When they reached the solar, Chandra said again, “Don’t worry. Trust me, please. Now, Mary, do you know anything about mending sheets?”
Mary smiled and nodded.
Chandra knew the only one to help her was her husband. She found the hall filled with angry, shouting men when she came in for the midday meal. “Quiet, all of you!” Jerval shouted, and turned to Malton. “Prepare a dozen men to ride within the hour. The Scots are but a few hours ahead of us, and the bastards are herding cattle, so it will slow them down.”
“Hell’s fires,” said Lord Hugh, “I cannot ride with you, not with my damned foot swelled like a ripe melon.”
“What has happened?” Chandra asked, walking quickly forward.
Jerval smiled at her—he couldn’t help himself—then finished giving instructions to the servants to wrap food in the saddle pouches.
He walked quickly to her, kissed her mouth, and said, “The Scots attacked a northern demesne farm last night. They killed three of our people, razed the farm, and made off with the cattle. We leave shortly.” He said to his father, “There is always a next time. It was only a small raiding party from the man’s report, nothing to challenge us.”
When Jerval entered their bedchamber, he found Chandra tying the cross garters on her men’s chausses, a sword strapped at her waist, and a quiver filled with arrows fastened on her shoulder.
“You have not told me how skilled the Scots are with the bow, Jerval,” she said, never pausing.
“Quite skilled.”
“Then we must catch them in a crossfire.”
“Aye, we will probably do that, depending on where we finally catch up with them.”
When she walked past him to get her shield, he grabbed her shoulders and pulled her about to face him. “I wished you were in bed when I awoke this morning. How many times have I told you that? But you were not. Once again you ran away from me, from yourself. No, I cannot think of that right now. Listen to me, Chandra. You will remain here. Since my father is not well, I am placing you in charge of guarding the keep. Do not disappoint me.”
“But Malton can stay back. He is your master-at-arms.”
“Yes, he will also remain.” He sighed. He had tried to give her purpose, but it hadn’t worked. He said now, his voice still gentle, so very calm, “I would order myself to be hanged if I were to allow my wife to ride into danger. You will remain safely within the keep. This time you will not disobey me, Chandra.”
“You ride into danger, and you are my husband. What, I pray, is the difference?”
“I have twice your strength and endurance. I am far more skilled than you. I am far more experienced than you. You would be no match for the Scots. Just as you are no match for me.”
“I beat Thoms in the tourney just last week.”
“Thoms, like every one of the men, would give up his life before allowing you to be harmed. It is more than that. I cannot afford to have any of them distracted by your presence. They as well as I would be protecting you, not fighting with all their wits.”
“I saved your life, Jerval. You were not protecting me that night Graelam nearly sent his sword through your belly.”
Jerval sighed. “I have not forgotten, Chandra, but it changes naught. It is my responsibility to keep you safe. You will remain here.”
“It is not fair.”
He could think of nothing more to say. No, there was something more. He gripped her upper arms very tightly and shook her just a bit. “If something happened to you, I would not want to go on. I must keep you from danger, or else I fail myself. Do you understand?”
She didn’t, of course. That brain of hers was already racing ahead to a confrontation with the enemy. “Of course you would go on,” she said. “All men go on. How long would you grieve for me? Mayhap a month?”
He sighed. “I will likely see you in a couple of days.” He turned on his heel, paused a moment at the door, and said over his shoulder, “You could wish me luck. You could kiss me, tell me you will pray for my safety. You could wish me Godspeed.”
“Aye, I will wish you all of those things.”
He realized then that he could not trust her. “Do you swear, Chandra, that you will remain at Camberley?”
He rocked back in surprise when she said, “Nay, I will not swear to that, Jerval, but I do wish you Godspeed.”
“Very well.” He pulled the heavy key from the door and jerked it closed behind him. As he grated the key in the lock, he expected to hear her yelling at him, cursing him, but he heard nothing at all.
“Good-bye, Chandra.”
He met his father in the hall and pressed the key into his hand. “Release her tomorrow, after we are well away. If you would give her supper, take care.”
Lord Hugh looked at his son, finally nodded. “Has the girl no sense at all?” At his son’s silence, he added, “Kill one of the jackals for me.”
“Aye, Father, I will.”
“Where is Chandra?” Mary asked, and Jerval saw her looking closely at each of the mounted men.
“I locked her in our bedchamber,” he said. “Where she will stay.” He strode away to mount his destrier.
“Poor Jerval,” Julianna said as they watched the men ride from the keep, “wed to such an unnatural creature.”
Mary wanted to slap her, but she didn’t, just turned on her heel and walked back into the Great Hall. The truth burst upon her when she saw Lord Hugh with a huge key in his hand, speaking to an outraged Lady Avicia. Mary stared upward, wondering what Chandra was doing, locked in her bedchamber.
Chandra was tying the ends of the sheets together, cursing her husband with every breath she drew. Satisfied finally with her knots, she carried the sheets to the window, only to discover that it would not open wide enough for her to squeeze through. She looked for a long time at the costly glass panes. She couldn’t break them—they were too beautiful. But there was no hope for it.
She had to prove herself, once and for all. She had to prove to Jerval that she wouldn’t shame him, that she could fight and fight well and that the men would grow accustomed to her going with them. She would always be at his side, and she would protect him. Aye, she would prove herself this time. She simply had to, or her life, as she had lived it at Croyland, as she wanted more than anything to continue living it, would end. His heel would be on her neck.
She shattered the glass with a wooden stool and felt pain at the sight of the shards of glass on the floor. She snaked the line of sheets out the windowframe and watched them tumble down the stone wall of the keep. She threw down her quiver and her bow and sword, squeezed through the narrow frame, and slithered slowly down. A group of small boys were looking up at her as she came down the sheets. She said not a word to them or to the servants she passed as she strode across the inner bailey to the stables. Hopefully they wouldn’t even think to say anything, particularly to Malton, who was likely inside, speaking with Lord Hugh.
She looked toward Wicket, but knew that Jerval would spot him in an instant. She chose instead one of Jerval’s other horses, an older roan stallion with a broad back, strong legs and a stout heart. When she led him from the stables, she looked about, wondering if anyone would try to stop her. She made for the cooking shed, where she found a loaf of bread and wrapped it in the none-too-clean blanket she had taken from the stable.
She rode the stallion through the outer courtyard, head up, as confident as a warrior on a quest, and waved to Beglie. The drawbridge was still down. She prayed he would let her pass. He waved back to her, his expression sour, and yelled something about bad weather on its way. He even pointed in the direction Jerval and his men had ridden. She realized then that he probably didn’t recognize who she was. She was wearing a woolen cap over her hair. So much the better. Chandra laughed, dug her heels into the stallion’s belly when he crossed the drawbridge, and let him lengthen his stride.
Chandra settled comfortably in her saddle. She kept a good half mile back from Jerval’s men, planning t
o approach only when they made camp for the night. She was not foolish enough to believe herself invincible, and she would need the protection of their camp. She thought about Mary. She would speak to Jerval as soon as this fight with the Scots was over. He would know what to do.
Why did she assume that?
Why could she not solve the problem? Her mind went blank. What to do? What to do?
Well, what would Jerval do? He was a man, a man just like Graelam, who had raped Mary, made her pregnant. Oh, God, would Jerval say they had no choice? Would he say that since Mary was shamed she had to go to a convent? Chandra had to think; she had to save Mary.
She leaned forward in her saddle, her face on the roan’s neck. She closed her eyes, smelling his sweat, feeling the steady rhythm of his hooves.
For the tenth time, she told herself that she had done nothing dishonorable. This time she would prove to Jerval that she was skilled and competent, that he needed her. This would end the strife between them. He would admire her, praise her, approve, finally, of what she was.
He simply had to.
She loved his mouth on her, loved him inside her, wanted those frantic wild feelings.
No, she wouldn’t think about that.
Her exhilaration began to dim when the late afternoon air became damp and chill as the road snaked closer toward the sea. It was odd, she thought, pulling the wool cap tighter over her hair, how slowly the time passed when one was alone. Her stomach growled, and she thought of the single loaf of bread that would be her evening meal, indeed, all of her meals until—until what?
Fools acted in anger. Bigger fools acted in haste. And the very biggest fools acted out of vanity and arrogance. She had done all three. She should be riding in the midst of his men, not trailing after them, alone and at risk. She turned in her saddle to stare back in the direction of Camberley. She didn’t see the keep, naturally; she saw Jerval’s face, grim and set, and knew that even if she returned to Camberley now, he would know that she had disobeyed him, and his anger would be nearly as great. It was possible that she would be in more danger than she was in now were she to try to return to Camberley alone.
She was beyond a fool.
She could think of nothing to do except see this through. She slapped her arms against the cold and started singing to her horse. She didn’t know his name.
Mark turned about to let the fire warm his back and tossed the pork rind over his shoulder. “You are quiet tonight, Jerval. What ails you?”
“Nothing.”
“Do you brood on a new strategy for the Scots?”
Jerval raised his head, forced a smile. “If you would know the truth, I was wondering if my father will chance taking Chandra any supper.”
“If he’s wise, he’ll send Mary. The girl handles Chandra better than you do. Even your mother treats Mary well, almost as if she were another daughter.”
“But not another daughter-in-law.”
Mark grinned. “I never forget the day poor Trempe wandered into the hall looking totally bewildered, Chandra’s hauberk tucked under his arm, not having a single idea what he should do. Your mother just stood there beside him, the both of them staring at that damned hauberk.”
“One of the links had come loose. Chandra had very nicely asked him to repair it for her.”
“Which he did, I gather, once you gave him the order. I remember that at Croyland, her word was law, even with her father’s armorer.”
“You think I should have tied her up as well as locked her in her room?”
“Nay. As it is, she will likely starve herself, out of anger against you. It is difficult to balance the cocky, arrogant boy with the soft, beautiful woman.”
“Aye,” Jerval said only, but Mark knew him very well. They’d been raised together, after all. He loves her, Mark thought, hence his patience with her. Yet Chandra admired strength, and Mark wondered if Jerval would not more quickly gain her compliance if he simply buckled down and beat her. No, he couldn’t, wouldn’t do that. And if he did, Chandra would probably stick a knife between his ribs. Mark hated that there was nothing he could do.
“You know,” Jerval said after a moment, to all of his men, “I have been thinking. I’m now firmly convinced that Sir John of Oldham is in league with the Scots. We have spoken of it before, but now my father agrees with me, even though he wishes he did not. It is odd that they appear so suddenly, as if they were in hiding near to us. My father remarked upon that first thing when we heard of this raid.”
Ranulfe said, nodding, “Oldham’s keep is but five miles to the east of Camberley, in the direction of the latest attack. I have never trusted Sir John, for he is a greedy man.”
“Aye, and disloyal, I wager,” Mark said. “I agree. He is involved with them.”
“We will know for certain soon,” Jerval said. He paused a moment, then smiled. “I have spoken to Chandra of Sir John and his dealings. She has plans of her own for him.” He broke off, grinning into the fire.
Rolfe called out, “What does your lady wife say?”
“That we should visit Oldham, as well as the other keeps, and introduce her to our people. It is her idea to go sniffing about to see if Sir John is up to anything.”
Mark said. “That is a good idea. A lady is more apt to be allowed to pry and ask questions. Sir John would likely fall all over himself to impress her.”
“Aye. My wife can be quite reasonable. She has a good mind. But I will not let her go with us, for it could be dangerous. After we have dispatched the Scots to hell, we will ride to Oldham.”
“And catch Sir John by surprise?”
“Aye. I look forward to the meeting.”
They broke camp early the next morning and huddled close to their horses’ necks for warmth as they rode, for a cold wind was blowing in from the sea. The demesne farm was naught save smoldering ashes when they reached it, and the peasants had just buried the three men slaughtered by the Scots. They did not tarry there. Jerval pushed them throughout the morning northward toward the border, over terrain that became ever more wretchedly stark and barren.
“Jerval—there is a man trailing us. Lambert spotted him but a few minutes ago.”
Jerval reined in Pith and turned in his saddle at Arnolf’s shout. “Is he alone?”
“For the moment he is. Lambert says he looks English.”
Jerval was silent for a moment. “Still, there is a chance he may be tracking us for the Scots.”
“One of Sir John’s men?” Mark said, reining in his horse.
“Possibly. Have Lambert hang back and keep him in sight. I have no wish for the lot of us to be ambushed. Don’t let the man catch sight of Lambert.”
Their horses climbed a steep rise, and Jerval raised his hand for a halt behind some boulders that had scrubby oak trees growing in amongst them. Stretched before them was a wasteland of rocky, shallow hills dotted only with splashes of green moss. Jerval looked again behind them, tightening his grip on Pith’s reins. The man trailing them had shortened the distance and was now riding but a mile behind them, his horse holding a steady pace.
“Let us wait for the fellow,” he said to his men. “I wish to know what manner of fool he is.”
They watched the man ride through a narrow stretch of road, bounded on each side by desolate heaps of rocks. They realized that he didn’t see the four riders gallop from behind the rocks until they had formed a half circle around him. From where he sat, Jerval could hear their banshee cries as they swung their claymores in great arcs through the air.
“God’s blood,” Jerval shouted, “it’s certain now that the fellow isn’t one of them. It is four Scots against one. Don’t they know that we are not that far ahead of them? Are they stupid?”
Mark said, “Evidently they don’t know. Whoever he is, he’s a fool, likely a dead one very soon. Can you imagine riding out here by yourself? At least he’s brought them out into the open for us.”
“We might as well try to save the fellow,” Jerval said. He w
hipped Pith about, dug his heels fiercely into his destrier’s sides and galloped back down the hill. He was yelling at the top of his lungs, as were his men, hopeful of turning the Scots’ attention toward them and away from the single man.
CHAPTER 17
“Ye wish to taste death, do ye?”
Chandra nearly fell off her horse in shock to see the ferocious-looking Scot riding right at her, his huge claymore stretched above his head, a wide grin splitting his bearded face.
She felt equal amounts of fear and excitement pour through her. She yelled at him, “Come then, you ugly bastard. You will feel my sword cold in your guts!”
But she had no time to pull her sword from its scabbard, for the four men were closing swiftly about her.
“It’s but a boy, lads,” one of the Scots shouted. “Look at his pretty, smooth face! Just a little nipper, coming to find us.”
“Aye, a wee English bastard.”
“Let’s slice him up and take his horse. He’s old, but he’s sound.”
Four of them. Too many, too many. They were Scots, savages, without honor. They were the ones Jerval was hunting.
They had formed a loose circle around her, coming no closer; even that huge, ugly one had drawn back. They were taunting her, waiting, she guessed, for her to lunge at one of them so that the others could slash at her back. No, it was simpler than that. They wanted her to drop her weapons and give up. They didn’t want to take a chance of harming her horse.
She didn’t move, just held the roan steady. The man she thought was their leader—he was a large man with a thick black beard and long black hair that flowed over his shoulders, eyes as black as a moonless night.
She whipped her horse to face him. “Are you so afraid of one man that you must hang back? I see now that you are naught but a worthless pack of scavengers. Cowards, the whole lot of you.”
“Aiee, Alan,” one of the men cried, “yer brave lad calls us cowards. What think ye o’ that? Let me take him.” He lashed his horse toward her, and Chandra turned to meet him. She slashed at him with her sword, and felt the blade tear into his arm. He lurched back, grabbing his arm, yelling, and she saw blood spurting out between his fingers. Chandra felt her wool cap suddenly jerked from her head, and her long, thick braid fell free down her back.