Margaret Moore - [Warrior 13] (10 page)

Loathing coupled with fear came to Radella’s eyes as she sidled away. “My man’s out back chopping wood. He’ll come in any minute and sooner if I scream.”

Benedict lunged for her and got her by the throat. “Then I’ll just have to make sure you stay quiet.”

R
eece once more slid a surreptitious glance at Anne as she rode beside him on the placid Esmerelda. Today, as she had been most of the time on this trip, Anne was just as placid as the mare, and as still and silent as if she were a tomb effigy carved from a block of stone. At least it was not raining this afternoon, as it had yesterday. Today the skies were cloudy but not heavy with rain.

Well, Anne was not quite an effigy, for once again she shifted and half turned, looking back at her brother, which she did often.

He wondered if she was still worried about jealous rivalry over Lisette. He wasn’t, for it was as he had told Anne. Once they were at Castle Gervais, neither Piers nor Trevelyan would have time or energy to fight over a girl.

He couldn’t see what they were so keen to quarrel over himself. Yes, Lisette was pretty and vivacious, but she giggled a great deal and talked quite a bit. In
fact, she reminded him of the women at court, who giggled and flirted almost constantly—the ones who were so different from Anne.

In spite of that, he never should have followed her from the king’s hall. He never should have gotten within ten feet of her, either that night or since, and God’s wounds, he never should have kissed her. After that embrace, the memories of her soft lips against his added to his growing desire—and frustration.

Soon, thank God, they would ride through the gates of Bridgeford Wells. Surely it would be easier to pay little heed to Anne when he was back at home, among familiar people and with more to take his mind off her.

He heard a voice raised in what sounded like a quarrelsome tone, and recognized it as Trevelyan’s.

“I tell you, Richard was right to kill them,” Piers declared hotly in response. “They were infidels, after all.”

“No, he wasn’t,” Trevelyan retorted. “They were prisoners. I have heard Baron DeLanyea speak of this, for he was there. Richard had them slaughtered like animals, and after Saladin had been nothing but chivalrous toward him. His men deserved the same consideration.”

Subduing a sigh, Reece glanced surreptitiously at Anne and noted the slight downturn of her lips.

“But they were infidels all the same,” Piers said, “and if he had not killed them, they would have lived to fight against the Holy Cause again.”

An old, old argument among soldiers, and one that he did not need to hear. It had been over thirty years since the battle at Acre, and Richard was long dead.

Reece twisted in his saddle and addressed his brother. “The inn is around this next bend. Ride ahead, Trevelyan, and tell them we are coming.”

Piers, like a young idiot, shot him a triumphant look.

Reece could guess why he was so pleased. That would mean he would be left near Lisette. “Piers, you go, too.”

As triumphant as Piers had been, Trevelyan laughed, then kicked his horse into a gallop. Piers scowled, then spurred his mount, making it a race.

Not the wisest idea he had ever had, Reece realized with a frown as they tore past, their horses’ hooves kicking up mud and splattering both him and Anne.

Before he could call out to them to stop acting like dolts, they rounded the bend. Then, up ahead and out of sight, somebody screamed.

Punching his horse’s side with his heels, Reece spat out a command for half their guard to remain with the women and the others to come with him.

Anne was not about to be left behind. That cry did not sound like Piers, but she would be certain he had not fallen or otherwise been injured. Miraculously, and in response to Anne’s slap on her haunches, Esmerelda broke into a run.

They rounded the bend. The soldiers who had gone
with Reece had come to a halt a short distance from Piers, Trevelyan and her husband, who had all dismounted. The boys were pale to the lips, and Reece knelt beside something.

No,
someone.

A child was on the ground. As Anne quickly got off her horse and hurried to join them, she saw Reece very carefully and gently help up a boy of about eight years old. The lad stared at his foot. His lip quivered, and Anne knew he was trying very hard not to cry.

Meanwhile, folk who looked like laborers came rushing out of a walled enclosure that was probably the inn.

“It’s your ankle, is it?” Reece asked, his voice low and calming as he took the boy’s foot in his strong hands and slowly ran his hands over it and up his calf.

The lad nodded as Reece carefully turned his foot, a look of satisfaction coming to his face that relieved Anne, too.

She wondered what Lisette would make of a warrior who had such a calm and soothing voice. So might he sound in bed as he rested after making passionate love.

“Oh, Peter, are you killed?” a woman cried as she shoved her way through the little knot of men and threw herself on her knees beside the boy.

“His ankle isn’t broken,” Reece said, laying the lad’s foot down carefully. “Have no fear, my boy. I’ve tended many an injury on the tournament field. I’m sure it’s just a sprain. I’ll bandage it for you and
you’ll have to be careful for a little while, but no lasting harm has been done.”

The lad looked as if the king himself had offered to tend his injury.

Anne thought Reece was far more impressive than the king, and she doubted Henry knew any more about wounds and injuries than she did.

Reece lifted the lad in his strong arms as easily as if he were made of straw. “Where should I take him?” he asked the woman.

“To the inn. He’s my son,” she replied, more composed now. “I’m Erwina.”

“He is not seriously harmed,” he assured her again. “You have my word on that, and of course, you’ll be compensated for the fright my brother gave you.”

Erwina’s mouth made an
O.

Trevelyan, having recovered from the shock, crossed his arms. “Piers was just as—”

Reece silenced him with a look. “Bring my horse.”

Peter in his arms, he marched off toward the inn, Erwina scurrying behind him like a subdued hen.

They could hear Reece’s friendly words all the way to the gate. “Why, this puts me in mind of the time Lord Rothenbury got knocked off his horse. He was built a lot like you, Peter. Sturdy. But you will be taller, I think.”

Anne was sure the lad would be paying little attention to his aching ankle with such a companion.

Meanwhile, Trevelyan grabbed the rein of Reece’s horse as well as his own, and stomped after him.
Tempting though it was to follow at once, Anne decided to find out what had happened from Piers.

“We were riding down the road,” her brother explained in answer to her query, “when all of a sudden, the boy stepped out from those bushes there.”

He pointed to some yews and she saw a basket lying nearby, with chestnuts scattered beside it. The lad must have been gathering them in the wood.

“He stopped dead in his tracks when we called out a warning. When he finally tried to get out of the road, he fell. I suppose that’s when he twisted his ankle.”

“Then no horse struck him?”

“No.”

Her relief that neither Piers nor Trevelyan were directly responsible for the boy’s injury gave way to annoyance. “And you both
had
to gallop?”

Staring at the ground, Piers shrugged one reluctant shoulder. “Trevelyan started it.”

“No, he didn’t. You both went off at a gallop together, like two ninnies. Do you think Sir Reece is going to be impressed with such childishness?”

“I don’t care what he thinks of me.”

Anne put her knuckle under her brother’s chin and raised it so that he had to look at her. “You should.”

Defiance gleamed in her little brother’s bright blue eyes. “Why?
I’m
not married to him.”

Anne’s hand fell and she stepped back. “Because there is much he can teach you, too.”

“I’m sorry, Anne,” Piers said, his defiance dwindling. “I know you didn’t have a choice about mar
rying him, just as I don’t have a choice to be here, either. I should try to use this opportunity as best I can. But that Trevelyan, he’s a smug, arrogant, spoiled—”

“He’s Urien Fitzroy’s son, so it would not be wise to cross him.” She put her hand lightly on Piers’s arm. “Not in anything.” She glanced meaningfully at Lisette as the cart came creaking round the bend in the road.

Piers colored and shook her hand off. “You think I should just give up and let him win?”

“What is there to win? A girl’s notice? You will have plenty of time for that after you are trained. And horse racing, too. You have more important things to do with your time while you are with the Fitzroys. Come, we should get to the inn.”

“That boy really did just come out of nowhere, like a spirit,” Piers reiterated as they walked toward the enclosure.

“I’m sure it happened as you said. We shan’t say anything more about it.”

Obviously grateful for that, Piers said no more.

The inn was not an impressive place. The yard was dirt, hard packed, and the surrounding wall made of simple, undressed stone. Chickens scratched near the stable and pigs grunted in a sty at the far end, well away from the main building, which was wattle-and-daub and timber, and not very large.

As Piers took charge of Esmerelda, Anne went inside and joined the little group gathered by the injured
boy. Straw covered the floor, also likely dirt, and the fire in the central hearth smoked rather badly.

Peter lay on a bench, well cushioned with goose down pillows, while Reece bandaged his ankle. The boy gazed up at his physician with wide-eyed awe, his pain apparently minor or completely forgotten as Reece regaled him with stories of the hapless Lord Rothenbury. Erwina bustled about fetching Reece ale and bread and cheese, each one apparently requiring a separate journey to the kitchen.

Anne felt utterly unnecessary.

Then Peter spotted her, and his eyes widened even more until he resembled a startled owl.

Reece glanced at her over his shoulder. “This is my wife, Lady Anne,” he said as if Peter were a high-ranking noble and so worthy of great deference.

“How do you do?” she answered in the same manner.

Peter seemed too stunned to respond. Erwina, however, made up for his silence.

“Welcome! Welcome, my lady!” she cried. “What would you have to eat? Anything you want, my lady, provided we’ve got it, for you and your excellent husband. I can wring the neck of a few chickens in a trice and have them on the spit in a nonce. Or there’s some ham, well cured by own hands and the pride of the shire, if I do say so myself. Or some beef stew? I made some yesterday that should be even better today. A meat pasty? Some cheese? Apples?”

“Roasted chicken would be most welcome,” Anne replied. “Enough so that all our party may have some.”

“Of course, of course and not a bit of trouble!” the woman cried, hurrying off.

Anne had barely taken a seat on another bench when the sound of squawking told her the woman was making good on her offer. Meanwhile, the rest of their party began to enter the main room, so she had no chance to speak to Reece.

The soldiers were clearly anxious for some ale, and once the chickens were plucked and roasting, Erwina hurried to fetch it.

Meanwhile, Reece tied off the cloth bandage, then straightened, smiling down at his young patient in a way that made Anne’s heart lurch in her breast.

So a doting father might regard his own son.

So might Reece look upon a child of theirs, if only he wanted her for his lawful wife.

She stifled a sigh as he sat beside her and reached for the mug of ale Erwina had brought. He silently offered it to Anne first, but she shook her head.

“I didn’t realize you could tend injuries,” she said after a moment, trying to break the tension caused by his presence so close to her.

He shrugged. “Such knowledge comes in handy. My father insists all his charges learn how to tell if a bone is broken or not, and how to set it if it is. They also learn how to deal with other injuries one might get on a battlefield.”

She nodded at his side. “Did your brother look after that?”

Reece made a small, rueful smile. “No. We are not so confident to refuse a physician if one is nearby.”
He looked away, then sat up straighter and surveyed the room. “Where are the boys and your maid?”

Concentrating on Reece, she had not realized they were not there. “I don’t know.”

Reece swiftly got to his feet and marched from the inn, Anne right behind him.

Lisette was retying the canvas over the baggage cart, a small chest containing Anne’s toilette articles at her feet. A groom was leading the last of the horses into the commodious stable. The boys were nowhere to be seen.

Reece cocked his head in the direction of the kitchen, and then she heard it, too—the muffled sounds of a fistfight.

With a grunt of exasperation and annoyance, Reece marched toward the back of the kitchen. Anne had to trot to keep up with her husband’s long strides as they rounded the corner of the building.

Her stomach knotted with dread, while Reece blurted out a shockingly colorful curse. Piers and Trevelyan were rolling on the ground, pummeling each other.

Reece dashed forward and she was right behind. She had no idea what Reece was going to do, but her first impulse was, as always, to protect Piers.

She skittered to a halt as Reece grabbed the two boys by the back of their mud-covered tunics and hauled them to their feet. He let them go and they stumbled to regain their balance. It was immediately apparent that no serious physical harm had been done.

There was no blood flowing, and they would probably have a few bruises, but that was all.

Evincing a patience she would never have believed a warrior could possess, Reece simply looked at them for a long moment. Panting, they glared at each other, then at him. Slowly they began to calm down.

“Now, what in the name of God do you think you’re doing, rolling around like pigs in the mud?” Reece finally asked when their breathing returned to normal.

She wasn’t sure if she should stay or go, but one thing she was sure of: given that Reece was apparently not going to take out his anger physically, it would probably be better if she did not speak. Piers might be more upset by what he would consider a sister’s meddling if she did.