Insurrection: Renegade [02] by Robyn Young Page B

– of how they had loved feasts. Crowding the window of their bedchamber at Lough Rea to watch the guests arriving with their retinues of squires and servants, they had sniggered at pompous lords and blushed and cooed over strapping young knights. Elizabeth had never understood their excitement for all the heat and the noise, the fuss and upheaval, and drunken, leering eyes. She had always tried to excuse herself from such evenings, feigning fever or some other malady. Sometimes her father had permitted her absence. Tonight, there was no such escape.
    Lora laid the veil over her hair and set it in place with a gold circlet. ‘You look like a queen,’ she murmured.
    Elizabeth didn’t respond. As she moved towards the door she passed the chest at the foot of her bed on which lay a small ivory cross on a silver chain. Her father had presented it to her on her tenth birthday, just weeks after she had almost drowned.
    ‘ God will always be with you, child, ’ he had told her, draping it around her neck.
    She had worn it ever since, the bottom of the cross made smooth by her fingers after years spent toying with it. She paused to loop it around her neck, then headed down through the tower and out into the dusk. Horses and wagons crowded the courtyard, the stink of dung clouding the air. Feeling as though she were encased in armour in the heavy gown, Elizabeth made her way slowly towards the great hall. Clutching the ivory cross, she prayed for God to intervene in her fate.

Chapter 9
    Robert and Cormac were halfway across the courtyard when they saw the young woman. She was heading towards the great hall, between the rows of horses and carts. Beyond her, the tunnel led through the twin-towered gatehouse to the outside world. The portcullis was still raised to allow any last guests to enter. The two guards on watch had their backs to the courtyard and were leaning against the wall in conversation. Sprinting faster, breathless after so many weeks idle in the tower, Robert raised his hand as the woman turned; a desperate gesture of silence. Even as he did so, he realised it must look as though he were going to attack her, the blade rising in his grip.
    Her scream pierced the evening. The grooms by the stables looked up, startled from their tasks, and the two guards whipped round. Robert charged, meaning to give them no time to defend themselves, but three more emerged from the gatehouse, alerted by the scream. Robert brought himself up short, taking in the line of men. As the guards drew their broadswords between him and his escape, he switched direction and lunged for the young woman, who was rooted to the spot.
    She moved suddenly, coming alive with the danger, but her gown was long and awkward, and she only managed to stumble a few paces before Robert caught her, pinning her roughly to him, one arm around her chest. Her hands came up and grabbed at his forearm in fear.
    ‘Stay back!’ Robert roared at the guards, levelling his stolen sword at them.
    The five men halted, looking from Robert to Cormac, who had taken up position close at his back, ready to defend him. One stepped forward, as though to test Robert’s resolve, but an older man with cropped white hair and a weathered face stopped him with a barked order.
    As his comrade fell back into line, the white-haired guard’s gaze fixed on Robert. ‘You must know you cannot go anywhere, Sir Robert.’ His voice was self-assured. ‘Let Lady Elizabeth go and you will not be harmed.’
    At the name, Robert realised the girl, whose heart he could feel beating fiercely against his arm, must be Richard de Burgh’s youngest daughter. Stephen had spoken of her often; the feast this evening was in honour of her betrothal. His fleeting triumph at the value of his hostage was quickly dampened by the reality of his actions. He had seized a lady, bodily, against her will. He made himself no better than a brigand. But he couldn’t let go. Not if he wanted to see his kingdom again.