Wicked (30 page)

“To the stables, where you can show me how well you ride.” Judith ducked under the low beam of the door and hobbled outside into the bright fall sunshine, where all of Grace Dieu stood, lined up, watching, waiting, their faces and eyes curious.

Judith looked at them, then turned back as Sofia walked outside in full mail, a tall and striking beauty whose glossy black hair had grown to her chin, whose bearing was grander and taller after her training. She was every ounce the warrior.

Sofia looked at Judith, who nodded, and Sofia raised her fist into the air the way the knights did when they bested a man at a tourney.

But then Sofia let out a loud and raucous whoop of glee. “I did it! I did it!”

And the cheers that filled the air carried almost all the way to London.

“Sweet Mary! This sword
weighs as much as my horse!”

Sister Judith smiled. “Aye, ’tis a training sword. It is twice the normal weight of a sword.”

Sofia scowled at the sword. “Why?”

“To help you get used to it more quickly and to build strength in your arm and shoulder. Here, now. This is called a pel.”

“Looks like a wooden post to me.”

“That’s because that’s exactly what it is. Now you will vanquish it. This is your opponent. Practice!”

Judith stepped back and leaned against a post near the stables, and waited.

Sofia did exactly as Judith thought she would. She raised the sword high, just as Judith had the first time, and sliced a horizontal path right into the pel.

Judith could almost feel the jar of the strike ring through Sofia’s arm, to her shoulder and probably right to her teeth. It must have hurt like the Devil.

The girl cursed so foul a word even Judith was dumbfounded.

“Sofia!” Judith crossed herself and gave Sofia a stern look, but the girl did not notice.

She was sitting on the ground, the sword next to her, her hand dangling limply as she gripped her wrist and rocked back and forth.

Judith hobbled over. There were tears in Sofia’s eyes. Oh, she remembered that pain well. She bent down and picked up the sword, then turned its hilt toward Sofia. “Again.”

A fortnight later they worked on the bow, a month after that, the quarterstaff and then came the day when Judith set up a quintain.

Sofia was on horseback, her mailed feet strong in the stirrups.

“Lower the lance a bit. That’s right. Now tuck the shaft more tightly into your armpit. There. So the lance is firmly seated.” Judith limped back a bit. “Now all you must do is strike it! Go!”

Sofia kicked her mount and bent low. She hit the quintain squarely, then turned back to grin at Judith.

The quintain spun around, building speed. It hit her hard in the back and knocked her from the horse.

Sofia lay facedown in the dirt. Her shoulders were shaking. Judith watched for a moment, concerned. She thought perhaps she was truly hurt, to be crying so hard. She hobbled over and knelt down at the fallen girl.

“Sofia?” Judith put her hand on her shoulder.

“I forgot to duck,” she said, then turned her face to Judith. She was laughing, laughing really, really hard, as if it were the most amusing thing to be knocked clean off her mount and flat on her face.

“I shall do it again and duck this time!” Sofia climbed back onto the horse, trotted some distance away, then set her lance and took off. She made a perfect strike, then ducked and kept riding until she could safely turnher mount.

The girl was an amazing rider, better than Judith and certainly better than most men. She had never seen the like of it. The lance was easily learned; it had to do with technique, angle, and the right strike, but the true power, the truly skilled like William the Marshall had been, were those rare horsemen who could ride, ride like this young woman.

Sofia reined in front of Judith, kneed the mount up rampant, then turned the powerful horse in a tight, dancing circle. The horse’s front legs came down with a thud and Sofia leaned forward, stroking him and cooing to him as if he were her pet. She looked at Judith, grinned with cocky assurance. “So . . . what’s next?”

Judith wanted to laugh at her audacity, but an intelligent person did not give Sofia that much rein. She looked the girl in the eye. “Now you must do it all again.”

“Again! Everything? But it’s taken months!”

“Aye, that it has. It takes squires years to learn a knight’s skills.”

“But they’re men!”

“Your humility astounds me,” Judith said dryly.

“It should.” Sofia shook her head proudly. Her shorn hair had grown past chin length, was tousled and wavy and so black it picked up sunlight. “I have learnt these skills swiftly.”

“Aye. Now you have trained, and understand the basic techniques.”

“Then why must I do it all over again?”

“Because . . . ” Sister Judith turned and started to leave, but then she stopped and cast a quick glance over her shoulder. “Now you must do it all wearing armor.”

Then she crossed the tilting yard, ignoring the sound of that vile curse word as she silently prayed for Sofia’s immortal soul.

Merrick de Beaucourt
took the stairs up the old tower at an even pace, his expression schooled, but his hand near the hilt of his sword, a dagger in his boot and belt, and his mind alert. He was a large man, tall enough that he was used to looking down at most men. But the Scotsmen who were ahead, leading the way up the steps of this stone keep, were a good head taller, with massive shoulders and arms that garnered any sane warrior’s respect.

Barely two steps behind him was a contingent of his own men-at-arms, a precaution negotiated with the angry Scots who held de Clare ransom. Merrick followed the Scots through the winding, narrow tower of a crusty keep built on an outcropping of a massive granite mountain.

He cast a quick glance out the arrow slit and could see nothing but air and the misty crags of mountains in the distance. The positioning of the place made it impenetrable. It had taken him no more than a few minutes to see he would not be storming
the
place to release his friend. No one could ever argue that the Scots weren’t shrewd.

One of them put a key into a huge iron lock. He opened the door and gave Merrick a quick, dour look and a nod of his head. “Yer man is inside.”

Merrick entered the room alone.

De Clare was standing with his back to him, his stance straight and stiff. He suspected this was how he greeted his keepers. Were he in Tobin’s boots, he would be mad as hell, too.

“Is that any way to greet the man who taught you to wield a sword?”

Tobin spun around. “God’s eyes, Merrick! ’Tis good to see you.” He started toward him.

“I thought I taught you to fight better. How the hell did you get yourself locked in a tower?”

“Go straight to the Devil.” Tobin said, but there was relief and something else on his face.

Merrick gripped Tobin’s shoulders and shook him. “’Tis good to see you well.”

“Aye. They feed us well enough, if you can stomach oats and hare or hart. We are allowed to exercise in the bailey below, even in the godforsaken rain. I think all it does in Scotland is rain.”

Merrick walked over to a table and hitched his hip on it. His look was direct. “So tell me what is going on?”

“They think their king has betrayed them.”

“Alexander has repeatedly refused to pay homage for his English lands. Even though Edward is his wife’s brother. Why do the Scots think he is betraying them?”

Tobin drove a hand through his black hair. “It has something to do with a strip of land, a loch and another one of their ancient castles. Edward wants the place. God only knows why. Alexander is caught in a quandary. If he does not give the place over, Edward will take his lands in England. But the old Scot who owns the place has the support of the nearby clans. He will not give up without enough of English gold to make him forget he ever owned the place. And then there is the fact that the Scots do not trust Edward.”

“Aye. They have seen what has happened to the Welsh. I would not trust him if I were a Scot.”

“I do not trust him and I am his vassal,” Tobin murmured.

Merrick shook his head. “I know that I am his good friend and I do not know what he is about lately.”

“So.” Tobin looked at him in expectation. “How soon do I get out of here? I assume you have brought the ransom.”

Merrick took a deep breath, then exhaled. “Edward has taken all the scutage he dares. Parliament meets in less than three months. He cannot exact any more gold this year or he will have an uprising on his hands.”

Tobin just stood there.

“He wants your father to pay it.”

De Clare swore viciously, then slammed his hand on a table. He stood there, his fist on the table, his head down, his breathing deep and labored.

“Your father will have the ransom here in less than a fortnight.”

“No,” Tobin said.

“Dammit, lad. Don’t be so pigheaded!”

“I want nothing from my father.”

“Listen to me. I can only get together half the sum. And that will take a month, perhaps longer. I will go to FitzAlan and some others and—”

“Sell my horses.”

“What?”

Tobin faced him, his face and jaw tight. “I said sell the de Clare stock. The whole goddamn stable of them if you must. They are mine, not my father’s.”

“It will take time.”

“Fine. I do not care how long it takes as long as I do not have to accept anything from my father. Nothing.”

“I cannot change your mind.”

Tobin shook his head.

Merrick straightened. “Then I’d best be off. The sooner I go the sooner you will be freed.” He crossed the room and took de Clare by the shoulders, embraced him, then stepped back. “I shall wait while you pen a note to Sofia.”

“Nay.”

“That is a mistake. You need to write to her.”

“And say what? Your betrothed is locked in a tower?” He gave a sharp laugh. “I think not.”

“I gave you this advice long ago and I am saying it again. Learn to control that pride of yours, lad, especially where a woman is concerned.”

Tobin stood without speaking.

Merrick could see the stubbornness on his face.

“I cannot. You’d best go now. I want out of this place before my hair turns gray.”

Merrick shook his head and gave the pigheaded lad a clap on the shoulder. “You will regret this.”

“So be it.”

Merrick left the room and the tower. He could just hear now what Clio would say when he told her. God’s blood, but he would not want to be that young and stupid again for anything.

Chapter 25

A year later

’Twas one of those bright October days when the sun shone down for most of the day and turned the tips of the grass in the meadows the color of wheat. Beehives sat in long rows, looking like brown wimples, and golden honeysuckle spun their vines ’round the rough bark of the sprawling hawthorn trees.

A troop of men rode across the road which cut over the low hills near the sleepy town of Farmington. A tall man who sat high and easy in his saddle spurred his mount forward. A few lengths ahead of him rode another man, who leaned low over his mount’s neck and was riding so hard that his dark cloak billowed out behind him like the tail of the blue jays that darted in circles over tall stacks of mown hay.

“God’s eyes, de Clare!” Merrick shouted when he was almost abreast of the cloaked rider.

Startled, Tobin looked over at Merrick, who signaled for him to slow down. He eased up on his mount until he and Merrick were moving side by side at an easier canter.

Merrick’s brow was creased and he gave him an odd look. “You will be glad to get to Leicester, I wager.”

“What makes you say that?’

“The fact that you have been riding like the very Devil for most of the morn.”

Tobin cast a glance back over his shoulder, where a cloud of brown dust was whirling above the road from his men thundering along to keep up with his pace.

He was surprised, but not surprised, and he gave a laugh, because he had little choice but admit he was overeager “Aye!” He looked at Merrick. “This is a fine day. We are riding to fetch my bride, I am out of that great piece of rock the Scots call a castle, and the sun is shining. I would say all is well with the world.”

“Tell you what, lad. You go on. Ride ahead. Your men and I will follow at a more leisurely pace.”

Tobin looked at Merrick, surprised. “You do not care?”

“Why would I care? ’Tis not as if your mind is not there already. You have not said but two words the whole day,” Merrick grumbled. “ ’Tis like riding with a mute.”

Tobin looked ahead, toward the hills in the distance. Just beyond was Leicester, then Charnwood Forest and the convent of Grace Dieu. He grinned. “’Twill give me time alone with Sofia. And I do find that appeals to me, Merrick. I would like to see how she has fared all this time.”

“That is the pigheaded Tobin I know,” Merrick’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “Tell yourself that is why you need to see her, because you think she has changed.”

“Sofia change?” Tobin almost choked on the words. “I do not expect that the Sofia I know would change too much. No doubt she has caused the prioress many gray hairs the way she always did to Edward. It is not in her to be a sweet-tempered lass.”

“I do not think you would ever want a wife who was meek and quiet. A woman like that would bore you in a week.”

“I am not my father,” Tobin snapped without thinking. “My wife will not bore me. Ever.”

“I did not mean to imply that you were, lad.” Merrick frowned at him, then reached out and gripped his shoulder in friendship. “That is not what I meant. I think you know that.”

Tobin was quiet for a moment, then said, “No wife can keep my father’s attention long. He has proven that. I will have one wife and only one. I decided that a long time ago.”

“And so you picked Sofia. Does she know you are coming to fetch her?”

“Aye. I sent her a message early this morn.”

“Well, then. I suspect your bride is waiting.” Merrick slapped Tobin on the arm. “Be off with you. Go!”

Tobin put his spurs to his horse and rode away.