chin.
“I love the scent of carnations. Such smooth skin.” He
smiled. “For a woman of your elderly years.”
“William….”
“And such high, tight breasts.” His
hands moved across her bosom, exploring and pressing. “For a
woman of your—”
“ Elderly years.” Her hands caught his and positioned them on the
saddle. “How long have you known?”
“I told you before I’m not a fool.
Clare is seven. A mighty difference in age between an elderly woman of forty and her brother.”
“It’s not impossible!” Saura
protested.
“But unlikely. Once I made that connection,
it wasn’t hard to equate my mystery maid of the bath with the
untouchable nun of gentle birth. The unknown relation of my mother,
our housekeeper. I gave you every chance to tell me.”
Reduced to silence, she could only nod. The
movement of her head jogged him and he guessed, “Lady Saura
of Roget?”
“Aye,” she whispered.
He settled her against his chest to cushion her
ride. He tenderly wrapped his mighty arms around her waist, but his
mind bubbled with revolt. Had he discovered this woman, his woman,
only to be murdered by some anonymous evil that feared to show its
face? It would never have been so in the old days, before his sight
was stripped from him by ruse or deceit. In the old days, he would
have fought for this lady, protected her with sword and shield. Now
he was constrained to ride with the enemy to some unforeseen fate.
He cursed the inaction that dragged at his spirit and longed for
another skull to crush.
They rode until evening and the horse beneath them
sagged with their weight. As the birds chirped a weary goodnight and the breeze cooled and thickened, they
stopped to let the animals drink. Saura dismounted gingerly, for
her shoes had been abandoned on the banks of Fyngre Brook. Her legs
buckled beneath her, protesting the hours in the saddle. William
reached for her, but Mort stuck out his leg and William staggered
over it.
“Ha! I’ll take care of th’ pretty
lady,” Mort chortled, catching her waist.
The others laughed, their grudge against the blind
knight fresh. Encouraged, Mort pressed Saura close and made kissing
sounds by her ear. “Come with me, m’lady. You’ll
need help to find your way. Let me show ye th’ huge tree
trunks that grow in these woods.”
“Stumps, more likely,” she hissed,
dragging her nails across his eyes. Blood sprang up where her nails
dug and Mort howled with fury. Jerking free, she stumbled across
the clearing. The merriment of the troop rang in her ears;
Mort’s snarling pursuit propelled her.
She feared, oh God, she feared.
But another joined the hunt: William followed them,
trailing the threats that rang in the forest. Saura heard as he
snared the unwary Mort and flung him around. She heard Mort gurgle
as William wrapped one hand around the man’s neck and lifted
him into the air. She heard the crunch of bulbous flesh as one
mighty fist knocked Mort’s curses down his throat; she heard
William fling the serf into the group of scrambling
mercenaries.
What she couldn’t see was Bronnie, stalwart
Bronnie, as he swung the shaft of his bow and smashed William in
the back of the head.
Saura heard the thwack as it connected, heard the
rumble as William keeled over in the dirt.
Then it was silent, only Bronnie’s whimpering
broke the shocked hush.
The leader walked to William and turned him with a
heave of his foot. “Have you killed him, Bronnie?”
“Is there a bed?” The stone beneath her
fingertips felt dry and cold, but the winding stairs she had
climbed had warmed her, as did the anger surging through her veins.
The group of men who had captured them had dispersed when they
arrived in this strange household, but Bronnie had been retained to
guide them, and his new shoes squeaked from their dunking. One
giant of a man carried William, draped over his shoulder.
Who were they? Who was this mysterious lord? How
dared he take the master of Burke and
“I love the scent of carnations. Such smooth skin.” He
smiled. “For a woman of your elderly years.”
“William….”
“And such high, tight breasts.” His
hands moved across her bosom, exploring and pressing. “For a
woman of your—”
“ Elderly years.” Her hands caught his and positioned them on the
saddle. “How long have you known?”
“I told you before I’m not a fool.
Clare is seven. A mighty difference in age between an elderly woman of forty and her brother.”
“It’s not impossible!” Saura
protested.
“But unlikely. Once I made that connection,
it wasn’t hard to equate my mystery maid of the bath with the
untouchable nun of gentle birth. The unknown relation of my mother,
our housekeeper. I gave you every chance to tell me.”
Reduced to silence, she could only nod. The
movement of her head jogged him and he guessed, “Lady Saura
of Roget?”
“Aye,” she whispered.
He settled her against his chest to cushion her
ride. He tenderly wrapped his mighty arms around her waist, but his
mind bubbled with revolt. Had he discovered this woman, his woman,
only to be murdered by some anonymous evil that feared to show its
face? It would never have been so in the old days, before his sight
was stripped from him by ruse or deceit. In the old days, he would
have fought for this lady, protected her with sword and shield. Now
he was constrained to ride with the enemy to some unforeseen fate.
He cursed the inaction that dragged at his spirit and longed for
another skull to crush.
They rode until evening and the horse beneath them
sagged with their weight. As the birds chirped a weary goodnight and the breeze cooled and thickened, they
stopped to let the animals drink. Saura dismounted gingerly, for
her shoes had been abandoned on the banks of Fyngre Brook. Her legs
buckled beneath her, protesting the hours in the saddle. William
reached for her, but Mort stuck out his leg and William staggered
over it.
“Ha! I’ll take care of th’ pretty
lady,” Mort chortled, catching her waist.
The others laughed, their grudge against the blind
knight fresh. Encouraged, Mort pressed Saura close and made kissing
sounds by her ear. “Come with me, m’lady. You’ll
need help to find your way. Let me show ye th’ huge tree
trunks that grow in these woods.”
“Stumps, more likely,” she hissed,
dragging her nails across his eyes. Blood sprang up where her nails
dug and Mort howled with fury. Jerking free, she stumbled across
the clearing. The merriment of the troop rang in her ears;
Mort’s snarling pursuit propelled her.
She feared, oh God, she feared.
But another joined the hunt: William followed them,
trailing the threats that rang in the forest. Saura heard as he
snared the unwary Mort and flung him around. She heard Mort gurgle
as William wrapped one hand around the man’s neck and lifted
him into the air. She heard the crunch of bulbous flesh as one
mighty fist knocked Mort’s curses down his throat; she heard
William fling the serf into the group of scrambling
mercenaries.
What she couldn’t see was Bronnie, stalwart
Bronnie, as he swung the shaft of his bow and smashed William in
the back of the head.
Saura heard the thwack as it connected, heard the
rumble as William keeled over in the dirt.
Then it was silent, only Bronnie’s whimpering
broke the shocked hush.
The leader walked to William and turned him with a
heave of his foot. “Have you killed him, Bronnie?”
“Is there a bed?” The stone beneath her
fingertips felt dry and cold, but the winding stairs she had
climbed had warmed her, as did the anger surging through her veins.
The group of men who had captured them had dispersed when they
arrived in this strange household, but Bronnie had been retained to
guide them, and his new shoes squeaked from their dunking. One
giant of a man carried William, draped over his shoulder.
Who were they? Who was this mysterious lord? How
dared he take the master of Burke and
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