Love at First Sight (16 page)

She shifted in her seat as heat from his fingers curled its way up her arms and slid down her body to settle in the crutch where her thighs met. Her gaze jerked to his unyielding face and she cursed her hands for trembling. Like the evening before, she wondered how she could feel thus, knowing his rancorous intent.

She squeezed her eyes shut, unable to bear the ruthless appearance of his features. A vision. The pain and fear of second sight would be a welcome release from the baron’s black hold over her body. She focused her thoughts and waited for the soul-piercing light. In the silence that surrounded her, she listened for the stirring of wind.

Nothing.

Desperate to feel something, she tilted her head from side to side, hoping to unbalance her senses and thus foster the proper atmosphere. She sighed gratefully at the faint dizziness that touched her. But it was not enough, and she leaned farther and farther . . .

Abruptly the chair tipped. Her eyes flew open and she clutched at the baron’s hands, to no effect. She toppled sideways, grunting when she hit the ground. Ribald laughter scalded her ears.

’Twas as if she were an ugly little girl again and the village children were ridiculing her. Scrambling to her feet, she edged around the table, then bolted for the door.

“Stop ’er!” a woman shrieked.

Angry shouts erupted around her, and clawing hands grabbed at her tunic and arms. The odor of fish combined with ale-soaked breath and rotten teeth until she thought she would be sick.

She fought against the grasping clutches, kicking with her booted feet. If only she could reach the door. She bit an arm and heard a howl of pain above the din.

Just as a fist came flying at her face, her legs became entangled in her skirts. She stumbled to her knees and the intended blow sailed over her head, barely grazing her hair.

Before she could rise, someone placed a wooden-soled shoe to her backside and shoved. She snarled as the force pitched her forward to land on her hands.

“Don’t look like no sage now, do she?” a man jeered.

“Looks like the cur she is,” a woman cackled.

Golde fought to gain her feet, but everyone within reach began pummeling her. It felt as if her arms and legs were being hammered. One boot caught her beneath the chin, snapping her head backward.

Stars danced before her eyes. She swayed.

A shin slammed into her ribs and she dropped on her side. Covering her head with her arms, she curled in a ball.

The enraged mob was going to kill her. She wanted to scream, to curse them all before her breath deserted her. Most of all, she longed to plunge a dagger in the baron’s chest. To have the satisfaction of seeing his life seep from him.

A ragged sob burst from her mouth.

“Enough!” the baron roared from somewhere near her feet.

Instantly the clamor abated. Feet scuffled away until the room grew still. Hope flared in her breast. Mayhap she would live after all. At least long enough to slit Delamaure’s gullet.

Cautiously she lowered her arms from her head. The movement aggravated every bruise on her body, and she clenched her teeth. Cracking an eye, she surveyed her immediate surroundings. One of the baron’s liegemen stood directly in front of her, brandishing a sword. The baron himself stood an arm’s length from her feet, another liegeman guarding his back.

Golde squinted, puzzled. Sir Gavarnie’s blade was drawn, his features savage. What had he to be angry over? Had he not wished her dead? She rose to sit, that she might have a better view, thinking surely her eyes had deceived her.

She was scarce upright before burning pain tore through her ribs. Her gasp added fuel to the fiery agony and she held her breath, praying for surcease. Were her ribs broken? She leaked the pent breath from her mouth, and gradually the pain lessened.

“Disperse yourselves,” the baron ordered.

“Wot abouts our money?” a man demanded. Delamaure snarled. “Your coin is forfeit to me, in exchange for the illicit sport you have enjoyed this night.” His blind gaze burned as it swept the onlookers. “Now get yourselves gone, for the next person who dares question my command will forfeit his life.”

Golde winced with each shallow breath she took. The baron’s actions were a mystery. First he threw her to the wolves, then became enraged when they mauled her. To what purpose had he rescued her?

G
AVARNIE AWAITED
his groomsman’s assistance to mount his destrier, Rime. Though the rain had ceased, the smell of wet horse and leather lay thick in the humid air. Somewhere down the quay, an argument erupted between a man and a woman, their voices tinny and distant above the clop of horses’ hooves against cobblestones.

The sound reminded Gavarnie of the cracked, angry voice he’d heard above the commotion in the alehouse. It had seemed to come from nowhere. Who had been the speaker, he wondered? Like the argument down the quay, he’d not been able to distinguish actual words. Yet the meaning had been clear.
Fool!
the tone accused.
Golde will die at your instigation.

“Here, mi’lord,” the groomsman, Trelle, broke into his musings.

Gavarnie reached out until he felt Rime’s damp saddle. Grasping the pommel, he placed a foot in Trelle’s cupped hands and swung up.

Like as not, it had been his own inwit he’d heard, Gavarnie decided while adjusting his seat. Indeed, he had been a fool.

An agent of the king. He snorted. Golde was no more than a fake soothsayer, a woman who preyed on others’ hopes and dreams for the coin it could bring her. Doubtless, her great passion for him was but a ploy to fleece him out of a few silver pieces. Not that he could excuse his actions. She had not deserved the beating he’d incited.

Settled in the saddle, he commanded, “Henri, you will carry the witchwife and ride on my right. Lund, on my left.”

Guilt prickled his flesh at Golde’s groan. “Christ’s blood, Henri. Have a care with the wench.”

“I’m doing my best, mi’lord.”

Gavarnie hunched his shoulders. Despite her dishonest nature, regardless of her acid tongue, he could think of naught but Golde’s good deeds. Had she not saved Nicolette’s life? Mayhap she
could
restore his sight. And what of her wit? Spindleshanks, of all things! When had he last laughed with such complete abandon?

Chagrined, he directed his attention to the matter at hand. “Nigel?”

“Aye, mi’lord,” the steward answered from near Rime’s left flank.

“You will take the lead. Stephan and Bogo, the rear.”

Boots scraped against cobblestones as his men moved to do his bidding. He lowered his head, unable to staunch the flow of his thoughts.

Not only was he a fool, he was a spineless worm. How soothing it had been to believe Nicolette’s claim that Golde had lied; much simpler to torture Golde into admitting she’d concocted the entire story.

It took no great intellect to see Golde had spoken the truth. His children’s furtive actions were proof.

He rubbed the back of his neck. Would that he’d had the courage to consider such before tearing into New Market like a demon from hell. But, as always, he’d allowed rage to rule his reason. And his rash conduct could have cost Golde her life.

As it had Isabelle’s.

He winced. Judging from Golde’s responses to his questions, her ribs were severely bruised, mayhap cracked. ’Twas imperative he get her to the keep where she could be properly cared for. Once she was healed, he would send her on her way, with a stem reproach for her false practices.

Saddle leather creaked, drawing his attention, and he surmised his men were mounted. He motioned with his left hand for the groomsman to mount behind him. “Come, Trelle.”

“Beg pardon, mi’lord,” Stephan spoke. “Mayhap Trelle would best serve seated in front since ’tis dark.”

He gritted his teeth.
Witless get of an idiot.
His men must think him an imbecile to not realize it was night. ’Twould be difficult for Trelle to direct him, as the groomsman had earlier when it was daylight.

Yet he’d be butchered before he’d ride double behind Trelle. ’Twas unseemly.

He rubbed the damp, slick reins between his fingers. “Trelle, you will ride behind and I will pass the reins about my waist.”

While the groom mounted, he turned his attention to Henri. “The wench. She is settled?”

“As well as possible, sir.”

“A pox,” Golde panted, “on you . . . son of a . . .”

He interrupted before she could finish, his flagging spirits raised by her display of anger. “If you would shut your flapping mouth, you would feel less discomfort.”

Her heated little hiss further improved his humor. Knowing her wounds had not destroyed her sour tongue was of great relief, though God knew anyone else would be most content to hear naught but silence from her.

“Ahead,” he ordered Nigel.

He gripped the pommel and raised his elbows so Trelle could hold the reins closer. The groomsman spurred Rime’s flanks and the horse pranced forward, anxious to reach Skyenvic’s stables and a bin of oats.

Golde moaned, and Gavarnie opened his mouth again to admonish Henri, then decided against it. There was nothing the liegeman could do to make the trip more comfortable for the wench.

Within a short time, the cobblestone clatter was replaced by the duller sound of earth. Muddy earth, judging from the sucking noises made by Rime’s hooves. New Market had been left behind for the lane that ran through the forest surrounding Skyenvic.

Rime dipped beneath Gavarnie, and uneasiness crept into his head. He could fair smell the ink of darkness, could feel the crowded closeness of the trees that lined the lane. He clutched the pommel more tightly. ’Twas foolhardy to be riding at night, no matter the urgency. ’Twas doubly so, considering de Warrenne’s presence at Skyenvic, and the message warning of betrayal.

He grimaced. “Henri, did someone think to bring a lamp?”

“Aye. Sir Nigel and Bogo each have one.”

Gavarnie clamped his legs about Rime as the horse swayed. The oil lamps would provide no more than feeble light and were of little comfort. The lane was rutted and he would never remain seated if Rime stumbled.

Why had he not listened to Sperville? The chamberlain had implored him to send someone else after Golde. But nay. Gavarnie gritted his teeth. After searching for her half the night and all morn, he’d near been frothing at the mouth. When he’d heard reports of her activities in the village, he’d greatly anticipated fetching her himself.

“At least ride a mount less spirited than Rime,” the chamberlain had persisted.

“I could hold your reins,” Nigel had offered.

His lip curled. Did both men think he’d allow himself to be led before the village like some doddering old man? He silently congratulated himself for having solved the problem. It had been his idea to have Trelle ride double behind him and tell him where to guide his mount.

Still, he wished he’d taken Sperville’s advice and worn a hauberk instead of the simple leather coat he sported.

He was pulled from his thoughts as Rime’s gait grew choppy. “Have a care, Trelle. You go too fast. Henri will be unable to keep pace.”

“Your forgiveness, my liege, but Sir Nigel—” He bumped Gavarnie’s back. “He is outstripping us.”

“Why did you not say something, man? Nigel! Hold.”

Trelle slammed against his back, near unseating him. “God’s blood!”

Gavarnie started to yell at Nigel again when the groomsman clutched his waist and hauled him sideways.

“The light!” Stephan’s panicked voice crawled over his flesh.

Even as Trelle pulled him from Rime, a vast icy emptiness consumed Gavarnie. They were under attack! In the same instant he hit the ground, he heard a masculine scream of pain, then a thud. One of the men behind him had fallen.

“On your feet,” he commanded Trelle, who sprawled half atop him.

When the groom did not respond, he shook his shoulder. “Tre—”

His hand met a shaft, then another, and he slid his hand upward to the feathered end of an arrow.

The groomsman was dead.

Shoving the limp body aside, Gavarnie drew his sword and clambered to his feet.

How would he die? An arrow to the breast? Gutted by a sword? At this very moment, someone could be aiming a mace at his head.

The thought turned his insides to slush. He was naught but a hindrance to his liegemen. Men who would fight to the death on his behalf. Men who’d been led, at his direction, to their doom.

And what of Golde? She, too, would likely die.

From nowhere, a disgruntled voice hissed,
She had best not, boy.

Gavarnie spun about. ’Twas the same voice he’d heard at the alehouse.

A wisp of mist darted in the corner of his vision. He turned toward it, but all he could see was Rime’s . . .

His heart skipped, stealing his breath. He blinked.

Was that the vague outline of Rime’s flank?

“Sir Gavarnie!” Henri’s frantic cry jolted him.

His heart began to pound with a vengeance. He jerked his gaze heavenward.

Stars. Glittering jewels in the sky.

By the Blessed Virgin. He could see.