Knave's Honour. Margaret Moore
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a little whimpering ball of fear. “Whatever he says or does, don’t get down!”
Lindall hauled her close. “Shut your gob, you stupid wench—you with that pretty little nose of yours always in the air, laughing while the rest of us have to work and march and drill, shouted at by that damn Scot.”
As she continued to struggle, another sort of look came to Lindall’s face, one that threatened to send her into a different sort of panic. “Wimarc never said you had to be a virgin. No, he never said nothing about that, so I’ll have you, and maybe your maid, too. Maybe the rest of the men should have a taste of you, too, before I get my money.”
Truly terrified, Lizette fought even harder, while Keldra began to wail louder.
“Shut up!” Lindall snarled at the poor girl.
Yet in that moment, while his attention was on Keldra, Lizette saw a chance. She put her hands on his armored chest and shoved him backward with all her might. He collided with the edge of the wagon, then fell forward onto his knees.
“Come on!” she called to Keldra—and this time, her maid didn’t hesitate. She clambered over the side of the wagon and started to run down the road.
Yanking up her skirts so she wouldn’t trip over them, Lizette ran after her. Her cloak flapped out behind her like a pennant in the breeze; her coronet fell off her head, and then her veil, but she didn’t care. Unfortunately, her bodice wasn’t laced for running and soon she could hardly breathe—but still she didn’t stop.
Until a hand grabbed hold of her cloak and jerked her to a halt.
“Oh, no you don’t,” Lindall barked as he pulled her back. “Think you’re going to get away when Lord Wimarc’s offered all that money, and I can have my way with you?”
A sob of fear and helplessness broke from Lizette’s throat as Keldra kept running, not looking back. Leaving her.
“Let go o’ the lady and drop yer sword, boyo, or I’ll be runnin’ you through and sendin’ you straight to hell.”
Lizette’s breath caught. She knew that voice. Dear God, she knew that voice! Sir Oliver, come like a hero to save her!
With a sound between a sob and a cry of joy, she turned to see Sir Oliver with the point of his sword pressing against Lindall’s back as the former second-in-command of Averette raised his arms in surrender.
“Go after your maid, my lady,” Sir Oliver said. “Now, before this blackguard’s men realize you’re getting away.”
She nodded once and gathered up her skirts, then hesitated. “And you?”
Sir Oliver gave her a smile that had no mirth or joy in it. “I’ll join you soon, my lady.”
Pleased, relieved, but far from feeling safe, she did as he told her, and ran.
THE IRISHMAN, who was sometimes known as Sir Oliver de Leslille, waited until Lady Elizabeth was out of sight, then ordered the lout at the end of his sword to go into the woods.
He hadn’t planned to interfere. He hadn’t even been following Lady Elizabeth’s cortege. Yet he’d been close by and heard the sounds of fighting, and when he’d seen the hard-nosed Scot lying dead on the ground, he’d known there was only one thing to do: find the lady and her maid and keep them safe.
Thank God he’d gotten to them in time … although he might not be such a hero as he wanted to believe. As she’d faced her enemy, her bountiful fair hair disheveled, her clothing rumpled and muddy, Lady Elizabeth had been no meek and terrified victim; he had seen the fierce courage in her eyes and knew she would have fought to the death to protect herself and, even more impressively, her maidservant.
“Hurry up,” he commanded the varlet who’d led the attack against the lady’s cortege, shoving the tip of his sword against the man’s mail-clad back to make his point.
As they entered the shelter of the trees, the lout turned around, wary, but not afraid. “You don’t want to kill me. I can get you money—lots of money. Lizette—Lady Elizabeth, the woman you let run off—Lord Wimarc de Werre’s offered me a reward if I bring her to his castle.”
These men belonged to Wimarc? They were no band of outlaws and thieves, but that man’s mercenaries?
Then this attack had been on his orders. But why?
It could be to force a marriage—except that Wimarc already had a wife.
Rape?
To be sure, Lady Elizabeth was lovely and spirited, and he certainly wouldn’t put rape past Wimarc, but abducting a ward of the king—which she must be, since her sister Adelaide was—was a far different crime from raping a servant or peasant, or even another nobleman’s daughter or wife. Wimarc wouldn’t dare do something like that unless he thought he could get away with it, or didn’t care if he roused the king’s ire. “What does he want with her?”
“Who knows?” the lout retorted as sweat dripped down his wide face. “What have men like us to do with the likes o’ them? It’s enough to watch out for ourselves, and he’s willing to pay if we take her to him.”
Giving Lady Elizabeth to Wimarc would get him inside the man’s fortress, but getting in was never the problem.
The problem would be rescuing his imprisoned half brother and getting out again.
Besides, he wouldn’t use a woman that way. Not any woman, and especially not any relative of Adelaide d’Averette.
But he wasn’t about to let this blackguard know that. “If she’s so important, maybe he’ll pay even more. That’s not so large a sum when split between so many.”
“Wimarc only offered the reward to me. Those others are Wimarc’s mercenaries. I’m not.”
The lout licked his dry lips. “And I wouldn’t try to haggle with him, not unless I wanted to wind up in his dungeon. Do you know what happens to his prisoners?”
“I’ve heard.” Slow starvation. A little food in the beginning, gradually diminishing to nothing.
Was Ryder still getting something to eat? Or had his time run out?
The lout took a step forward, only to halt abruptly as the Irishman raised the tip of his sword level with the man’s eye.
“A fellow’s got to look out for himself,” the blackguard said, desperation in his voice and sweat dripping from his brow. “Come, man, it’s fifty marks he’s offered! That’s twenty-five marks for you, and all you have to do is help me get hold of a woman.”
“You seemed to be having a little trouble with that woman.”
“That’s because she’s a hellion, but the two of us should have no trouble taming her. And Wimarc doesn’t care if she’s a virgin. Leastways, he never said she had to be, so add that to your payment. Twenty-five marks and a pretty virgin—that ought to be worth my life.”
The Irishman lowered his blade.
“I knew you were a smart fellow,” the lout said with relief. “Come on. She can’t run far. There’s her maid, too. We’ll have fine sport tonight!”
He went to go past the Irishman, but in the blink of an eye, the Irishman shoved his blade beneath the lout’s arm with a thrust so powerful, it went right through his mail.
As the Irishman held the former second-in-command of Averette in a deadly embrace, Lindall’s eyes widened with shock. Blood trickled from his lips and he tried, uselessly, to talk.
“Rape holds no appeal for me,” the Irishman said. He shoved the sword in farther. “This is for the other women you’ve raped, the men who died today, and especially the lady.”
TRYING TO DRAW IN a deep breath, perspiration pouring down her back and sides, Lizette rounded a bend in the road and saw Keldra hiding—ineffectually—behind a chestnut