Knight's Ransom. Suzanne Barclay
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ails you?” Maslin growled in his ear. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
His henchman’s words broke the spell, awakened Bernard to the danger. “Aye. I have.” Trembling with disbelief, he spun around and tucked his chin into the neck of his cloak. A shiver worked its way down his spine as he pulled the cowl over his head for good measure. “I thought she was dead. She should be dead.” He quaked again. “How comes she to be here, wed to Sommerville?”
“Who?”
“My sister.”
“Your sister? Where?” Maslin looked around.
Bernard grabbed his arm and shoved him in the direction of their horses. “Come. We must get out of here. Gabrielle might recognize me, though it’s been years, and I’ve…aged. She hasn’t, though. She’s still as beautiful as ever. The bitch.”
By the time they reached their mounts, Bernard had pulled himself together. “We will ride back to the inn,” he said. “Slowly, as though naught had happened.”
“What will we do then?” Maslin asked, fascinated by the change in his usually fearless master.
“We will pray Gabrielle didn’t recognize me. Tomorrow we will return to Toulouse and gather my men.”
“Without Sommerville’s horses?”
“They’ll do me no good if Gabrielle recognizes me. It’s been nineteen years since I tried to kill the Black Prince, but the English still have a price on my head.”
“What will we do for coin, then, rob a merchant or sack a nunnery?” Maslin asked, knowing neither would yield much.
“We could kidnap Sommerville’s daughter and hold her to ransom,” Bernard said softly.
Maslin stopped mid-stride. “What?”
“We’ll take the daughter. You’ve seen how Ruarke values her and his wife. Much as I’d enjoy having Gabrielle as a hostage, she’s leaving for England. But Catherine…Did you hear if the spoiled brat had cajoled permission to stay behind?”
“Aye. At least I think so.” Maslin risked another look. “His men will guard her even more diligently than the horses.”
“True, but once the tourney starts, they’ll be busy.”
“We’re returning for the tourney? I thought you said there were people coming who might recognize you.”
“So there are. But none will know my nephew.”
“Gervase? How will you get him here? He has done naught this past year but slave to rebuild that stupid keep of his.”
“‘Tis for exactly that reason Gervase will come. He hates the English even more fervently than I do. With good reason. They destroyed everything he held dear.” Bernard grinned. “He’ll get the girl and bring her to me.”
Bordeaux, France
August 20, 1375
‘Twas four nights before the tourney, and the great hall of the castle was packed to capacity. Knights drawn from as far away as Italy by the promise of blood sport and rich prizes mingled with men too old to fight and ladies who had come in search of a more intimate sort of adventure. The light of a thousand flambeaux shimmered on their silken garments, winked off the golden chains hung around their necks and the precious gems banding their gowns and surcoats. Two stories above the glittering crowd, the banners of French cities captured by the English fluttered in silent testimony to the long, costly struggle waged between the two countries. Ended now by the peace treaty just concluded.
Peace! Gervase St. Juste spat onto the ground beneath the open window where he’d paused to take stock before entering his enemy’s stronghold and presenting himself to John, Duke of Lancaster. He’d not know peace while his people still suffered.
“Can you pick her out in this press?” Perrin asked, straining to peer over Gervase’s shoulder.
“Not yet, cousin.” Gervase buried the hatred he’d nurtured for so long and swept the crowd with narrowed eyes, searching for the woman his uncle had described to him. Bernard had only seen her once, and since the noble ladies all had their hair covered by those ridiculous headdresses ‘twas difficult to tell which were blond.
“There are two men in the Sommerville red-and-black livery.” Perrin pointed to a pair of hulking brutes who stood a few feet away, their backs to the window, facing a small circle of smiling, laughing nobles. “How odd. They look more like men-at-arms than knights. How do you suppose they came to be invited to the duke’s grand fete?”
“Because their lord is a personal friend of both the duke and his brother, the king.” Ruarke Sommerville, English hero of Poitiers, scourge of all France. “Pity he was called back to England ere the tourney began,” Gervase said tightly. He’d have enjoyed crossing blades with Lord Ruarke and to hell with the scheme that had brought him hither.
“Look, there’s a woman with them.” Indeed, one of the Sommerville retainers had moved aside to reveal a lady. ‘Twas she, not the men-at-arms, who was the focal point of the posturing lords and knights. “It could be Ruarke Sommerville’s daughter,” Perrin added in a whisper.
Gervase nodded, noting the wisps of blond hair peeping out at her nape where it was caught in a jeweled caul. “‘Tis likely.” His first impression was of a slender woman in formfitting blue velvet. How fragile she looked, he thought, and his determination to see this through faltered. Then he caught sight of the gems in the trim banding her surcoat and his jaw clenched tighter. Such wealth would have kept his people in food for a month.
“She must be as lovely as your uncle Bernard claimed, for these men gaze at her like fatuous fools.”
“With a dowry as large as hers, she could be an ugly cow and prospective suitors would still sing odes to her beauty.”
A short, dumpy girl edged her way into the circle of admirers. Catherine turned to greet the newcomer, baring her profile to the torchlight—delicate bones, a slim nose, smiling lips and a surprisingly firm jaw. Willful, Gervase thought. Willful, spoiled and so certain of her allure she dismissed her courtiers with a wave of her pale, beringed hand. Linking her arm with the homely girl’s, Catherine started toward the window.
Gervase stiffened and backed away, but for an instant, his gaze locked on Catherine’s. The incredible eyes his uncle had likened to violets widened with shock, mirroring the awareness that arrowed down Gervase’s spine. It exploded in his belly with the impact of a mailed fist. Shuddering against the wash of desire, he turned and melted into the shadows.
He’d been watching her.
Catherine stopped and blinked. When she reopened her eyes, the man was gone, but she knew he’d been there, standing in the courtyard just outside the window. Watching her.
“Cat? What is it?” Margery tugged on her arm.
“Naught, I…” Cat shook her head to clear it, then walked the few steps and sank down onto the bench beneath the window.
“‘Tis likely the heat,” Margery said, plopping down beside her. “Or the excitement.”
Cat Sommerville swept the crowd with a jaundiced eye. Despite the anticipation spicing the heavy air, there was an undercurrent of animosity. The English and French walked about stiff-legged as rival dogs spoiling for a fight. Her own nerves jangled with rising irritation and something she’d come here in hopes of curing…boredom. She might as well have returned to England with her parents ten days ago. At least at Wilton she enjoyed a small measure of freedom, and