that hid her hair. He wanted to see that hair—
"A little warm for ye in here, Vincent?"
He looked over to see Wilhelm bending in the doorway. "Warm? Nay, more like drawn alongside a raging fire. Her beauty is like a delicate—"
"Delicate? You should have a look at the wound her dagger put in one of them, this girl who looks as fragile as a porcelain vase but who rides a half-wild stallion bareback across a war-torn countryside in the dark middle of the night dressed as a boy. Delicate? Methinks not."
Vincent conceded the point with a grin. "I need to know her name," he began as he stepped outside with Wilhelm, but stopped when he discovered the sea of peasants' faces gathered in this night outside the small house. The men held shovels.
The Duke of Suffolk commanded a frightening presence. He stood to his full height, hands on hips. The light of the cottage fire shone behind him, outlining his impressive form. His intelligent eyes searched the background where his men had already collected the necessary logs and twigs for the funeral-pyre in anticipation of his wishes.
"Milord." Gilles, the older man, stepped nervously forward. A hand went to his bandaged head as he looked behind him for support before turning back to the Duke of Suffolk. "They be godless beasts in this life for sure, but their souls belong to God for the judgment. 'Tis a sin and heresy not to bury them proper."
Standing off to the side, the knights of Suffolk smiled, familiar as they were with Vincent's iconoclastic views of the church, the one in question being that the church's insistence on burial had nothing to do with God and everything to do with the church's burial fee. "Huh." He scowled, irritated but kind enough to answer the peasants' concern within the limits of their own understanding. "Think you God needs a boxed body to make a judgment? More to the point, think these wretches are deserving of your hard labor and sweat, old man? And do we have any doubt of where their pitiful souls are headed?" He shook his head. "Disease is known to fester on rotting flesh, and God knows this wretched land has seen enough disease. Nay—my will be done. I say they burn into ashes. The wind and air can bury their sorry souls."
The peasants exchanged confused glances. A woman took Gilles's sleeve in hand and, too timid to pose the question to the duke, she forced Gilles to do it. For they both knew who the lady was and therefore what her servant deserved. "Milord, the lady's servant. Surely he is deserving of a Christian burial?"
A surprised brow lifted. "Lady? I knew she belonged in the clerical class, but a lady?" Actually, he had been thinking some lord's by-blow, but— "Know you her name?"
The surprise question and the frightened silence brought the men of Suffolk to abrupt attention, the group of peasants receiving their interested gazes. The sudden tension among the peasant folk filled with fear, and a great fear it was as anxious eyes searched their neighbors' faces. "Nay." An older woman found her courage, a courage shadowed by a faint tremble in her voice. "Twas but a slight, milord. We do not know the girl or her name."
Their fear increased tenfold each second Vincent's steely gaze held them to his will. So, the girl, whoever she was, was known around the countryside and able to solicit the uncommon courage and protection of the peasantry. Only one person he knew of could do that.
Something dark and dangerous came into his eyes as he answered his own question. "So 'tis a knight of Reales whom you ask me to bury, and for a lady who belongs in the court of Countess Roshelle of Reales. Perhaps even one of the countess's women?"
Not quite, but predictably, no one thought to correct his error. Intrigues made many things better left unsaid. Roshelle's name and title were two of them.
*****
Chapter 3
Against the sound of obscene laughter, vicious hands came to her person, grabbing, squeezing, pushing. "No!" Roshelle bolted up, a
"A little warm for ye in here, Vincent?"
He looked over to see Wilhelm bending in the doorway. "Warm? Nay, more like drawn alongside a raging fire. Her beauty is like a delicate—"
"Delicate? You should have a look at the wound her dagger put in one of them, this girl who looks as fragile as a porcelain vase but who rides a half-wild stallion bareback across a war-torn countryside in the dark middle of the night dressed as a boy. Delicate? Methinks not."
Vincent conceded the point with a grin. "I need to know her name," he began as he stepped outside with Wilhelm, but stopped when he discovered the sea of peasants' faces gathered in this night outside the small house. The men held shovels.
The Duke of Suffolk commanded a frightening presence. He stood to his full height, hands on hips. The light of the cottage fire shone behind him, outlining his impressive form. His intelligent eyes searched the background where his men had already collected the necessary logs and twigs for the funeral-pyre in anticipation of his wishes.
"Milord." Gilles, the older man, stepped nervously forward. A hand went to his bandaged head as he looked behind him for support before turning back to the Duke of Suffolk. "They be godless beasts in this life for sure, but their souls belong to God for the judgment. 'Tis a sin and heresy not to bury them proper."
Standing off to the side, the knights of Suffolk smiled, familiar as they were with Vincent's iconoclastic views of the church, the one in question being that the church's insistence on burial had nothing to do with God and everything to do with the church's burial fee. "Huh." He scowled, irritated but kind enough to answer the peasants' concern within the limits of their own understanding. "Think you God needs a boxed body to make a judgment? More to the point, think these wretches are deserving of your hard labor and sweat, old man? And do we have any doubt of where their pitiful souls are headed?" He shook his head. "Disease is known to fester on rotting flesh, and God knows this wretched land has seen enough disease. Nay—my will be done. I say they burn into ashes. The wind and air can bury their sorry souls."
The peasants exchanged confused glances. A woman took Gilles's sleeve in hand and, too timid to pose the question to the duke, she forced Gilles to do it. For they both knew who the lady was and therefore what her servant deserved. "Milord, the lady's servant. Surely he is deserving of a Christian burial?"
A surprised brow lifted. "Lady? I knew she belonged in the clerical class, but a lady?" Actually, he had been thinking some lord's by-blow, but— "Know you her name?"
The surprise question and the frightened silence brought the men of Suffolk to abrupt attention, the group of peasants receiving their interested gazes. The sudden tension among the peasant folk filled with fear, and a great fear it was as anxious eyes searched their neighbors' faces. "Nay." An older woman found her courage, a courage shadowed by a faint tremble in her voice. "Twas but a slight, milord. We do not know the girl or her name."
Their fear increased tenfold each second Vincent's steely gaze held them to his will. So, the girl, whoever she was, was known around the countryside and able to solicit the uncommon courage and protection of the peasantry. Only one person he knew of could do that.
Something dark and dangerous came into his eyes as he answered his own question. "So 'tis a knight of Reales whom you ask me to bury, and for a lady who belongs in the court of Countess Roshelle of Reales. Perhaps even one of the countess's women?"
Not quite, but predictably, no one thought to correct his error. Intrigues made many things better left unsaid. Roshelle's name and title were two of them.
*****
Chapter 3
Against the sound of obscene laughter, vicious hands came to her person, grabbing, squeezing, pushing. "No!" Roshelle bolted up, a
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