit that to happen?”

  Alain’s stomach rumbled. “It’s a long story, and I’m sorely in need of meat and drink first. Meat and drink that won’t kill me.”

  Ruaud shot him an inquisitive glance as a small group of monks strolled by, but Alain gave a slight shake of his head.

  “Come, then, my friend. The abbey boasts a fine and decently private guesthouse for visiting nobility.” As Ruaud turned toward the building, he plucked at the shoulder of Alain’s tunic. “I trust the story includes how you came by this finery?”

  “Only if you tell me how you grew piety overnight.”

  “Done.” Ruaud chuckled.

  They reached the guesthouse door, which opened onto a spacious common room furnished with several tables and benches, three sideboards stacked with pewter plates and tankards, and a large hearth laid with a heap of glowing embers. A steaming cauldron hung from a rod wedged between the hearthstones, creating a heady apple-cinnamon aroma that was making Alain’s stomach complain even more.

  At this hour, the room stood empty, presumably because the other guests had not yet returned for the evening.

  A monk wearing a stained apron over his habit approached Ruaud and Alain as they entered, greeting Ruaud by name and giving Alain a respectful nod. Ruaud introduced Alain and explained their needs in what Alain couldn’t fail to notice was vastly improved English. Alain added his request for a plain tunic, offering the fine crimson one, as well as the fox-trimmed cloak, as payment for his bed and board.

  The monk acknowledged Alain’s generosity with profuse thanks, eyed him as if taking his measure, executed a bow, and left through a back door, returning a few moments later with a tunic similar to Ruaud’s lying folded across his palms. Alain accepted the garment with thanks. The monk conducted him outside and up the staircase to Ruaud’s chamber, while Ruaud stayed in the common room. Alain made quick work of stripping off Ulfric’s gifts and passing them to the monk, who bowed again and departed to allow Alain to finish dressing.

  As the undyed linen settled about his torso, he couldn’t deny the feeling that he had shed a death mark.

  “My God, but it is so good to see you!” Ruaud exclaimed upon Alain’s return to the common room.

  Alain smiled at Ruaud’s seat selection, near the rear of the room, where they could enjoy an unimpeded view of the main door with their backs guarded by the wall.

  Some habits did indeed die hard.

  “I didn’t take that long to change, did I?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Indeed. And I cannot begin to tell you how glad I am to see you, Ruaud.”

  “So, what happened to you back on the Tor?”

  “The what?”

  “Glastonbury Tor. It’s what the locals call that hill where the outlaws built their lair. Were you and Lady Kendra imprisoned in that tunnel? You must have heard us calling you, even over the infernal noise of that devil-dog.”

  “The dog acted to protect us. So that was you. I thought so, but Kendra feared a trap.” Ruaud’s statement prompted Alain to ask, “What do you mean, ‘us’? Who was with you?”

  The monk approached their table carrying a pair of trenchers piled with bread, cheese, roasted chicken, and stewed, spiced apples balanced across one arm, and a pitcher of ale and two flagons tucked under the other. Ruaud and Alain helped the man unburden himself, and he filled the flagons, leaving the pitcher on the table before departing to attend a large group of richly caparisoned Saxon guests that had just arrived.

  Alain raised his flagon to celebrate finding Ruaud, and took a long pull.

  “Thane Waldron sent a scouting party to track us.”

  Alain nodded. “That explains why I felt as if we were being watched—and not just by our captors. Where are Waldron’s men now? And what became of the rest of the outlaws? How badly did you get hurt?”

  Laughing, Ruaud held up both hands in mock surrender. “Toenails of God, Alain, even in French you talk too fast. You eat while I talk.”

  Alain was happy to comply, and he began demolishing the first good meal he’d eaten in half a week.

  After swilling more ale, Ruaud said, “Waldron’s men are dispersed throughout the town, seeking word of their lady. We parted with the promise of sharing any information we might uncover.” He punched Alain’s shoulder, almost jarring the chicken leg from Alain’s grasp. “I had a strong hunch you would turn up here sooner or later.”

  Alain shared Ruaud’s grin. “I have become too predictable. That’s certain death for a scout. I shall have to work on changing that.” After licking his fingers, he asked, “And the outlaw band?”

  “All dead. The whores’ sons gave me a few cuts and scratches—nothing worth talking about—though my right knee still aches where one of the sods kicked it.”

  “An elder-flower compress will ease your knee’s pain.”

  Ruaud grunted. “That could be what the abbey’s infirmarer uses. Save your supply, Alain. I am well cared for here.” With both palms on the table, he leaned closer, frowning. “And what of you? I found bloody bandages inside the tower.”

  “Lady Kendra healed me,” was the only explanation Alain felt prepared to divulge. It still awed him to contemplate the miracle she had wrought, and he understood it no more now than when it had occurred.

  Ruaud downed his ale and poured more from the pitcher. “There’s another story, I’ll warrant.”

  Alain nodded, although he wondered whether he could ever relate it to Ruaud.

  Instead, he asked, “If you were so certain of where we were, why did you and Waldron’s men stop searching for us?”

  Ruaud slammed down his flagon, slopping foam onto the tabletop. “We were ordered off the land by its owner.”

  “What? Who? The outlaws—”

  “Had appropriated it for themselves, and their band was too large and too elusive for the thane to defeat, so he told me.” Alain felt a disbelieving eyebrow lift. “Well, you crossed that marsh too, Alain. A fine natural defense, no?”

  “Oh, come, now. If two determined knights could penetrate it and kill as many as we did, then a thane with as few as a score of men could have rooted them out long ago. Unless…” Alain furrowed his brow. “Unless the thane had no wish to defeat them. Did he give you his name?”

  “Unnecessary. I had already met the man.” Ruaud tore off a mouthful of chicken, took his time chewing it, and swallowed. “So have you.”

  “What!” Anger propelled Alain to his feet. Every head in the room swiveled toward him, and he sat again. With effort, he reined his voice to a whisper. “Now I know why he tried to kill me.”

  “No!”

  With both hands, Alain signaled for Ruaud to keep his voice down. “Oh, yes.”

  Still whispering, Alain proceeded to relate his account, sans his intimate encounters with Kendra. Ruaud listened, enraptured throughout the tale, forgetting to eat and, more surprisingly, to drink. Alain eyed the other patrons as they
consumed their meals and left the common room, but not before casting the two Normans appraising glances.

  Yet another suspicion, centered upon Ulfric, presented itself to Alain, one that would explain why the thane was amassing a secret fortune.

  “He knows that I know where the stolen gold is hidden, so I’m sure he means to kill me before I can trace the connection to him.” Not to mention eliminating a rival for Kendra’s affections, he thought acerbically.

  “Doesn’t that put Lady Kendra in danger too?”

  “Only if she discovers her cousin’s duplicity.” He swigged his ale without really tasting it and stared into the empty flagon. “My guess is that he will take all measures to preserve her ignorance—at least until after he’s married her and her father dies, leaving him free to inherit Edgarburh.”

  Alain refused to voice the concern that her life wouldn’t be worth a wooden sol if that scenario came to pass. And with Waldron’s male heir conveniently dead…

  He smacked his palm onto the tabletop. “By God, I won’t let him succeed!”

  Ruaud looked doubtful. “What will you do, Squire Alain? Go charging back to his demesnes and demand that he surrender her to you?”

  “Sir Alain won’t.” In response to Ruaud’s cocked eyebrow, Alain explained that Kendra had guessed about his knighthood, though she wouldn’t accept his confession of his true identity.

  The plan he envisioned would provide the opportunity to confirm his suspicions about Ulfric and, God willing, clear the way for Alain’s marriage to Kendra—if she ever forgave him for his deception. If she chose not to forgive him, he would accept his penance and still do the right thing for her, her father, and their people.

  He stood and gazed through the windows at the waning sunlight, feeling cold resolve course through his veins.

  “Sir Alain won’t demand that Thane Ulfric release Lady Kendra, but Sir Robert Alain de Bellencombre will.”

  Chapter 13

  “WERE YOU BORN a lunatic, man, or has love addled your wits?” Ruaud latched on to his friend’s arm and dragged him toward the bench. He had to push on Alain’s shoulders to make him sit. “If you go there and make reckless accusations about the manor’s lord, how long do you think you will survive?”

  Alain shot him an annoyed glance. “I have no intention of bearding him alone.” Ruaud began to mouth a protest, but Alain held up a hand. “Much as I appreciate your assistance, I understand I shall need more than one blade guarding my back.”

  “Merciful God,” Ruaud muttered, casting a beseeching look heavenward, “my foolish friend has conceived yet another plan.”

  “Indeed.”

  “What is to be the idiotic disguise this time?”

  “I truly am becoming too predictable.” A smile tugged at the corners of Alain’s mouth. “I shall explain later.” He rose and extended his hand to Ruaud. “But first, if you please, tell me where I can find Waldron’s men.”

  Ruaud gripped the proffered hand and stood, wondering yet again what it was about this man that enticed him to become involved in his wild schemes.

  Perhaps he, Ruaud d’Auvay, was the one who’d been born mad.

  ULFRIC, LORD of Thornhill and soon to become lord of Edgarburh and beyond, pulled a sweat-stained undertunic through his fingers. It wasn’t enough to have that Norman—squire, knight, or whatever in hell he claimed to be—gone from his demesnes.

  Too much careful planning lay in the balance.

  Clutching the garment, he rose, paced the length of his bedchamber to the unglazed window, and swept aside the leather covering. The sun, appearing reluctant to surrender to the night, cast long shadows with everything it touched.

  Soon, Ulfric would cast a shadow across the length and breadth of England.

  He held the cloth beneath his nose and inhaled its tangy Norman scent. Licking his lips, he pressed his empty hand to his chest and indulged in a feral grin. Tonight’s unfinished business begged for completion.

  The familiar tingling sensation flooded through him, and he dropped the cloth from a hand no longer able to grasp it.

  After the transformation finished, he shouldered open the shutters and scrambled out the window. The need for stealth bridled his urge to howl until after he had wriggled through the concealed hole in the burh’s wall that had been constructed for nights such as this.

  Beyond the gaze of any who might mark his passage, he sorted through myriad tempting scents for the only one that interested him and broke into an easy, ground-gobbling lope.

  He almost lost the trail near Glastonbury. Staying clear of the abbey grounds, he nosed about the main road, trying to make sense of what had happened. Here the scent grew fainter, as if the Norman had bathed before continuing on his way. And a second man-scent became mingled with the first. Had the Norman found his friend and exchanged clothes with him?

  One target or two; in this guise, it mattered not.

  Back in the desolation of the moor, he picked up a third scent worth noting: wood smoke. His prey had made camp for the night. Ulfric halted and sat on his haunches, swiveling his head and sniffing speculatively.

  A low growl rumbled in his throat as he located the camp. Cautiously, yet brimming with eager anticipation, he approached his mark.

  The Norman had no time to cry out before Ulfric leapt upon him, fangs bared and fur bristling. The unprotected neck proved no match for his jaws. His bloodlust, fueled by the stench of the man’s fear, was not sated until long after the prey had ceased struggling.

  THE KNIGHTS, accompanied by Waldron’s scouts, doubled back past the Tor and its surrounding marshland to retrieve the thane’s gold from its hiding place; a minute consolation, in Alain’s mind, for having to leave Kendra behind.

  A flock of crows rose up en masse nearby with a horrific cackling, making his mount whinny and shy. He crouched and sawed on the reins to keep from being thrown.

  Baying, Noir vanished behind the thicket where the birds had emerged while Alain calmed his horse. The baying gave way to a series of expressive growls, as if Noir were worrying something, perhaps the carcass of a cow, which would explain the number of crows.

  Alain dismounted and handed the reins to one of the fyrd members before rounding the bush to see what Noir had found.

  The sight made him blanch.

  The body of a man lay facedown in a long swath of dried blood, half concealed by the thicket. The man’s fingernails and trail revealed that he’d crawled there to die. Oblivious to Alain’s commands, Noir had clamped onto a leg and was dragging the corpse from the brush. Finally, he quit his grisly task and regarded his master.

  Alain’s shouts brought Ruaud and the others running.

  “Sacre Mère!” Ruaud jabbed a finger toward the corpse. “Is that not—”

  Alain nodded, swallowing hard. As he gripped Noir’s scruff, Lofwin rolled the body over. The other men gasped their surprise, but Alain remained silent. The corpse’s mangled throat confirmed his guess.

  The unfortunate soul was wearing the tunic and cloak Ulfric had given Alain. No doubt the monks had sold the clothing to the man to raise funds for the abbey.

  He squatted for a closer look. Massive paw prints dotted the soft earth surrounding the body and led westward with an increasingly longer stride. Alain traced one of the prints, a memory tugging at the fringes of his recollection. Nothing presented itself. With a mental shrug, he surmised that Ulfric must have a kennel of beasts like Noir, transformed into lethal monsters through deprivation and unconscionable cruelty.

  Lofwin and his men retrieved spades from their packs and began to dig a grave. As Alain straightened to assist them, Ruaud drew him aside.

  “That was supposed to have been you.”

  Alain nodded, grimacing. “I must stop this madman before he decides Kendra is expendable too.”

  “REPORT, ETHEL!” His kill had felt immensely satisfying, but the belated realization that he had found the wrong mark still infuriated him. With effort, he modulated his ton
e. “Is Lady Kendra ready to assist me?”

  “She bears faint traces of ash on her palm. Lady Edwina’s gift has awakened at last, my lord.” The old woman Ulfric had known his entire life twisted her apron and shuffled backward one pace, two, three.

  “About time.” His eyes narrowed upon Ethel and her pathetic attempt to maneuver herself closer to the door. “But?”

  Sighing, she held her ground. “I like Lady Kendra, my lord. I dislike seeing her placed in danger.”

  He tipped back his head and howled a laugh. When he regarded his servant, he hardened his stare. “What danger could there be in asking her to heal one hurting soul?”

  “Healing a body carries risks aplenty. A broken soul elevates the risk tenfold.” She lowered her gaze. “’Tis what weakened Lady Edwina for a fever to claim her life.”

  Ulfric knew well the event to which Ethel referred; he had been present when Edwina had attempted to heal his mother of the madness that had beset her following the death of his father. Edwina’s failure had left both women naught but shells of their former selves. Both were dead within a month.

  “Prepare my exalted convalescing guest for a meeting with Lady Kendra.” When Ethel opened her mouth as if to ask a question, he lowered his eyebrows and pumped sternness into his gaze.

  Gripping a fold of her apron, she looked chagrined. “He doesn’t always have good days, my lord.”

  “I can wait.”

  As he waved a dismissal, and the woman obeyed with astonishing speed, he pondered her warning. After his careful steps to maneuver Kendra under his roof, he had no wish to lose her—or her lands. She was young and strong and feisty, Ulfric reasoned; Cousin Edwina had been demure and frail. Kendra would survive the onslaught that might result from wielding her gift on behalf of one special recipient.

  She had to survive. His plans hinged upon it.

  Chapter 14