Knights of de Ware 01 - My Champion (41 page)

He grinned as he murmured against her hair, “I guess I don’t mind being beneath you after all.”

Linet smiled. She supposed she should be mortified. She’d lost control and all sense of propriety. And yet, lying here, her head upon the beggar’s chest, listening to the strong beat of his heart, she’d never been so content. When he began to stroke the back of her head with long, gentle, soothing motions, she closed her eyes in bliss.

Duncan sighed in contentment. When his breathing slowed to its normal pace, he lifted his head up to look at Linet. The poor exhausted lass was asleep atop him, her body limp with trust, her mouth parted in repose. He chuckled lightly and cradled her in his arms as he sat up, stirring her from her nap.

“Margaret may have given her oath to keep the door closed tonight,” he whispered, “but I warrant she’ll be up before the sun tomorrow. Let’s get you into bed. I’ll clean up.”

He pulled the wet gown from her and wrapped her in the blue velvet robe Margaret had left for him, then, squeezing into his wet braies, carried her up the steps and quietly swung open the leather-hinged door of her chamber. Margaret was snoring loudly on the low pallet beside her mistress’s bed.

The luxury of the room was astonishing. Fresh, sweet rushes covered the floor, and the lamps Margaret had lit earlier were redolent of spiced oil. Linet’s bed was covered in green silk and draped at the corners in swags of burgundy velvet. A huge carved chest stood at the foot of the bed, and a table pushed against one wall was littered with quills, parchment, a comb and mirror, a ewer and basin for washing, and folded linen rags. Despite his fall from grace, Linet’s father had gone to great expense to give her the life of a noblewoman.

He tiptoed around Margaret’s pallet and, pulling back the silk coverlet, lowered Linet onto her bed. “Sweet dreams.” He kissed her tenderly on the forehead, and then made a hushed exit.

Linet snuggled down into the bed, but she wasn’t yet ready to sleep. Glancing about the chamber at her familiar possessions—the creaky loom in the corner, the worn, velvet-cushioned chair beside the hearth, the rich tapestry of the unicorn chase her father bought her when she was twelve autumns old—she felt a sudden foolish yearning for the innocence of her youth.

One way or another, when she made her confession to the Guild, she would bid a final farewell to it all. She closed her eyes tightly and prayed that, unlike her mother, the beggar peasant wouldn’t desert her when she’d lost everything, and that the bond he spoke of was more than just pretty words exchanged in the heat of passion.

A wisp of a cloud like the tangled web of a spider drifted across the face of the full moon, dimming for an instant the sleeping town of Avedon. The hour was late—even the village’s midnight revelers had quaffed their last ale and gone home.

Lurking in the eerie shadows outside the de Montfort mesnage, Sombra knew nothing of what had transpired earlier within and cared less. He knew only that Linet de Montfort was inside. He had but one thing on his mind—to destroy the bitch that had slain El Gallo and ruined his life.

He stroked the haft of the sword that had belonged to El Gallo. With the captain gone, Sombra felt like a changed man, a shadow with no substance. His cheap clothes, torn to shreds, were stained with wine and sweat. His hair was unkempt, his beard bedraggled. Lack of sleep had bleared his eyes and left him prone to strange hallucinations. But the dream of vengeance, so close now, sharpened his wits and his vision to almost unnatural clarity.

Indeed, he hardly needed the small flickering lantern as he slunk along the stone wall of the cottage toward the outbuildings. Not for light anyway.

He’d start with the warehouse, he decided. He wanted her to feel the pain of watching her livelihood vanish before her eyes. Just like he had.

The warehouse was unlocked. Sombra smiled thinly. Fate owed him as much. Lifting the lantern, he slowly pushed the door open and peered into the room. A dozen looms stood in neat rows, some laden with half-woven cloth, others empty. Bolt after bolt of fabric lined the walls of the warehouse, and the straw-covered floor was littered with scraps of wool and bits of fleece.

The old man’s wheezing breath, coming from behind the door, gave him away. Sombra instantly punched hard toward the source of the sound and was rewarded with a groan and a thud as the body slumped to the floor. He raised the lantern. It was Harold. With a dagger.

Sombra kicked Harold’s miserable carcass. After all he’d done for the old man—saving him from El Gallo, releasing him from captivity—Harold had turned on him. He wouldn’t live to see another day. Sombra would make sure of it. With the copious wool yarn lying about the room, it was the work of a moment to secure the old man to a chair in the middle of the warehouse. Nature would take care of the rest.

The fire was easy to start. The lantern lapped up the rushes on the floor like a hungry hound. Flames bounded across the straw to dance upon the looms. Sombra stared, enthralled with mad delight.

It was beginning. First he’d destroy her wealth. Next would come her home, her servants, her lover. Then he’d kill her slowly, inch by inch, torture her in the name of El Gallo until she begged for death.

Grinning in ecstasy, he retreated from the warehouse and into the shadows of the night to wait. It wouldn’t be long now.

Linet tossed in her sleep, uneasy. Her eyes flew wide, blind in the dim room, but she knew instantly that something was amiss. Raising herself up on one elbow, she peered groggily toward the starry night.

She wrinkled her nose. A faint thread of some familiar scent insinuated itself through the crack of the shutters. Tugging the coverlet back, she hastily went to the window and eased one shutter open.

The gray shadow of some devilish cloud roiled across the moonlit lawn. Then Linet recognized the intensifying acrid stench.

“My wool!” she cried, startling Margaret awake. “The warehouse!” Without bothering to don her slippers, Linet rushed from the window and flung open her door, intent on racing below.

Linet’s outcry had roused Duncan with such alarm that he’d charged up the stairs without his sword. He intercepted her in the doorway. She struggled in his grasp, her eyes rolling in panic like a wild colt’s.

“Fire!” she shrieked. “The warehouse!”

“I’ll go!” he shouted. “You stay here.”

He knew he had about as much chance of preventing her from following him as he had of stopping the sun from rising, but he could at least make his way downstairs before she did. He elbowed past her, ignoring her protests, and hurtled down the steps.

Linet followed at his heels, her gown brushing the steps like a whisper urging her to hurry, but by the time she reached the bottom, the beggar was halfway out the back door. Through the open doorway, beyond his silhouette, an orange glow came from the warehouse. Thick grayish smoke billowed out from the building, and she heard the sound of coughing from inside.

“Stay back!” the beggar yelled.

“Harold!” Linet screeched, stumbling forward.

She never saw the grim determination on the beggar’s face as he turned to rush onward—the unquestionable knowledge that he must try to save the man caught in the fire. All she saw was a lone, half-naked, unarmed man taking on the fires of hell in a hopeless battle. Before she could draw breath to scream, he ran headlong into the bowels of the fiery beast.

Duncan didn’t stop to think. A man was trapped. He had to rescue him. It was as simple as that. He didn’t even feel the flame as it singed the hair on his arms.

He burst into the hellish conflagration. The room looked like the devil’s workshop, with looms weaving fire into some infernal tapestry of destruction. Through the wisps of foul smoke, Duncan could make out Harold, bound to an upset chair by a tangled web of wool yarn. The old man’s face was red, and he coughed hideously, cringing from tongues of flame that licked at his legs. But he was, miraculously, alive.

Drawing on all his strength and speed, Duncan reached the servant in two strides, hefted him up, chair and all, and carried him out through the demonic blaze.

For Linet, it seemed forever that the beggar remained in the dragon’s fiery belly, an eternity before he emerged from the devil’s jaws. Indeed, her relief as the beggar finally appeared with Harold safe in his arms was so great, she forgot for an instant the blade that had just moments before come to rest against her throat.

The beggar would be disappointed in her, she knew. She should have listened to him and stayed in the cottage. Now she’d literally run into the hands of the enemy again. Sombra’s spindly arm gripped her about the waist so tightly she could scarcely breathe. This time, she feared, she wouldn’t survive.

Duncan scanned the perimeter of the demesne. His smoke-filled eyes watered, and the night seemed as black as pitch after the bright glare of the fire. But he knew the danger was far from over. The blaze had been set intentionally. Somewhere within these walls lurked a foe so diabolical he’d torture a helpless old man by burning him to death.

He knew Linet had followed him out of the cottage. It was only a matter of time before the enemy laid hands on her. He prayed she was still alive. He wished to God he had his sword.

He had to think quickly. He spilled Harold out onto the soft earth of the garden. Then, doubling over, he made a show of repeated coughing while he peripherally surveyed the yard. Linet’s servants were emerging now from one of the other outbuildings, stumbling on the wet grass and screaming in terror. It was difficult to make out anything in the chaos.

Then he saw a black shape amid the shadows at the back door, blackness broken only by a glistening fall of hair and the glint of steel. He had her. Bloody hell, someone had Linet.

Without looking up again, Duncan staggered to the small cookhouse and pushed his way inside. He had to arm himself. He glanced about in the darkness and let his hands move over oaken casks, a cheese press, iron cauldrons, steel utensils. He selected two long carving knives.

Linet gasped as Sombra’s bony hand clamped about her waist and he exhaled an angry breath against her ear. He’d apparently meant for the beggar to see him.

The servants dashed about like ants now. Soon neighbors would arrive to extinguish the fire. But already smoke obscured the yard, wreaking confusion.

All at once, the cookhouse door exploded open. The beggar careened around the corner of the building, staggered, then fell headlong to the sod and lay silent. Sombra’s fist tightened reflexively, and he nicked Linet with the knife.

She let out a little cry, and then held her breath. Duncan couldn’t be dead. He couldn’t. In desperation she watched him, praying for signs of life—a twitch, a cough, anything. The only sounds were the shrieking of servants and the rumbling and crackling of the fierce fire beyond as it digested its timbered meal.

Finally, Sombra pushed her forward. The ground was damp and chill beneath her bare feet, but her heart felt much colder as she gazed at the silent body with dread.

Two yards away from the beggar, Sombra drew his sword and reached out tentatively to poke at the lifeless form. He snickered at his own misplaced fears as the body failed to respond to his prodding.

Duncan winced as the sword jabbed at his back again. But he forced himself to lie absolutely still, counting. When he reached ten, with a burst of strength, he rolled and pitched forward, then shot up, surprising his foe with the two carving knives.

“Sombra,” he croaked, his voice hoarse with smoke. He should have guessed.

Sombra wasn’t startled for long. He still had the advantage. He held Linet’s life beneath his blade. “I had wished to kill you first,” the Spaniard sneered, “but I suppose it is no matter. She knows I will kill you next.”

Duncan’s fists tightened on the knives. A tiny drop of Linet’s blood dripped down Sombra’s dagger. The bastard would do it, he thought. He’d kill her in cold blood. With a calmness he didn’t feel, Duncan chuckled. “Are you so spineless then? It’s no wonder you were always merely the shadow of the great El Gallo.”

“You are a fool to provoke me,” Sombra warned him.

“And you’re a coward, hiding behind a woman.” He could almost see steam curling out of Sombra’s ears. “If you’re a man, then meet me like one.”

The Spaniard’s nostrils flared in anger.

“You’re afraid to fight me?” Duncan scoffed. “I’m armed with kitchen knives.”

Then Sombra made the fatal mistake of daring to hope he could win in a battle against a de Ware. His hold on Linet loosened marginally.

“Be quick about it, unless you want witnesses,” Duncan hissed. “The neighbors in these villages watch out for their own.”

Sombra’s eyes darted about. It was true. Shouts filled the air, and shutters banged open from the houses nearby. He cast Linet roughly aside.

Linet bit back a cry as she tumbled onto the cobblestones.

“M’lady!” Margaret screeched, rushing from the cottage to see what all the fuss was about.

As Linet watched with mounting horror, Sombra drew his sword and squared off against the beggar, his arms wide.

Margaret gasped. “I’ll get my pan!” she decided, wheeling about.

“Nay!” Linet shouted. “Go to my father’s room and bring Sir Duncan a proper sword!”

A shower of sparks shot upward from the warehouse as the two enemies faced one another. Sombra swung first, but his sword whistled through empty air as the beggar dodged the blow. His dagger followed, glanced aside by the beggar’s kitchen knife. Again, Sombra’s blade came round, and the beggar caught its edge with the second knife.

Sombra advanced, grinning, emboldened by the advantage of his longer blade, and the beggar danced out of his path. But in the midst of retreat, the beggar’s bare foot came down upon a slick patch of moss, and he slipped backward. Sombra’s sword flashed in an arc before him, shallowly slashing the beggar’s bare chest.

Linet sucked in her breath. The beggar scrambled backward till he could regain his feet, but Linet could see a thin ribbon of red had begun to drip down his stomach. Sombra flapped his arms in savage glee, like a bat excited by the sight of blood. He stabbed forward with both weapons, and the beggar blocked them with his own crossed blades.