Knave's Honour. Margaret Moore
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agree with her plan.
“If there are women in the group approaching, it must not be Wimarc’s mercenaries,” she said, meeting his querying gaze steadily. “These must be other people—farmers, perhaps, or merchants, or maybe even nobles. I’ll ask them for assistance, and surely they’ll give it when they find out I’m a noblewoman.”
Then she wouldn’t have to worry about trusting an Irish outlaw, or be troubled by her attraction for him, which was risky and unwise, no matter how handsome he was.
Surprise, and something that looked rather like dismay flashed in Finn’s eyes, although it was quickly quelled. “You don’t know who these people might be. I can tell you, my lady, that there are bands of outlaws who have women among them. There’s no guarantee the people approaching will be any more likely to treat you honorably than Wimarc’s men.”
“I’m grateful for your assistance, but Keldra is exhausted, and so am I. We can’t keep going at such a pace, and it’s just as likely these people will help us as the nuns at the convent—which you’ve never named,” she noted.
“St. Mary’s-in-the-Meadow,” he shot back. “And I didn’t risk my life to have you put yourself—and your maidservant—in danger again.”
She’d obviously wounded his pride as surely as if he were a knight of the realm and she had called him dishonorable, but that could not be helped. “I don’t think that’s likely, so unless you want to be seen, you should hide.”
“Oh, now you will protect me? How generous, my lady,” he replied, making a mocking imitation of his formerly elegant bow.
“Will you linger to disparage me and get caught?” she demanded, more worried about his safety than upset by his sarcasm. “It would be poor recompense for you if I let that happen.”
She would never see him again; what harm to say more if it encouraged him to leave? “Indeed, I would regret it very much if you were to suffer because you helped me.”
He didn’t reply. He simply continued to look at her with those intense brown eyes of his.
“What will happen to your brother if you’re taken?” she demanded at last, determined to have her way in this and prevent his possible capture.
Finally she had said something that would make him go, and he turned on his heel.
She was relieved. She had to be.
“Godspeed!” she called out as he strode into the woods with Garreth quickly following. “And thank you.”
Finn didn’t even look back.
CHAPTER SIX
LIZETTE WAITED by the side of the road with a trembling Keldra and tried to convince herself she was doing the right thing.
After all, could she really be sure that Finn and Garreth were helping them? He could be taking her to Wimarc, or some other place where he could hold her for ransom, since he knew who she was and to whom she was related. She was surely right to get away from him as soon as she could.
Brushing her tousled hair back from her face, she realized she must look more like a peasant than a noblewoman with her disheveled, matted hair and dirty face. Hopefully her accent and demeanor would mark her for the noblewoman she was. Nevertheless, she smoothed down her mud-stained skirts and pulled her cloak more tightly about her over her soiled gown.
Two soldiers rounded the corner—proper soldiers, not mercenaries in motley armor probably stolen. Their helmets gleamed in the morning light, no spots of rust marred their mail, and they wore matching woolen surcoats of scarlet and green. There was something vaguely familiar about those surcoats and the arms upon them, and the banners flapping from the pikes they carried.
Before she could remember to whom those soldiers belonged, a knight in gleaming chain mail seated on a marvelous destrier, with a woman dressed in a cloak of green-and-gold damask trimmed with fox fur, rode around the bend. The man had pushed back his coif and wore no helmet, so his fair hair, smoothed and cut in the bowl shape the Normans favored, shone in the sunlight.
She knew that hair, and she knew that face, and now she remembered whose standard it was: Lord Gilbert of Fairbourne, who had once visited Averette in the hopes of winning Adelaide’s hand in marriage. Or Gillian’s, if Adelaide said no. Or even hers, if he were desperate, although that’s not the way he’d put it when he’d cornered her in the stairwell.
She’d heard Gilbert had got himself a bride from Lincoln, the daughter of an earl who had no sons, so her dowry was considerable. Helewyse was the girl’s name; Lizette remembered because Gillian had commented she must not be a very wise woman to accept Gilbert.
One of the soldiers at the front of the cortege nodded at Lizette and Keldra and said something to his companion, who grinned and made a disgusting gesture.
Perhaps this was a mistake, after all, and they should run for the trees—except that Gilbert’s men had spotted them and if they gave chase, they might also find Garreth and Finn. No doubt Finn could come up with some kind of explanation, speaking with that noble accent he managed with such ease, but these soldiers might simply assume they were poachers or outlaws and kill them before Finn could say a word.
And despite her personal dislike of Gilbert, he was noble. He should help a noblewoman in distress, even if she’d slapped his face.
“Here, you, out of the way!” one of the lead soldiers shouted at them before he addressed Lord Gilbert over his shoulder. “There’s a couple of beggar women in the road, my lord!”
“Beggars?” the lady said, loud enough for Lizette and Keldra to hear her as she spoke to Gilbert. “You assured me Wimarc’s lands would be free of such troublesome creatures.”
Wimarc’s lands? Gilbert and his lady were headed for Lord Wimarc’s estate?
She’d thought Gilbert arrogant and greedy, but not evil. Perhaps she’d been wrong—and if he was in league with Wimarc, she would much rather take her chances with Finn.
Throwing the hood of her cloak over her head, she moved to the side of the road. “We can’t go with these people after all,” she whispered to Keldra. “Say nothing, not even if one of them speaks to you.”
Keldra must have also heard them speak of Wimarc, for she immediately did as she was told and sat abruptly on the ground, pulling her hood over her head, too.
The first soldiers were only about twenty feet away when Lizette rounded her shoulders, clutched her cloak about her throat with her left hand and held out her right hand in a begging gesture.
“Alms, noble lord!” she called out in a hoarse voice, imitating the sickly mother of the alewife at Averette. “Alms for a poor woman and her dumb daughter!”
“Out of the way, hag!” one of the first soldiers growled, raising his foot as if he meant to kick her.
Lizette scurried out of range and stayed there as the cortege passed.
“We should be at Castle de Werre before nightfall tomorrow,” Gilbert said, giving his wife a slightly peeved glance. “You didn’t have to come. I told you this was no courtesy visit.”
“And you said you’d never met the man.”
“I haven’t, which was why I was surprised by the invitation.”
“Which was to both of us,” his wife reminded him with a pout. “So of course I ought to come.”
Her husband didn’t respond, but rode on in sulky silence.
In addition to the soldiers, the knight and his lady, there was a wagon full of baggage, no doubt bearing all the items the lord and his lady considered necessary for their comfort, regardless of who their host might be.
Keeping her head down, Lizette waited until the last of the soldiers were out of sight before she