Snow in July (11 page)

One of Waldron’s men, Alain mused, probably a gate sentry. But why the urgency? If Kendra had returned, there would be no need to alert her father. Someone else had to be at the gate, someone unknown to the sentries and demanding the thane’s permission to enter. Someone desperate enough—or powerful enough—to refuse the sentries’ injunction to camp outside until morning.

Foreboding gripped his gut.

The rider appeared a few minutes later, raced down the staircase, caught his horse, mounted, and spurred it toward the main gate. Alain followed their progress until the angle of the hall blocked his view. He glanced at the manor house in time to see a disheveled but determined Waldron emerge, descend the stairs, and stride toward the hall as briskly as his limp allowed.

The moment the thane shoved open the doors and crossed the threshold, he began bellowing to rouse his men and order the torches lit. The hall erupted into frenzied activity as the men started awake and rose to don armor and retrieve swords and shields from recesses around the hall. Even the hounds, including Alain’s erstwhile companion, scrambled about, adding their canine voices to the din.

Alain remained beside the window, out of the way and yet feeling very much like the center of a whirlpool. He couldn’t suppress the notion that, if this whirlpool had anything to do with Kendra, he would get sucked into it too.

As torchlight flooded the hall, Waldron stepped onto the dais, straightening his cap and tugging at his tunic. Rather than seating himself at his tall-backed chair behind the table, however, he remained in front of it, stroking his chin and pacing. One of the retainers approached Waldron and asked a question Alain couldn’t hear. Emphatically, the thane shook his silvered head and spoke something else. The retainer saluted with his sword and turned to order the men into two ranks, forming an aisle from the doors to the dais. Waldron’s lined face adopted a look of grim satisfaction as he leaned against the table to await his visitor.

Visitors, Alain amended as he watched three burly men swagger into the hall, escorted at spearpoint by more of Waldron’s warriors. The spears appeared to be no threat to these men, who seemed capable of using the weapons to pick their teeth. At a nod from Waldron, the rest of the thane’s men drew their swords, but even that gesture went ignored by the outlaws. For, by their shabby dress, vulgar speech, and arrogant demeanor, Alain realized these men could be nothing else.

Had the Glastonbury band extended their range to Edgarburh?

A diminutive, hooded figure was being held by one of the outlaws, head bowed and crying softly.

Please, Holy Mother, not Kendra!

Fists and jaw clenched, he strode toward her but halted behind Waldron’s men. As a foreign visitor and, more to the point, a supposedly low-ranking one, he had no right to disrupt these proceedings.

Despising his helplessness, and hers, he maneuvered for a better view while her captor planted a hairy hand in the middle of her back and shoved her. She fell to her hands and knees with a scream. When she raised her head, the hood fell back, revealing a tangled cascade of auburn hair. Alain recognized her as the maidservant who had prepared Ruaud’s chamber. His thanksgiving dissolved into dread when she turned to reveal blood, bruises, and terror disfiguring her face.

“What is the meaning of this? Where is my daughter and the rest of her escort?” Waldron thundered.

Getting no answer save insolent grins, he beckoned to the maidservant. She jerked a worried glance over her shoulder and scuttled forward to huddle, sobbing, at her lord’s feet. Waldron bent down to speak with her in tones impossible to overhear, rubbing her back. She responded with a tremulous nod and more whimpers. Waldron told her something else, and she rose and fled through the rear door leading to the kitchens.

The thane stood to watch her departure for a few moments before folding his arms and sharpening his glare. “You men,” he addressed the outlaws in a low, hard voice, “had better explain yourselves now, or I will have my men spit you where you stand, cut off your rotting members, and feed them to you.”

Alain raised an eyebrow.

The outlaws guffawed. The biggest of the three, whose dark red hair hung in greasy strings and whose mustache looked even darker and greasier, spread his hands in a gesture of mock surrender. “’Twould be your choice, indeed, Thane Waldron.” He cast a measuring glance at Waldron’s warriors. “I’ve nae doubt you can defeat us.” The outlaw’s grin turned feral in the shifting torchlight. “But then you’d never learn the fate of your precious daughter.”

“What?” Waldron roared, echoing Alain’s sentiment. “Lady Kendra—”

“Is safe enough, my lord.” The man exchanged a swift look with his companions. “Or was, last time we saw her. I canna say the same for her men. Likely they’ve fattened a flock of ravens.”

No! She can’t be gone!

Yes, Alain’s rational self argued. Evidence abounded, not just in the outlaws’ words and the maidservant’s wounds, but in the thane’s ashen countenance. Even the men-at-arms seemed less sure of themselves, more dejected, as if their lady’s abduction had robbed them of their self-esteem.

Alain wasn’t immune either. Like Persephone, Kendra had been ripped from his world, and his springlike joy had vanished.

A stirring woke within him akin to the battle rage that had earned him Norman accolades and a Saxon spear. He, Robert Alain de Bellencombre, had grown weary of the outlaws’ cat-and-mouse game.

Waldron’s face grew stern. “How am I to believe you have her, that this isn’t some idiotic ruse?” Alain flinched at his future
beau-père’s
choice of words.

The spokesman executed a sloppy bow. “Thought you’d ne’er ask, my lord.” His fingers dipped into a fur pouch at his belt and withdrew a length of black velvet cord. As the silver pendant swung free to gleam in the torchlight, Waldron blanched. “Ah, you know this wee bauble. Very fortunate for you—and for her.”

Alain thought he had seen Kendra wearing something similar but couldn’t be certain. He whispered a query to one of Waldron’s guardsmen.

“’Tis her ladyship’s and no mistake,” the soldier whispered back. “Not one like it in all the world. Holds a lock of my lord Delwin’s hair, it does.”

Alain’s head snapped up. Delwin? Another suitor? One so dear that she cradled a lock of his hair at her bosom?

Before Alain could question the guard further, Waldron extended his hand in an unspoken demand to examine the pendant. When the outlaw refused, the thane said, “I must be certain that it’s not a forgery. Push on the top loop to release the catch, and show me what’s inside.”

The outlaw complied. After a few moments’ fumbling, the locket sprang open in his palm. He inverted the piece, and a pale wisp fluttered to the slate. With a pained expression, Waldron scooped the hairs off the floor and closed them into his fist. The outlaw shut the case and stashed it and its cord in his pouch.

“Ready for our price, Thane Waldron?” asked the spokesman. The thane nodded once. “Fifty gold marks—”

“No!” Alain shouldered between two startled guards to face the godless rabble who had the audacity to threaten his wife-to-be and her father. Whether they belonged to the Glastonbury band or not, if this abduction had been planned, and these men had known about Kendra’s Norman bridegroom, then the ambush at the inn made abrupt and terrible sense. Either way, Alain would learn the truth or else die trying. “Take me instead.”

“You, Norman?” The outlaw spokesman eyed him skeptically, similar looks crossing the others’ faces. “For what purpose?”

“Ransom. The king will pay thrice that for one of his”—he swallowed a groan—“one of his men.” He hoped it didn’t sound as lame to them as it did to his own ears.

“A hundred and fifty? For a squire?” Waldron challenged.

Alain felt heat rise in his cheeks, and not just from anger. Ignoring it, he glared at the outlaws to weigh his chances, pondering whether to reveal himself as a knight. Armed with wits and luck as well as armor and weapons, he could prevail alone against the three. As their captive, he’d have just wits and luck to rely upon—if that much.

He bowed to the thane. “Your pardon, my lord. In my earnestness to help the Lady Kendra, I forgot my station.” Alain turned to address the outlaws. “I am certain I can convince my master, Sir Ruaud d’Auvay, to offer his life in exchange for Lady Kendra’s. The king will make it well worth your while to return both of us, I assure you.”

While the outlaws drew aside to debate the issue, watched by the thane’s men, Waldron laid a hand on Alain’s shoulder. “You may not own the trappings of a knight, lad, but you do possess the heart of one.”

Alain acknowledged the praise with a brief smile. “If they accept this proposal, my lord,” he whispered, “Sir Ruaud and I shall not go meekly.”

Waldron glanced at the outlaws, who were still murmuring and gesturing among themselves. He regarded Alain for a long moment, expression wistful. “’Tis a pity Kendra is promised to Sir Robert. I suspect she could come to like you.”

“I would be most honored to earn her favor.”
And her love.
Alain chewed the inside of his lip to keep his smile from broadening. “But it is my fondest wish that my lady Kendra find happiness and love with Sir Robert de Bellencombre.”

“Fairly spoken, squire.” Waldron gave Alain’s shoulder a squeeze. “I pray you can speak as fairly to Sir Ruaud.”

Alain understood the implied command, bowed, and departed the hall. The outlaws, too deep in their deliberations, paid him no heed, but he detected an air of cautious respect emanating from some of Waldron’s men as he strode past them.

Outside, he broke into a dead run.

He burst into Ruaud’s chamber, panting from his dash across the yard and up the manor house’s stairs. Ruaud was sitting on a stool near the hearth, his back braced against the wall and his hauberk draped across his knees. A pot of sand stood within easy reach.

“Well come, squire.” Ruaud grinned, brandishing a fistful of sand. “You have been remiss in your duties of late.”

Alain slammed the door. “Lady Kendra has been captured by outlaws. They have demanded fifty in gold. There is a chance they will agree to take both of us in exchange for her life.” He advanced into the room and lowered his voice. “There is also a chance they belong to the band I have been commanded to investigate.”

“What?” Ruaud threw the sand down. Most of it missed the pot and hit the floor rushes with an angry hiss. Without bothering to dust his hands, he heaved the mail aside, stood, and stalked up to Alain. “Bleeding wounds of God! Are you mad or just stupid?”

Arms crossed, Alain parried Ruaud’s glare with his own. “Neither.” He hoped. “There are only three—”

“Three.” Ruaud snorted. “Plus the bastards guarding Lady Kendra at Glastonbury or wherever the hell they have taken her, and their sentries, and God knows how many more.”

“We can take them all, I know it.” Alain’s conviction had never burned hotter.

“Take them? With what? Our bare hands?” Ruaud plucked at his tunic. “We would be lucky to be left with the clothes on our backs.”

He refused to let Ruaud’s skepticism quench his resolve. “Our bare hands if we must. Our heads most assuredly. We will have to stay alert to the slightest opportunity and follow the other’s lead without warning. I doubt they will let us do much talking.”

Ruaud thrust his head to within a finger’s length of Alain’s face, squinting and sniffing speculatively. “You do not seem drunk, but that is the only reason I can fathom for this lunacy.” Giving a dismissive wave, he withdrew to his hauberk’s mound of woven steel rings. “Come back after you have slept it off.”

“I am not drunk.” Fists clenched, Alain took two paces and stopped. Any closer and he might succumb to the temptation of throttling his friend. “I shall not stand idle while my”—lest someone overhear, he reined in his voice—“while Lady Kendra remains in peril. Since you are not with me in this, I shall go after her myself.”

He spun and headed for the door, mind reeling. Ruaud’s refusal meant having to track the outlaws instead. Burdened with Waldron’s gold, they would return to their lair. Then he would need to devise a way to get past these three, plus the lair’s sentries, Kendra’s guards and, as Ruaud had speculated, God alone knew how many others. Minuscule odds, at best.

So be it. He grasped the door’s handle.

“Alain, wait.” Not a command but a plea. Upon releasing the handle, Alain turned to find Ruaud studying him, an odd pairing of resignation and pride fighting for domination on his ruddy face. “You think she is worth the risk?”

“Without question.”

“Bloody fool, I knew you would say that. But I believe you.” Ruaud stooped to lift his mail. “Come and lend me a hand.” His tone sounded unusually subdued.

“You will surrender, then?”

“Against my better judgment, yes.” Holding up the mail, Ruaud nodded toward the pole leaning on the wall, and Alain retrieved it. Together they worked it through the armholes and set the pole and mail on the rack beside Alain’s. Ruaud gazed at their armor and weapons. “Someone must guard your back.”

Alain’s elation was brief. Ruaud’s help increased his chances of success a hundredfold, but a hundred times minuscule was still minuscule. “You do not have to do this.”

Laughing, he slapped his belly. “I have grown lazy with William’s peace. Soft. A little exercise will do me good.” He elbowed Alain’s ribs. “You too. Being taken captive will enliven the sport.”

Hastings had taught Alain never to view killing men as sport, but he understood that his friend meant to cheer him. He gripped Ruaud’s shoulders. “We may regret our decisions ere this is over.”

“Hah. At least you have not taken complete leave of your senses.” Ruaud rolled his eyes. “First the squire ruse, now this. What next? Shall we shave our pates and pose as bishops to visit the Pope?”

Alain had to laugh at the ludicrous image. “I doubt you would pass muster in a tonsure. But I do appreciate your help.” Visions of Kendra, alone and terrified, battered his brain. The mental assault fortified his resolve. “So will she.”