Knights of de Ware 01 - My Champion (33 page)

It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be, she reasoned, she hoped. But somehow she knew for whom the tambour sounded.

“A monk?” she whispered.

“Aye,” the young maid replied, wary of the look in her mistress’s eye.

The tambour’s cadence felt like her own death knell as Linet walked to the window. Her nerves vibrated with tension. A thin stream of air swept spirit-like through the arrow loop. She squinted against the harsh light of the sun. What she saw made her knees turn soft as custard. She clutched the stone sill for support.

A somber procession made its way out of the barbican gate. A dozen nobles rode on horseback, Lord Guillaume at their fore. Throngs of peasants crowded about—curious children, gawking old women, scowling crofters. She could hear the hungry jeers of rabid spectators, barking insults and slurs.

In the midst of the procession, a blackened cart rolled with reluctant sloth along the road toward Gallow’s Hill. Its passenger was half-naked, his muddy brown robe hanging from his hips by its rope tie. His legs were braced apart so he wouldn’t fall from the swaggering cart. His chest and arms bulged against the heavy chains wrapped round his body. Though his head hung limply upon his breast, the cords of his neck strained in obvious discomfort. His face was concealed, but there was no mistaking that muscular form, those sable curls.

Linet’s throat constricted with dread as her gaze was drawn inexorably toward the man in the cart. She longed to look elsewhere, to forget what she’d glimpsed, but some compelling force pulled at her, willing her to watch. Only when the retinue passed beneath an obscuring canopy of trees did she finally tear her eyes away, staggering back from the window, her face bloodless.

“Oh, my lady!” the servant gasped, rushing forward, misunderstanding. “Do not distress yourself! Your own uncle has seen to that devil’s punishment. They say the man was already beaten half to death. The flogging will assuredly finish him. There is nothing to worry about.”

Finish him? Linet’s brain screamed. Dear God, Lord Guillaume couldn’t mean to kill the beggar, could he? Panic shortened her breath. This couldn’t be happening. She couldn’t let it happen, not when she…

She loved the beggar. Sweet Mary, she understood that now. She loved him. Beyond reason. Beyond hope. Beyond any vow she’d given her father. Even if he meant to break her heart, she loved him.

And by God, if it cost her everything, she had to save his life. It was in her hands, she realized. It was up to her to cease this travesty.

Biting her lip, she seized a gray cloak from a hook on the wall and swung it over her shoulders atop her shift.

“My lady!” the servant shrieked. “What are you doing? Where are you going? Lord Guillaume gave me strict orders…”

Linet pinned the cloak closed and raked her fingers through her hair.

“My…my lady! You’re not even properly dressed! You’ve no kirtle, no slippers. I haven’t even run a comb through—”

“No time. I must go now,” Linet chanted breathlessly. “I must go now.”

A specter couldn’t have flown more swiftly from the room. Still, by the time she rushed down the cold stone steps, raced across the deserted courtyard, and bolted through the barbican gate, drawing the curious stares of the guards above, the procession was already cresting Gallow’s Hill.

With a whimper of despair, she picked up her skirts and ran up the long, twisting road. Sharp rocks and wayward thistles cut the soles of her feet. Once, she tripped on the hem of her cloak, wrenching her ankle, and fell heavily to the ground, tearing the frail fabric of her shift and bloodying her knees. She staggered to her feet and cast off the culprit cloak, but still she ran, favoring her injured leg, closing the distance between her and Gallow’s Hill.

Limping forward, she caught up at last with the stragglers in the crowd. Ahead, the ominous finger of the gallows pointed accusingly at the heavens. Suddenly she was chilled by the disabling thought of the souls that had departed there unshriven, souls like her beggar. She quickly crossed herself and continued.

Duncan betrayed no fear when the cart ceased its jostling and rolled to a stop. He wasn’t afraid to die. As a knight, he faced death every day. Nay, what he felt was frustration.

It was bitterly ironic that he, Duncan de Ware—expert swordsman, heir to one of the wealthiest estates in the land, loyal vassal answering to King Edward himself, hero of the common man—was about to die nameless, the death of a pauper, unable to defend himself against a crime he hadn’t committed. The futility of his life crushed him.

A burly man, his face covered by an ominous black hood, wrenched the chain loose from the cart and shoved him forward. Duncan stumbled and fell against the side of the cart, bruising his tender ribs, unable to catch himself with his bound hands. Brutally, the executioner pushed him from the cart and up the incline toward a whipping post. Mischievous boys threw sticks and pebbles. Their fathers spat obscenities.

Still too far away, Linet cursed in despair as they dragged her beggar forward. God help him, he was going bravely. She cried out for them to halt, but her hoarse, breathless voice was lost in the taunting of the mob.

His gait, though awkward, never faltered. When he reached the post and faced that crowd from the stained wooden block that served as a floor, fierce pride burned in his cold sapphire eyes. Even when Lord Guillaume stepped before him, the venom of the nobleman’s gaze couldn’t cow him.

Linet pushed and prodded her way forward through the stubborn wall of spectators, shrieking at them to cease, but it was too late. The blood was already hot in their veins.

Duncan felt the bloodlust surround him like a wash of molten lead.

“Have you any last words to say?” Lord Guillaume hissed.

Duncan fixed him with a steady, icy stare and spoke in a low rasp, just loud enough for the lord to hear. “I am a de Ware. Tell Linet de Montfort that she may wear the trappings of nobility, but she doesn’t know the first thing about being a lady.”

Lord Guillaume sputtered in outrage and nodded to the executioner. The great hooded beast raised a fist and smote Duncan heavily across the face.

Linet gasped, along with half of the ladies in the crowd, as the beggar’s head drooped.

“Prisoner!” Lord Guillaume shouted.

Slowly, the beggar lifted his head. Linet sobbed when she saw the fresh cut under his eye and the trickle of blood wandering like a tear down his cheek.

“Prepare to receive the lash for your crime,” the lord advised, signaling the whipsman.

The hooded man wheeled the beggar around and wrenched his arms up to attach the shackles to the whipping post. Then he backed away and unfurled his whip so it writhed on the ground like a languorous snake ready to bite.

Time seemed to slow as Linet reached forward, running with dreamlike sluggishness toward the man bound to the whipping post. The eager cries about her grew muffled, and with sudden acute vision, she perceived the subtle clenching of the beggar’s fingers, the tensing of his body as he anticipated the sting of the lash.

Suddenly, she heard a scream, as if from a distance, some tortured soul crying “Nay!” All eyes turned to her. At last breaking free of the mob, she surged forward to the platform. She dropped on her knees to the wood block, ignoring the sharp pain as she added her own blood to the stains there, and spread her arms wide, placing herself between the beggar and the lash.

The whip had already begun its descent. Linet cringed but held her ground. As the menacing lash sliced through the air, Lord Guillaume cried out, “Linet! No!”

The whipsman managed to snap the lash back in mid-flight. It fell short of the block, whistling its complaint and slithering harmlessly on the ground. Lord Guillaume clapped a hand to his chest in relief.

Rage and humiliation filled Duncan. What was Linet doing here? Was it not enough that she’d caused his ignoble end? Did she have to witness his shame?

“Begone, woman,” he growled at her.

“Linet! Niece!” Lord Guillaume cried, clearly distraught. “You were not to be present for this.”

“Please,” Linet begged her uncle in a voice raw with emotion, “please don’t flog him.”

Duncan scowled. Surely he’d heard wrong. He glared at her over his shoulder. She was on her knees in supplication, her hair loose and uncombed, her feet bare. Bloody hell, she wasn’t even dressed. The fine white linen of her shift was so insubstantial that it was nearly transparent. He clamped his jaw shut, confused by mixed feelings of anger and pity, and tore his eyes away.

The man in black who’d been studying the scene with cool detachment from the midst of the crowd now took a sudden interest in the strange turn of events. The wench’s plea had an entirely different effect on him. His gloved hand tightened on the pale, feminine fingers draped over his arm, and the corners of his mouth twisted downward.

Up to now, Sombra had found the spectacle highly amusing. It seemed the rogue beggar from the
Corona Negra
had managed to procure his own execution—without Sombra’s intervention. But that cursed wool merchant had just stepped in the way, literally. And worse, if the pained look on Lord Guillaume’s face was any indication, she’d already earned her uncle’s trust.

There was no time to waste. He’d have to make his move now or lose his chance. Schooling his features into an expression of great offense, he raised his voice. “Linet? Niece? What outrage is this?”

Lord Guillaume almost looked thankful for the distraction. “Who speaks?”

Sombra stepped forward with his imposter. “I am Don Ferdinand Alfonso de Compostela, and I am appalled by the travesty I see before me!”

The wool merchant blanched at his words. The beggar wrenched futilely against his bonds. But Sombra ignored them. They were as harmless as pups now.

“How dare you call this…this half-naked strumpet your kin when I bring your true niece to you myself?”

With a flourish, he presented the girl, who sank into an elegant curtsey with no prodding from him.

Sombra smiled appreciatively. He’d certainly chosen the right wench for the task. She was taller than the real Linet de Montfort. Her hair was a bit less blonde, her eyes a murkier green. Though her looks paled in comparison to the blushing beauty of the real woman, she wasn’t uncomely. But, working as a whore to the nobility for so long, she’d picked up some of the graces of that class. With the medallion about her neck and her cultured manner, she’d easily fool the lord.

Linet felt for an instant as if she were looking into a mirror, a mirror that subtly distorted the features of her face. Though she could see the de Montfort medallion swinging forward in the sunlight as the strange woman curtseyed, Linet reached up reflexively between her own breasts in disbelief, as if it might somehow still lie there. But Sombra had indeed stolen it, cleanly and easily. And with it, he’d stolen her birthright.

Her shoulders slumped in defeat. She’d come to that point at last—the point where a warp too tightly wound and a weft of faulty dye and a skipped thread all converged to create an irreconcilable flaw in the fabric. She’d made too many mistakes. She’d trusted the wrong people. She’d betrayed the wrong people. And now she would pay dearly for it—with her title, with her trade, with her servant, who was surely dead, with her heart, and possibly with her soul.

Linet gazed at Lord Guillaume through a watery veil of tears. He pursed his lips thoughtfully, rocking slowly back and forth on the balls of his feet. How like her father he was—outwardly strict and demanding, all bellow, but inside, blunted claws. Even now he looked as if, despite all the evidence to the contrary, he wanted to believe Linet.

She could convince him. There were things she knew about Lord Aucassin that no imposter could possibly duplicate. There were her looks—Linet had her father’s eyes. There was her impeccable knowledge of the family line. And she had the word of the Guild. Aye, it might take time to unravel the wayward threads of her ordeal, but it could be done.

Yet what would it gain her? She could prove she was indeed Linet de Montfort. But how would it preserve her father’s pride and her promise unless she also claimed that the beggar had ravished her against her will? And if she did that, was she not condemning him to death?

She clamped her eyes shut. There was no easy answer. She had to choose. Would she cling to her nobility, or would she confess her soul’s longing? It was not a dilemma solved as one solved trade matters, by scrawling calculations on parchment. She had to listen to her heart. Fate had left the decision in her hands. It burned there like a cinder in her fingers.

The whipsman impatiently tapped the butt of the lash against his palm. Lord Guillaume knitted his brows. The crowd whispered, waiting.

And at last her heart spoke to her.

She lifted her chin. “I beseech you, my lord, to spare this man from the lash. He is not guilty of the crime for which you punish him.” Her voice quavered. “I am.”

The mob of peasants gasped collectively at this new development. Linet awaited her uncle’s word like a prisoner awaiting sentencing. Lord Guillaume only blinked at her in confusion.

“What are you saying?” he asked quietly at long last.

“Oh, my lord, forgive me,” she said, her voice breaking. “I can’t let him bear the blame for what has passed. It’s all my fault.”

“So you are not Linet de—”

“He’s my lover,” she blurted.

“Nay!” the beggar snarled.

The crowd hushed. Lord Guillaume stared at her a long time, his face painted in lines of bewilderment. “There is no need for you to protect him, Linet,” he said sternly. “I assure you, he knew full well his crime when he committed it. If you are upset by the bloodlust here, perhaps you had best return to the keep.”

“Nay!” she shouted. “I won’t leave him!” She added in a murmur, “I won’t leave him again. I…” She gazed at the beggar,
her
beggar, bound to the whipping post. “I love him.”

Whispers of amazement echoed through the crowd like wind through a wheat field.