The Wolfe (28 page)

They were approaching the open gates
and the crowd was thick with people welcoming them home. Flowers were pelting
them like rain. Jordan turned her attention to the interior of the bailey she
was now able to catch a glimpse of and tried to ignore the stench in her
nostrils of that horrible moat.

She put her fingers to her nose. “Bloody
hell, that is
awful
.”

She felt William chuckle. “One gets
used to it.”

“Never,” she said emphatically. “What
do ye have in there? Rotting bodies?”

“Actually, yes,” William replied and
she heard Paris chortle. “Quite a few.”

She turned and scowled at him in
disgust. “And ye have the nerve to call the Scots barbaric?”

Before he could answer, Jordan felt
a sharp pain to her temple that rocked her so hard she would have fallen from
the horse had William not caught her. Her hand flew to her head and came away
sticky with warm blood. Wildly, she thought she had been shot in the head with an
arrow or a thrown dirk but felt nothing protrude, just lots of blood. Stars
danced before her eyes.

A scream went up as Paris, Ranulf
and Deinwald dove into the crowd of terrorized peasants, yelling and knocking
people out of the way. Jordan’s hand was back on her head as if she could press
away the throbbing pain. She still didn’t know what happened and wondered
briefly if she were dying.

“What happ…?” she tried to say.

William cut her off. “To the bailey.”
he shouted. “Bring the offender to me.”

His yelling hurt her already aching
head. William started to dig his spurs into his horse when a woman ran up to him
holding out a huge square of linen. Jordan glance over at her; she was holding
out an apron.

“Put this on her head, Sir William,”
the woman instructed sternly. “Stop the blood before she bleeds all over that surcoat.”

William snatched the cloth from her
without a word and pressed it to Jordan’s head even as he spurred his destrier
into a canter. Jordan opened her mouth to thank the woman but suddenly they
were rushing madly through the gates and into the outer bailey.

“English, slow down.” she snapped. “Yer
making my head throb worse than it already does. What hit me?”

He did not say anything until he
slowed his horse as they passed through another set of gates leading into the
inner bailey.

“Someone threw a rock, Jordan,” his
voice sounded quite angry. He pulled the horse to a halt. “Let me have a look.”

She pulled the linen away. Her
flower wreath was smashed and bloodied on the left side of her head and her
beautiful hair was matted. He tore off his gauntlets and carefully picked her
hair apart until the cut was revealed.

It was a decent nick, about an inch
or so long. It was still oozing but beginning to clot. He let out a ragged breath.

“Thank God, it’s not deep,” he
gently replaced the linen. “I am so sorry, love.”

The other knights were surrounding
them and William’s attention was diverted. Kieran reined his destrier
immediately next to them because Jemma was near hysterics. She demanded that she
be allowed to tend Jordan’s wound and insisted William remove her cousin from
his horse before she passed out from sheer pain. True, Jordan’s head was
reeling from pain and shock, but also from quite another reason.

He had called her
love
.

Sweet Jesu’
, it almost made
her pain worth it just to hear him say that. She wondered if he had even
realized he had said it. The bailey was thick with people rushing forward to
assist them. William was barking orders faster than she could keep up with what
he was saying but she gathered that her wound would be tended to before she met
the earl.

He sounded authoritative and
controlled. He wasn’t even talking about her anymore. It occurred to her that
now that they had arrived at Northwood, she would be another’s charge. He had
fulfilled his duty and kept her safe for the duration of the journey and now
the duty would be turned over to someone else.

In addition to being in pain she was
also depressed. She didn’t want to be separated from him, not even for a
moment.

Paris came thundering into the inner
barley with a youth held out in his big arm; Deinwald and Ranulf were flanking
him. The lad, no more than fourteen, banged against the side of the destrier as
the animal came to a stop.

Paris let go and the boy tumbled
heavily to the dirt as dust swirled in the air about him. Even though he was
released, there was nowhere to go. Knights were surrounding him.

“The perpetrator, My lord,” Paris
said, then his voice dulled. “‘Tis John Winebald’s boy.”

Behind her, Jordan heard William’s
visor go up. “Are you sure it was him?”

“Aye, we have witnesses,” Paris
nodded grimly.

It had gone eerily quiet. Jordan,
puzzled, perked up the least bit in her curiosity of the lad who had pelted
her. She already knew why he had done it. Yet she wondered why the knights had
grown solemn upon discovering this lad was the criminal.

In the distance she heard a male
voice, higher pitched, speaking quite rapidly. The voice grew closer and
William vaulted from his horse. Jordan noticed how all of the knights stood a
little taller and she turned to see what had piqued their attention.

A fat man with graying reddish hair
approached them, followed by several well-dressed people. He was talking with
great animation, waving his hands and gesturing. William was moving to meet him.

Jordan knew it was the earl without
even being told. She stared at him quite curiously without any real reaction at
all. She had no idea what to expect and, therefore, was not disappointed.

However, she was conscious of her
appearance. She knew she had blood in her hair and imagined she looked terrible.
She wished to God she had been allowed the opportunity to clean herself before
being introduced to her betrothed. There was nothing to do now but make up with
manners what she lacked in appearance.

William intercepted the earl and
they spoke for a couple of minutes. Jordan could see the earl’s face redden
with what he was being told. Then, they were coming toward her and she braced
herself, but they passed right by her. They went directly to the young boy who
had hit her with a rock.

The earl looked grimly at the youth.
“Well, lad,” he demanded. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

The boy was ashen but he looked at
the earl bravely. “Nothing, sire, except it was the first time I have ever missed
my target. My aim is usually flawless, like my father’s. I was aiming for her
forehead.”

The earl’s face rippled with anger. “Do
you have any idea what you have done? That woman you were trying to kill is a
bride from the king.”

“She is a Scot.” Spittle sprayed
from the boy’s mouth. “Her people killed my father, one of the best knights who
ever served you. I want her dead.”

The earl was still red, but he was
cooling. “Do not remind me who your father was. He was a friend and I know that
he would be ashamed of you for what you have done.” He turned to William. He
almost looked regretful for what he was going to say. “Twenty-five lashes and
turn him out. I do not want to see him again.”

Atop William’s horse, Jordan gasped.
The sentence was far too harsh for the crime but she dare not interfere. Yet
her heart ached for the boy who had lost his father. Had she stood in the lad’s
shoes she would have felt the same.

Was all English justice this severe?
The earl had issued the orders without as much as a moment for thought. Dark
trepidation swept over her. What would the earl do to her for any mere
transgression she might cause? Would William be ordered to lash her as well?

William did not hesitate in carrying
out the orders but his heart was breaking for the young man, the only child of
a former knight and his wife. He knew the boy took care of his mother and they
lived in a small hut in the village. If the boy went, the mother would go and
he was not sure how they would survive. But he could not let his emotions
interfere with his duty.

“Strip him,” he ordered.

The knights began to move
purposefully. Deinwald and Michael stripped the boy from his tunic while Ranulf
fetched the whip with the cat-o-nine tails. It was an evil-looking device with
a tassel on the end of it with tiny metal balls attached. William, meanwhile,
had taken off all of his armor from the waist up. He accepted the whip as if
accepting a cup of wine, casually and without a word.

Jordan was literally sick to her
stomach. She would have liked nothing better than to vomit but the earl and his
cronies were watching from several feet away and she would not give them the
satisfaction of seeing her weakness.

She could not even look at the man;
she did not even know if he had given her a second glance and she did not care.
She already hated him and she hated Northwood.

Deinwald and Michael had dragged the
lad over to two poles set a few feet apart. There were leather ties secured to
the sides of the poles and the tied the young mange arms one to each. His white
broad back, pure as the driven snow, was blatantly displayed, awaiting
permanent disfiguration from the torturous whip.

Jordan began to breathe as if a
weight were sitting on her chest. When she saw the youthful skin on the
adolescent’s back she felt bile rise in her throat and fought with all her
might to control it. It was most difficult with her pounding head and dry
mouth. Oh, God, wasn’t there some way to stop this insanity? She knew the boy
had his reasons; not to say she agreed with his actions, but everyone’s
emotions had been running high. Being so young, he had yet learned to control
his.

William approached the lad. The boy
had not so much as twitched a muscle. Jordan saw what was about to occur and
wished she could hang her head, but she would not.  She would not display
anything other than indifference even though she was a quivering wreck inside.
She glanced over her right shoulder at Jemma, who was sitting quite stoically
in Kieran’s saddle. Kieran stood on the ground beside her.

She’s enjoying this,
Jordan
thought with disgust. A harsh retort sprang to her lips but she bit it off,
instead, turning back around to face the scene before her. She was heartsick.

The twenty-five lashes went by
agonizingly slow. With every crack she tried not to flinch, looking at the
scene but not seeing it. Instead, she was focusing on the green hills of Langton,
her favorite loch, the pet rabbit she left behind. Anything but the blood and
violence before her. Her mind was flying far from Northwood even though her
body was in a vicious struggle for her attention with its pain and discomfort.

A hawk circled overhead. She heard
it, wishing it was she in the bird’s body; free to soar away from all of this
and live a life of grace and dignity. The life that had been chosen for her
sickened her.

Before she realized it, William was
handing the whip over to Ranulf and moving back in her direction. She noticed
as he approached that he had not even worked up a sweat. She could not look at
the boy anymore, her last glance had shown her a swollen bloodied back and she could
not stomach another glimpse. She was not surprised that she felt a distaste for
William as well.

Her head was killing her and she was
feeling nauseous. William reached her side but she would not look at him. She
thought he was going to lead her away on the destrier but instead she felt his
hands on her sides.

“Come, my lady,” he sounded dull. “‘Tis
time to meet your bridegroom.”

Jordan’s legs felt as if they could
not have supported the weight of a baby. She gripped William’s forearms with a
death grip trying to steady her shaking, spinning head. They were on the
opposite side of the animal, hiding them from the eyes of nearly everyone. She
was trying so hard to be strong and push him away that she prematurely waved
off William’s support only to find herself slumped against his chest a half
second later.

“You are not well,” his voice was
soft, husky. “Let me carry you into the castle. You can greet the earl when you
are feeling better.”

“Nay,” she insisted stiffly. “I will
walk and I will greet him now.”

“The earl will understand. You will
do as I say.” He waved Paris over to them, placing her in his second’s capable
arms. “I shall be right back,” he told them.

Even as she leaned into Paris she
felt her strength returning just a bit. Paris, she noticed, was gently patting
her on the back and it almost made her smile. But not quite. At this moment she
did not even like him for not halting what had just occurred.

“What will become of the lad?” she
asked softly.

“He will make his living elsewhere,”
Paris replied simply.

She sighed, trying to stand on her
own. “What happened to him…was barbaric,” she said. “I would have been
satisfied by other less severe means.”

Paris looked at her. “‘Twas not for
you to decide, my lady, but your compassion is touching.”