Love at First Sight (34 page)

Gundrada sniffed. “Gavarnie’s sight will do him no good when the king receives all of this evidence. If ’tis your wish to withdraw, say it. I cannot do this without you.

Golde clamped her teeth together. The impulse to race to the castle was raw. Cease, she commanded her twitching muscles. She could take no chance on being discovered. Gavarnie would know soon enough.

“And if I agree?” Nigel queried.

“Gavarnie will be hung, along with the other conspirators. Walther will appear the cleverest and most loyal of men for reporting the matter, and the king will reward him with Skyenvic.”

Gundrada sighed gustily. “Then poor Walther will suffer a terrible wasting sickness. Once I am in control of his affairs, I will appoint you to guard Skyenvic on my behalf—with the king’s permission, of course. When Walther dies, ’twill only be natural that you and I marry.”

In the quiet that followed, the muffled sound of crunching underbrush could be heard. Golde cocked her head, then tensed.

“Shh,” Gundrada hissed in the same instant.

’Twas difficult to determine exactly from whence the noise issued, but Golde thought it to come from behind her. And it was fast drawing nearer. Gundrada’s men-at-arms?

What was she to do? The sound was coming straight at her.
Please, God.
She rose to her feet.
Do not let me be discovered.
If only she knew which way to run.

Abruptly two cur hounds burst from around a tree. Their noses were to the ground and their tails wagged fiercely—until one of them looked up. Startled, it jumped backward a pace, drawing its companion’s attention. Both dogs stilled.

Golde pressed a finger to her lips in a silent gesture for quiet. In that moment, it seemed the entire forest held its breath.

Then both hounds set to baying.

F
OR A MOMENT
Golde froze, unable to believe her misfortune. Then she glanced about. There stood Sir Nigel and Lady Gundrada, no more than a quarter furlong distant. Their faces, too, reflected disbelief.

Abruptly Gundrada screeched. “After her, fool!”

Golde spun and ran. Lifting her skirts over her knees, she sprinted over fallen logs and dodged tree trunks. Her heart rode in her throat, near strangling her. She must not be caught. ’Twould mean the end for her, and Gavarnie.

She zagged left, then forward, then left again. If she set an intricate pattern, it would be more difficult for Nigel and Gundrada to follow.

She glanced frantically over her shoulder. Though no one was in sight, she felt little comfort. She was making enough noise to raise the dead.

Gasping for air, she concentrated more on stealth and less on speed. What had become of the wretched hounds? Plague take their flea-ridden hides. Could Sir Nigel use them to track her?

The thought again set fire to her heels and she crashed ahead, uncaring of the noise she made. She chanced another glance over her shoulder, and had barely looked forward again when, suddenly, white-fanged pain bit into her head. It was accompanied by a deafening thump.

She staggered backward, grasping her forehead. Who had struck her? She widened her eyes as her vision blurred. Was it Gundrada or Nigel? She could see little, only hazy grays, browns, and greens.

“A curse on you, and your seed,” she rasped as her legs buckled ’neath an onslaught of dizziness.

She swayed on her knees, waiting for the blow that would claim her life. Strangely, she felt naught but roiling anger. “You shall never enjoy your tenure at Skyenvic. I will haunt you to your dying breath.”

Panting, she did her best to remain upright, but within moments even that grew impossible. Her lungs felt seared and blackness encroached upon her vision. Collapsing on her belly, she pressed her cheek into the damp, decayed leaves that layered the forest floor.

She had failed. Gavarnie would die.

Nicolette’s face swam before her, little doe’s eyes filled with inconsolable loss. Then Alory, his sweet features blighted by grief. Finally Ronces, fearful and accusatory. He would embrace his father’s death as if he were to blame, as if there were something he could have done.

Never once had she told them how wonderful they were, she thought groggily. What strength they possessed. Gavarnie was so very fortunate to have such children.

How could she have thought to leave them?

Nay. She was confused. ’Twas they who wanted her gone.
Dragon-hag . . . Grendelskin . . . I would offer marriage, but you would doubtless mock me for it
.

Wild images stole through her thoughts.

She and Gavarnie at the altar. The priest raised his cowl to reveal a goat’s head. She should have told Gavarnie of her wicked nature. He could not know she was the devil’s spawn
.

But she wasn’t in church after all. Instead, she was in Mimskin’s cottage, though it more resembled a cavernous tomb. Gundrada was roasting a pig on a spit. Only, the pig turned out to be Nigel, or was it Lord de Warrenne . . .

Then there was noise. Great tearing sheets of sound. Wetness splattered her face and she cracked her eyes open. What—

She forced herself to sit, blinking. Rain. So heavy it crashed against the forest canopy until she thought the reverberations might split her head in two.

Nigel and Gundrada! Her eyes widened. Where were they?

She scrambled to rise, grimacing at the pain that shot through her feet. A blessed numbness carried throughout the rest of her body. She squinted at her surroundings. The forest had grown darker, but not so dim that she couldn’t see a fallen tree directly in front of her. The huge trunk angled upward to rest upon the branches of another tree.

Witless get of an idiot! No one had hit her. She’d run full speed into the dead wood and knocked herself senseless.

Her relief was short-lived, though. Was it dusk, or were the clouds so thick that they concealed the day? How much time had passed? For all she knew, Gavarnie could be dead by now.

A feeling of dread billowed in her chest, snatching the air from her lungs. Not only had she obviously lost her pursuers, she’d lost herself. However would she find her way back to the road?

Cease! She clutched her head. Standing about sniveling like a babe would do no good. So long as she lived, Gavarnie had a chance. Whatever it took, she would find her way to Skyenvic. She had the sight. And by all that was holy, she would make it serve her needs.

T
HE RAIN HAD SLACKED
to a slow drizzle as Gavarnie stood beside the bed in his chamber. No lamps were lit and as twilight descended, the room darkened. ’Twas what he awaited. The cover of night.

Behind him, Roland climbed atop a stool and tied Gavarnie’s hair back with a leather strip. He would not so much as chance a stray wisp obscuring his vision.

Sperville paced the floor before him, shaking his head. “You cannot go,” he repeated for the hundredth time. “’Tis naught but a trap.”

Weary and sick to his soul, Gavarnie demanded, “What would you have me do? Await the return of my sons’ body parts?”

“Send someone else,” the chamberlain pleaded. “Once we discover where Gundrada and Nigel hold the boys, then we can plan.”

Gavarnie eyed Spindleshanks. The rush of rage at the missive he’d received a short while past had dwindled. Now only fear, raw and frostbitten, remained.

Your witch woman has told you all by now. Nigel and I will send our demands for the return of your sons once we reach France. Bide quietly until then, or your children will be returned to you in pieces
.

It was signed “Gundrada.”

Gavarnie scowled. Where was Golde? What did Gundrada mean when she said his witch-woman had told him all?

Sperville pulled him from his grim musings. “At least wear your armor.”

“And alert all to my presence?” Gavarnie shook his head. “The sound of ringing mail is more than I will risk. If I stand any chance, ’tis to arrive by stealth.”

Roland eased off the stool and Gavarnie nodded at the youth in the dim light. “Go and feed yourself, then rest. I will have need of you later.”

Roland bowed and quickly took himself off, closing the door behind him.

“Let me accompany you,” Sperville persisted.

Gavarnie crossed his arms and shook his head. “I would that you remain. There is much that will need your attention if I do not return.”

Sperville grimaced, his teeth gray in the failing light. “Do not speak thus, lest you curse yourself.”

“I am already cursed.” Gavarnie strode to the narrow window beside the bed and surveyed the lowering sky.

Was Golde’s absence a result of her revulsion for him? Had she again flown to Atherbrook? He could not blame her. Yet he could not believe Golde would leave if she had information concerning his children.

Unless her hatred of him was so great that . . .

He rubbed at his neck. Would that he could take back his offer to pay for her maidenhead. Would that he had not forced himself upon her. But she would never consider marriage to him. Taking her had been the only way he could think to bind her to him.

He stared at the murky twilight.
Prithee, God—and any other Being that might watch over Golde—let her be safe
.

He should not have left with Sir Hugh. Everything— Ronces and Alory, Golde—had happened in his absence. But he had not been able to resist proving Sir Hugh wrong. At Golde’s instigation, the man had become determined to travel to New Market to find his son.

He searched the glomung sky. Truth tell, he’d insisted on accompanying Sir Hugh to the village to discredit Golde, to prove to Sir Hugh that she’d lied, to throw her false abilities in her face. Then she would feel . . .

He stiffened. Feel what? Dependent upon him?

He clenched his jaw, disgusted with himself. Aye. If he proved her a fake, ruined her reputation as a seeress on the mainland, she would be unable to fend for herself. She would need a man. Him.

And it had all been for naught. Were Sir Hugh younger, he and the village boy could pass for twins.

How had Golde known? Had the boy’s mother been one of her culls? Or did Golde truly possess the gift of sight?

Have done, he commanded his thoughts. He must prepare himself for the task at hand. ’Twas well and good that the evening was overcast. ’Twould be dark sooner. He had no intention of sitting idle while his children were whisked off to France.

Suddenly the door crashed inward. Gavarnie spun, clutching the hilt of his sword, his body vibrating. There stood Henri, flanked by Bogo and Lund. And sweet Mother of God, they had Golde.

“Mi’lord,” Henri’s voice quavered, “you must listen to mistress.”

Gavarnie’s brows drew together. Golde’s forehead appeared bruised before the flickering rushlight Henri held. He strode forward, his lips thinning. Was that a puddle of water at her bare feet?

Faith, she was soaked! And filthy, as if someone had dragged her through mud. Then it came to him. His liegemen must have beaten her.

“Lowly worms,” he growled. “You will pay for your abuse.”

He jerked his blade from its sheath. They would lose their feet first, then their—

Golde held up a hand. “Cease.” Her voice sounded thick and hoarse. “Your men have done naught to me.” He reached out and jerked her against his chest. Mean-tempered, sour-tongued little she-goat. He held her tight. Even if it meant chaining her arms and legs and locking her in his chamber, he would never let her go again. She would learn to love him or he would thrash her senseless.

“If you would leave go,” she grumbled against his chest, “there is much I need say to you.”

He glanced up to see the trio of liegemen watching him. Faith, one would think they’d never seen a man hold a woman. He cleared his throat. “That will be all.”

The men bowed and backed out of the room, closing the door behind them.

Blackness engulfed the chamber at their departure. “We waste valuable time.” Golde attempted to pull from his grasp.

Refusing to release her, he called to the chamberlain. “Sperville, a light.”

Flint was struck and a candle flared. He realized Golde was shaking. Not trembling, but fair convulsing. He held her away and brushed tendrils of wet hair from her face. Her flesh was clammy and she smelled of rain. “Sperville, a blanket, and fire some coals.”