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Knight's Rebellion
Suzanne Barclay
'Twas Said That The Sommervilles Loved Only OnceYet Alys Sommerville was no heir to this legacy of passion, for the Fates had sent her along a very different road. One that led straight into the arms of Gowain FitzWarren, the leader of a desperate rebel band…Though the highborn Alys was seemingly a bride of the church, Gowain could not fail to note the radiant beauty that her simple garb did nothing to conceal. But he was intent on recovering his birthright, and could scarce afford any distraction, no matter how compelling!



Table of Contents
Cover Page (#udfba04d9-ac86-5f66-91fb-57b7d28788db)
Praise (#u840c74e5-6d58-5b9f-a268-738e2543ea82)
Excerpt (#u72d50348-e958-56df-8afb-0b6812656059)
Title Page (#ud82c7a83-4714-5e67-8d98-83f5e6584cbf)
About the Author (#ua156f82c-e89c-5a7a-941b-f2255863057d)
Prologue (#u5d51ca93-dd5b-5d19-83e3-00f2d446a497)
Chapter One (#ua411e4ba-2970-5ac5-afbc-4dc5dbc2dbcc)
Chapter Two (#u9edffc79-13e9-5667-9e05-93af9ef9cd07)
Chapter Three (#u36707752-1488-5451-99e9-6ec5fe46c22e)
Chapter Four (#udc58437d-c029-5b9a-8128-6f0e0a59af26)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

Just some of the terrific
praise for award-winning author Suzanne Barclay and her books!
“…a great superstar.”
—Affaire de Coeur
“…a fun, fast-paced read with an intriguing plot…”
—Author Kat Martin
“Barclay is dynamic!”
—The Literary Times
“A rare treasure!”
—Rendezvous
“5
s.”
—Booklovers
“…an exciting and talented new writer.”
—Author Susan Wiggs

“Pure gold! Read a Barclay Medieval and you are reading the best.”

—The Medieval Chronicle
“…richly detailed, completely believable and totally satisfying…”

—The Gannett News Service

“…page-turning adventure…seduces your senses and lays siege to your heart.”

—Author Theresa Michaels

“…a magician with words…”

—Romantic Times
“…pure magic…A glorious tapestry of love and redemption.”

—Old Book Barn Gazette
If you haven’t read Suzanne Barclay, what are you waiting for?

“I cannot be what you want,” Alys said softly.

“And that is…?” Gowain questioned.

She shivered. “A—”

“Lover?” he whispered, pleased by the hike in her pulse.

She nodded and ducked her head.

Gowain grinned, stroking her forearm. She was still trembling, but not with uncertainty or fear. Nor was she trying to pull away. It was worth the strain on his selfcontrol. “I want you to be comfortable with me, Alys.”

“I am, but…” Her eyes locked on his, twin pools of startling blue, filled with trampled hopes. “This will not work.”

“It can, if you want it badly enough.” His gaze focused on her, his eyes as dark and mysterious as the forest at night. In their depths flickered a longing she understood only too well, for it mirrored her own. Loneliness, a yearning to belong to someplace and someone.

The ache in her chest grew, coiling so tight, she could scarcely breathe….

Please address questions and book requests to:
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Knight’s Rebellion
Suzanne Barclay





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

(#ub34b58e8-14f2-5865-9a51-f74fda1767d3)SUZANNE BARCLAY
has been an avid history buff all her life and an inveterate dreamer since she was very young. “There is no better way to combine the two than by writing historical romances,” she claims. “What other career allows you to journey back to the time when knights were bold and damsels distressed—without leaving behind the comforts of central heating and indoor plumbing?” She and her husband of twenty-one years recently moved into a new house with a separate office where Suzanne can dream in blissful peace…when not indulging her passion for gourmet cooking or walking their two dogs, Max and Duffy.

Suzanne has prepared a comprehensive Sommerville family tree, detailing the marriages and progeny of all the Sommervilles and Harcourts…even those who did not star in their own stories. To receive a copy, send a large SASE to: Suzanne Barclay, P.O. Box 92054, Rochester, NY 14692.

Prologue (#ulink_bcd27472-ded8-5e45-82b2-3d6a4c59aede)
England, April 1390
Night fell swiftly in this wild corner of the Peaks District, snuffing out the gray day and turning the hills black as the maws of hell. The wind rose, bearing with it a hint of rain, its chill fingers tugging at the shabby band of riders working their way down the rutted track between the mountains.
Gowain de Crecy hunched his shoulders beneath his threadbare tunic and rusted armor, his body’s instinctive reaction to the cold his brain was too preoccupied to note.
Riding beside him, Darcy Beaufort, his second in command, sighed, weariness mixing with exasperation. Gowain was a born leader, wise beyond his six-and-twenty years, brave and possessed of tremendous willpower. He was the sort of man other men would follow into hell itself. If Gowain had a failing, it was that he sometimes forgot others were not as strong and invincible as he. “Dammit, man, do you never tire?” Darcy grumbled.
“What?” Worn leather creaked as Gowain turned and raised the visor of his helmet. Within its shadowed depths, his eyes glowed like green fire, but his chiseled features were as stark and forbidding as this rugged land of his birth.
Silently Darcy cursed the woman whose betrayal had turned this idealistic man into a hard, driven one. “How much farther?”
“Eastham lies just around the next bend.”
“Good. For I don’t think the others could ride much longer.”
Startled, Gowain looked back at the rest of his troop. Thirty soldiers, veterans of the wars in France and used to long, hard marches. Yet even they were drooping with fatigue from the desperate pace he’d been forced to set when they took the babe and fled from Blanche’s home. Alarmed, Gowain sought the nursemaid riding in their midst.
Ruby’s thin frame was swamped beneath Gowain’s cloak, her shoulders bent as she shielded wee Enid from the elements. If the girl faltered, there’d be none to care for the two-year-old.
For an instant, remorse pierced Gowain’s icy reserve. “I could call a brief halt so she might rest”.
“Nay, we all need more than a few moments’ respite, and we dare not tarry that long in the open.”
Gowain nodded and looked forward. “We’ll have rest and a safe haven, if we can just hold out for another league.” Or so he hoped. A shiver of foreboding raced down his spine. He was even tempted to pray, though he knew God did not heed him.
“Are you certain your father will welcome us? It’s been some years, and you said you didn’t part on good terms.”
“Warren de Crecy is not one to hold a grudge, especially against a wild lad too much like himself. He did not like it that I left Eastham, but he understood that I was young and hot-tempered, a second son determined to earn his fortune in France.”
“And Ranulf?” Darcy asked. “Your wicked half brother?”
His head came around sharply. “I never called him that.”
“Not in so many words, mayhap…” Darcy hesitated recalling whispered words exchanged in the black hell of a French prison, dark confidences shared by men who’d never expected to see light or freedom again. Yet they had, thanks to Gowain’s sacrifice. “You told me your older “brother resented you and your mother. If he made your early years unbearable, he’ll doubtless not welcome us warmly. Mayhap we should bypass Eastham and press on.”
“There is nowhere else to go,” Gowain said flatly. The search for Enid had exhausted his funds. They had little food left, and no other hope of shelter. Damn, he hated returning home a failure, his dreams dashed, but needs must “We will not stay long. I only want a place where we can rest for a few days, a week at most, and to ask my mother for the use of Malpas, her dower property. She offered it to me before…before I left Eastham…but I was too proud to take what was not mine.”
“You will swallow your pride?”
“To save wee Enid, gladly.” He’d sold his soul to save her, now he’d barter his pride, beg, if necessary, to provide his little daughter with food, shelter and, most important, a place where she could heal. Gowain lifted his face to the cold breeze, but the fresh air, smelling of earth and home, didn’t scour away the past. “I wish I had written to them to find out how matters stood at Eastham. If they have not prospered, I’d not inflict an additional burden on them by appearing like beggars at the gate.”
“Always you think of others instead of yourself.”
“If I had thought at all, I’d not be in this mess,” Gowain snapped. “God rue the day I took up with Blanche.”
Darcy’s broad face, weathered beyond his eight-andtwenty years, softened. “If you hadn’t, there’d have been no Enid.”
Gowain’s chest constricted with pain and guilt. Enid, the child he’d got on Blanche a short time before he was captured by the French. The babe born while he was in prison and presumed dead. Poor Enid, born after Blanche wed another. They’d cast Enid out like soiled goods, Blanche and her noble husband. God, when he thought of the hovel where he’d found his daughter—
“Enid is only two,” Darcy said slowly. “She’ll forget.”
“Forget!” Gowain snarled. “How can you say that, when she wakes screaming every night? You’ve heard her. Jesu, what can those beasts have done to make my babe so terrified? If only she would tell us what happened, mayhap I could help.”
“Don’t!” Darcy said. “Don’t torture yourself, Gowain. None of this is your fault.”
“I’d speak of it no more,” Gowain said gruffly. He shoved the anguish to the back of his mind and shut the door on it. A skill he’d mastered as a child and perfected over the years. He didn’t just hide his emotions, he ceased to feel them. ‘Twas the only way he’d survived the French prison and Blanche’s betrayal.
“Is that Eastham?” Darcy asked, pointing ahead.
“Aye.” A sense of relief swept through Gowain as his weary eyes traced the familiar lines of his birthplace.
Set atop a rocky promontory, Eastham Castle’s twin towers rose defiantly against the rapidly darkening sky. Strong and stalwart as an ancient warrior, it cast a long, protective shadow over the village huddled at its base. After all that had happened to him of late, Gowain had half feared he’d return to find Eastham shattered along with his other dreams and hopes.
“Do we bypass the village or ride through it?” Darcy asked.
“Through. The way is shorter.” But as they approached the low wall of rocks surrounding the village, Gowain’s unease returned. The wall looked unkempt, the cottages neglected.
“This place looks deserted,” Darcy muttered.
“Hmm.” Gowain leaned from the saddle to examine the road in the fading light. The track showed signs of recent traffic. “It could be nightfall or the approaching storm has driven everyone within.” Yet no hint of light seeped out from around the tightly closed door and shuttered window of the cottage on his right.
Gowain knew who had lived there. Master Everhard, the tavernkeeper, and his daughter, Maye. Beautiful, lively Maye had been pursued by half the village lads, himself included. He was half tempted to dismount and ask for news, of Maye and the castle.
“I like this not.” Darcy loosed the loop of his battle-ax from the saddle. He was big as an ox, with arms like tree trunks. A good man to have on your side in a fight.
“Slip to the rear and alert the men,” Gowain whispered. Slowly drawing the sword from its sheath, Gowain laid it across his thighs. Just in case. Around them, the wind whistiled between the buildings, the only sound other than the ring of iron shoes on hard earth and the jingle of harness. By the time they cleared the village, Gowain had decided on a change of plans.
“I’ll not let you go up there alone,” Darcy protested when he heard what Gowain intended to do.
Gowain looked up the hill to the castle, set out against the billowing clouds, lights shining from the uppermost tower windows and flickering along the wall walks, where the guards no doubt made their rounds. Whatever awaited him there, he was used to facing his demons alone. “I need you to keep Enid safe. Dismount and hide the men in these rocks. After I’m assured of our welcome, I’ll come myself to fetch you. Myself. If another should come and say I sent him, know that I’m taken, and flee.”
“But—”
“I hate to leave you here in the wind and cold, but I will not be longer than is needful.” Gowain turned away before Darcy could say more. For all his resolve, the ride up the steep hill to the castle was the longest in his life. Nerves stretched taut with dread, he drew rein before the drawbridge.
“Halt and state your business,” a stern voice shouted down from atop Eastham’s walls.
“Open the gates for Sir Gowain de Crecy,” he called.
“The hell ye say,” came the reply. “He’s dead.”
Gowain lifted the visor of his helm. “I’m very much alive, as you can see. I come alone, in peace, to see my father and—”
“Wait here while I see what His Lordship says.”
Gowain stared at the closed drawbridge, unable to fathom that his father might not let him in. An interminable wait followed. Just when Gowain thought he might burst into a thousand pieces, the door of the sally port to the right of the drawbridge creaked open and a group of men rode out.
The tingle of apprehension in Gowain’s belly became full-blown alarm. He backed his stallion up till he stood on the crest of the road. It was purposefully narrow, so that an invader might bring up only a few men at a time. At the first sign of trouble, he’d spur down the path.
As the troop drew near, he recognized their leader.
Ranulf!
It was like seeing their father as he might have been at thirty. Ranulf had their sire’s fair hair and eyes the color of summer sky. How Gowain had envied Ranulf that link with the man he adored. How he’d hated the black hair and green eyes he got from his mother. Ranulf had known, of course, and taunted Gowain with it. Calling him “gypsy boy” and “black savage.” The passing years had intensified Ranulf’s resemblance to their father, Gowain saw as his brother halted before him.
“You are not well come here,” Ranulf snarled. Though they were of a height, he glared at Gowain as imperiously as Zeus from Mount Olympus. “Get you gone from Eastham.”
Gowain glared right back. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ranulf’s men fan out, flanking him on the sides, but unable to get behind him on the narrow trail. So, they thought to take him. Reflexively his fist tightened on the hilt of his sword. “When I left for France, our father said I would always be well come in his castle,” he said, calmly yet firmly.
“My father is dead, and I am lord here, now.”
“Dead?” Gowain blinked, only years of absorbing physical blows keeping him upright. “When?” he whispered.
“A year ago…for all the notice you took.”
“I…I was in prison.”
“I am not surprised you ended up there.”
Gowain barely heard the taunt as he struggled to absorb this latest blow without revealing the pain it caused. Ranulf had the ruthless instincts of a wolf. If he knew he’d drawn blood, he’d close in for the kill. It had always been thus between them. Gowain the outsider, though he’d been born at Eastham, and Ranulf, the heir, jealous of the young rival for their father’s affection and for the wealthy estate.
“I truly did not know about Papa.” Gowain tried to think what he should do next. “I will not presume further on your hospitality, then. I assume my mother has gone to Malpas Tower, and I will join her there.”
“She has not gone to Malpas.”
“Where is she, then?”
Ranulf shrugged. “Gone back to Wales, I should think.”
“But why? Malpas was her dower property.”
“Nay. Malpas is mine, not hers. Since there was no marriage twixt my father and her, she has no dower lands.”
“What?” Gowain swayed. “That is impossible. They were wed.”
“They were not.” Ranulf sounded so certain, so smug.
“You lie. She was his wife. He…he called her wife.”
“Then he did so to humor her, for there was no marriage between them.” Ranulf smiled, his eyes cold, calculating. “No copy of their marriage lines could be found.”
“You destroyed them, then, you bastard.”
“I am not the bastard here.” Ranulf’s lip curled. “You are, entitled to naught, not even my father’s name.”
“Our father,” Gowain said firmly. “My mother was—”
“Was a clever little Welsh whore who inveigled her way into my father’s bed.” He stroked his chin. “Mayhap you are not even his get. You’ve her looks, and none of Warren de Crecy’s.”
“What have you done with my mother? By God, if you’ve hurt her…” Gowain cried, lifting his sword.
“He raises arms against me! Seize him!” Ranulf shouted.
Gowain’s bellow of denial was lost in the scramble as Ranulf’s men surged forward. Instinct saved him, prompting him to bring his blade up to counter the first blow.
Ten to one, they had him, but he’d spent the past six years fighting the hard, unforgiving French; these men had doubtless spent theirs subduing unarmed peasants.
With his left hand, Gowain whipped the battle-ax from his saddle and flung it at the foremost rider, catching him in the chest. The man screamed; his horse reared, slamming back into those who followed. The noise and confusion were horrific as men struggled to control horses gone wild.
Gowain wheeled his horse and plunged down the dark’ path toward the village. Mentally he calculated his next move. Did he go left, toward the rocks where his men waited? Or right, drawing his pursuers into the forest where he’d played as a boy?
Right.
He’d not risk a confrontation when there was a chance he could lead Ranulf’s soldiers away, lose them in the woods, then double back and get his people to safety. Where? Where could he take them that would be safe… even temporarily?
Behind him, he heard shouts. He risked looking back and saw he was pursued by six men. Ranulf was in the lead, weapon gleaming ominously in the gray light. Ahead, the forest beckoned. Dark. Mysterious. He plunged into it. The forest closed around him, swallowing him, wrapping him in quiet and shadow. The puny trail went right; Gowain headed left, into the thick brush. He couldn’t hide the signs of his passage, but if he could go far enough, fast enough, he might be safe.
Briars snatched at his clothes; branches tried to scrape him from the horse’s back. Ducking low over the saddle, he laid his face alongside the horse’s neck and watched the woods flash by. He’d had no destination in mind, or so he thought, but when he saw the clearing and tumble of chalky rocks, he halted.
Here he used to play with Maye and her brother, Rob. Slipping from the saddle, he led the stallion around behind the rocks, secured him, then crept back to watch. Faint light filtered in through the canopy of leaves. In the dimness, nothing moved. He could hear nothing, but as he pulled off his helmet and cocked his head, a twig broke behind him.
Gowain turned in one swift movement, crouching low as he brought his sword up.
“Gowain!” gasped a female voice. She stood a foot away, a peasant woman in coarse homespun. “Tis me.” She drew back the cowl of her cloak. “Maye,” she added when he didn’t speak.
Maye? Nay, the Maye of his youth had been slender and beautiful, a siren whose call he’d longed to answer. “Maye.” His voice was as unsettled as his pulse. “What do you here?”
“Waiting for you…same as always.” As she closed the distance between them, her features grew more distinct. Yet they were blurred in their own way, by six years’ worth of lines and extra pounds. Still, it was Maye. “We heard you’d died.”
“I’m too tough to kill.” He looked around. “You cannot stay here. Ranulf comes….”
“He’ll not venture far into the woods. Ranulf fears the dark. With good reason. ‘Tis the outlaws’ domain.” Her eyes moved over his face, no doubt finding the years had marked him, too. “You’ve scarcely changed. I saw you ride into the village and wanted to run out and warn you, but Rob feared I’d be reported.”
“To whom?”
“Ranulf.” She spat the name, then smiled. “When Rob’s back was turned, I came looking for you, and found your men instead.”
“Darcy and the others? Where are they?”
“Safely away where Ranulf’ll not find them, no thanks to that great, stupid bull of a man.” She puffed up. “That…that Darcy feared I’d betray you.”
“It’s happened before,” Gowain muttered.
“I’d never hurt you, Gowain.” She laid a work roughened hand on his arm. “Many’s the time I wished I’d gone off to France with you instead of staying to wed John the Miller.”
Gowain swallowed against the sudden tightness in this throat and looked away from her adoring gaze. In his youth, he’d lusted after Maye, but he’d never loved her. “Tis in the past,” he said gruffly. “Do you know what became of my mother?”
“Nay. She…she just disappeared. Rumor had it she was a witch who’d entrapped Lord Warren, and once he was dead, she turned herself into a raven and flew back to Wales.” She snorted. “I say ‘twas a bit of nonsense put about by Ranulf.”
“Aye. Likely she’s gone to Malpas Keep.” At least that’s where he hoped he’d find her. Gowain dragged a hand through his wet hair, more tired and dispirited even than he’d been in prison. “I’ve got to find a place where my men and I can rest till I decide where we’ll go.”
Maye smiled. “I know what you should do. You should join the others who’ve run afoul of Ranulf.”
“What others?”
“The dispossessed ones. Families he threw off the land after he became lord, soldiers who refused when he ordered them to kill, poachers who took his game rather than see their children starve last winter. There’s six score of them, at least, hiding in the caves. They’d fare better, did they have a strong leader to guide them.” She glanced at him as she used to, as though he were the moon and the sun.
“I’m no rebel,” he muttered. “And I’ll not fight my brother, no matter that he just tried to kill me.”
“You may not have much choice. Ranulf’s hatred of you has grown over the years. He’ll not rest till you are dead.”

Chapter One (#ulink_0321eb41-be15-5ee8-ba7a-e31e7d3ef8a6)
“I cannot go to Newstead Abbey?” Stunned, Alys Sommerville sank down on the bench in her mother’s workroom. She barely noticed the sharp smell of hot metal in the air, a by-product of her mother’s penchant for goldsmithing. From the time she was old enough to mind, she’d played in a corner while her mother fashioned beautiful artifacts from lumps of ore.
Lady Arianna, Countess of Winchester, sighed, her grimy fingers tightening on the gold candlestick she’d been fashioning when Alys intruded. “Not till your father’s well enough to go with you.”
“But his broken leg is barely healed. It could take weeks before he’s up to so long a journey,” Alys fought to keep her voice steady. A Sommerville did not rail and whine, even for good reason. “Surely William could escort me.”
“He’s gone to Scotland on your father’s business. And Richard,” she added before Alys could drag in her other brother, “sailed for France yesterday.”
“He did? Why was I not told?”
“You were locked in your room finishing your book.”
“Aye, but that is no excuse for ignoring my family.”
Her mother chuckled. “I fear we are alike in that, my love. You lock yourself away with your herbs and potions, I with my metal and files.” She traced the graceful line of the dolphin that formed the base of the candlestick. For all that she was a countess, her lovely face was streaked with dirt, and the linen coif covering her head was askew, leaking strands of blond and silver hair. She’d inherited her talent at metalworking from her goldsmith grandfather. How lucky she was to have wed a man who not only understood her need to pursue her God-given skill, but bit off the head of anyone who decried his wife’s preference for goldsmithing over acting as chatelaine to their castle.
Would that I could be as fortunate, Alys thought. But then, any husband, understanding or otherwise, was denied her by the special gift that was both bane and blessing. “I know you are weary from nursing Papa though his broken leg, and I hate to add to your burdens, but I must go to Newstead. Surely we can find a way,” she added, for her parents had never denied her anything.
“I know you enjoy your visits to the abbey and have gleaned much useful information from the sisters for your books, but…” Her mouth set in a stubborn line Alys saw seldom. Doting as she was, Arianna was fiercely protective. “‘Tis too risky.”
“This is no casual visit,” Alys protested. “I have finally finished the books and would have the sisters copy them as a precaution.” From the velvet bag in her lap, she withdrew ten slender leather-bound ledgers. Lovingly she traced the gilt letters on the topmost one.
The Healing Way by Lady Alys Sommerville. Volume 1.
“Oh, Alys. What an accomplishment.” She wiped her hands on the skirt of her gown with typical disregard for the fine material and reached for Alys’s treasure. “Nay, I am still too dirty,” she remarked, glaring at her stained fingers. “Turn the pages for me, if you will.”
Alys knelt beside her and opened the book. Though the floors of the great hall on the first story were strewn with fresh rushes and those in the bedchambers just below were covered with costly rugs from the East, this garret boasted neither, for fear a spark might catch them on fire. The cold seeped through her heavy velvet gown, but she scarcely felt the chill for her excitement.
The books contained every scrap of knowledge she’d been able to amass on the subject of cures. Penned in her own neat hand, they reflected her need to bring order and logic to a subject fraught with uncertainty and, all too often, failure. “The first three contain drawings of herbs.” She turned the sheets of costly parchment, pointing with pride to the sketches she’d made of each plant, seed and blossom. “And in the second three are recipes for potions. The third group has lists of sage advice on healing, arranged by ailment.” As she spoke, Alys shuffled the books and opened each for her mother.
“This is amazing.” The blue eyes Arianna had bequeathed to her daughter sparkled with joy.
“If only Great-aunt Cici could have lived to see what use I made of the things she took such pains to drum into my head.”
Her mother smiled. “She loved every moment you two spent together. Teaching you all she knew about healing and herb craft gave her a reason to live long past what any of us expected. What of the tenth? You’ve worked on it the longest.”
“It was the hardest to write.” Alys shifted the book to the top of the pile, but didn’t open it. Her gloved hands clenched tight on the slender volume. “It’s about magic. About the healing touch of freaks like me.”
“You are not a freak!” Arianna cried, lifting a hand toward her daughter’s cheek.
Instinctively Alys leaned back. “Is it normal to shy away, even from the caress of a loved one?” she asked angrily.
“Nay, but that doesn’t make you…Oh, Alys.” Arianna bit her lip, tears welling. “I did not know it pained you so.” Her brimming gaze darted to the gloves covering Alys’s hands.
Alys ached with the need to fling herself into the soft haven of her mother’s arms, but that sweet sanctuary had been denied her from her thirteenth year, when the change had come upon her. Though her heavy clothes blocked most of the sensations, a stray touch on her bare face or neck would bring misery.
“I am sorry I said anything, Mama, for truly it does not bother me.” Most of the time. “I am used to being…separate. It helps me with my work.” Yet it cut her off from so much of life. And caused her parents untold anguish. “I am grateful for my skills, especially when I can help someone.”
“As you did your papa. If not for your gift, you never would have been able to set his leg properly.”
Alys shuddered as she recalled that awful day when her father’s squire had come racing back from what should have been a routine ride with one of the young warhorses her father had been training. “Lord Gareth’s mount bolted and they both fell into a ravine,” the lad had shouted. A rescue party had been quickly mobilized. They’d arrived to find the beloved lord of Ransford laying at the bottom of the gulch, sprawled like a broken toy.
“Your gift is heaven-sent, I know,” her mother said. “But setting the bone was even more agonizing for you than it was for Gareth.” Again her eyes strayed to Alys’s hands.
“’Tis all right, Mama,” Alys said gently. Inside the thin gloves, her hands ached with remembered torment. “It is hurtful to touch someone who is sore wounded, as Papa was, but if not for my skill, I’d not have been able to align the bones perfectly so he could walk again.” She shook her head. “Better a few hours of pain then to see Papa a…” Cripple. She swallowed the word.
“You are so brave and uncomplaining, it humbles me.”
“I am not brave. If I were, I’d be out using my gift to help others instead of hiding away writing books.”
“But your books are a help, and the healing hurts you,” said her loving mama.
“That is beside the point.”
“Not to your papa and me.”
The pealing of the tower bell intruded before Alys could protest that her gift should be shared, no matter the pain or risk to herself.
“It is time for supper.” Arianna stood and shook the metal filings from her skirts, her expression troubled. “I know going to Newstead is important to you. Let me see if I can find a way.”
Alys leapt up, forcibly reminding herself not to hug her mother. “Perhaps when Papa sees the books he’ll understand. He prides himself on being a man of logic and learning.”
“So I reminded him when his leg kept him confined to bed and he raged like a caged bear. Gareth has yet to forgive me for threatening to tie him to the bed. For his own good. He did that once to your uncle Alex, when he was being stupid.” Their mood lightened as she recounted the incident. By the time they’d descended the two sets of stairs, they were smiling and laughing.
“You two are in a good mood,” her father remarked, limping from the shadows into a circle of torchlight at the foot of the stairs. Despite his sixty years, he was an active, vigorous man, his ruggedly handsome face tanned from hours outdoors working with the warhorses he raised. Pain flickered in his midnight-brown eyes, and he still leaned heavily on a cane, but his steps were surer every day.
Needing to make some kind of a connection with him, Alys risked touching his arm. Through the rich velvet of his tunic, she felt iron-hard muscles and a surge of love so strong it nearly made her weep. Drawing back, she asked, “How are you?”
“Up and about, thanks be to your sacrifice.”
“I was glad to do it, Papa.”
“Still, it was not easy,” he muttered. When they reached the great hall, he added, “I hope you do not mind a guest for dinner. The guard brought word that a Lord Ranulf de Crecy has come, begging entrance. He has a petition for me to hear.”
“Business?” Arianna grimaced. “Oh, Gareth, you are not yet healed and cannot ride off to settle some squabble.”
“The man wants a hearing. Which I am bound to give him.” As a justice of the king’s chancery court, the Earl of Winchester was often called upon to render judgment and mediate disputes between nobles.
Alys trailed unhappily after them as they slowly made their way across the rush-strewn floor to the high table. She’d not be able to propose her own plans to her father until he was done with this Lord Ranulf. Fuming inwardly, she took the seat beside her mother and propped her chin on her hands.
Sunlight slanted in through the high windows of the long, stately room, the shimmering rays bent into a dozen colors by the costly leaded glass. Bands of light fell on the brilliant tapestries depicting the triumphs of generations of Sommervilles. There had been many in the years since the first Lord Sommerville helped William of Normandy conquer England. Aye, her family had a proud heritage. The Sommerville men, and women, knew their minds and followed their hearts.
The bustle of activity in the hall caught her attention. A pair of brawny men in Sommerville livery were setting up extra trestle tables, while the maids scurried about placing manchet bread trenchers and cups at each place. Her father’s pages dodged through the throng with pitchers of wine and new ale. Ordinary as these tasks were, an air. of suppressed excitement hung on the air, along with smoke from the hearth and the scent of baking bread.
Oriel rushed up, her face flushed, her brown braids flying. She was the daughter of Ransford’s former housekeeper, Grizel, and had recently taken over her mother’s duties. “Do not fret, Lady Arianna, we’ve food aplenty for your noble guests.”
“I am not the least worried,” the countess replied. Which was probably the truth. Busy with her family and her smithing, Arianna paid little attention to domestic matters.
Alys looked over and caught her father smiling fondly at his wife. Ah, if only I might find someone like Papa. Someone who accepted me for what I am, she thought.
A commotion in the hall intruded. Ransford’s portly steward advanced down the aisle between the tables. In Edgar’s wake trailed a nobleman and a trio of roughlooking soldiers.
“Edgar’s joints must be paining him again, for his steps are halting. I shall give him some of that bryony salve to apply to his knees,” Alys whispered. “It may ease the stiffness.”
Her mother nodded. “That tall man must be Lord Ranulf. Is he not a most handsome man?”
That he was, tall and blond, with the regal bearing of one of her Papa’s warhorses. His close-fitting sapphire-blue cote-hardie emphasized the width of his shoulders and the fairness of his skin. If the quantity of jewels embroidering his tunic seemed a bit ostentatious, Alys was willing to overlook it, for he so resembled a statue come to life. The image of male perfection was marred somewhat by the stranger’s dark scowl and haughty glare.
When they reached the foot of the dais, the man waited an instant, then turned his frown on Edgar. “Will you announce me to the earl, or must I do that myself?”
Pompous, as well as pretty, Alys thought, and the newcomer fell a mark in her estimation. Her cousin Jamie was even more handsome, yet he did not pose and swagger so.
Edgar drew himself up to his full height of five feet and five inches, pounded his staff on the floor in the manner of a court herald and bawled, “Lord Ranulf de Crecy, Baron of Eastham, lord of Malpas, Donnerford and numerous lesser holdings, does beg an audience with your grace.”
“I’ll wager this Lord Ranulf never begged for a thing in his life,” Alys muttered.
“I’ll wager he never had to…leastwise not from a woman,” her mother replied with a saucy grin.
“Mother!” Alys exclaimed.
“Well, he is most wondrous to look on. With a sizable estate. Let him be your dining companion and see what comes—”
“Naught will come of it.”
“You will not know till you try.”
“How? If I cannot bear the touch of my own dear family, how could I stomach the touch of a strange man?” Alys shook her head. “It would be cruel to lead him on when I cannot wed him.”
“But if you left your gown and gloves on—”
“Even at night, in bed?” Alys sighed. “What man would want a wife he could not kiss or touch or couple with? No bed sport? No heirs?” She looked over at the handsome Lord Ranulf and then at her equally handsome sire. “Men, even those as wonderful as my papa, have not the patience or self-denial for that.” Still it was hard not to hope, to wish for what could never be.
“Excuse me for not rising, Lord Ranulf,” Gareth said. “But I am just recovering from a broken leg.”
“My condolences. Does it mend well?”
“Very. My daughter is a skilled healer.” Gareth beamed in Alys’s direction, but Lord Ranulf continued to stare at him. “What brings you to Ransford, sir?” her father asked.
“Treason,” Lord Ranulf growled.
“Treason!” The word riffled through the room, stilling the hum of pleasant conversation.
“Against King Richard?” her father asked slowly.
“Nay. This strikes far closer to home. My half brother has taken arms against me and is ravaging the land about Eastham.”
“Ah.” Her father settled back. “How comes it that you bring the matter to me instead of your overlord? Whoever that—”
“James Hartley of Hardwicke.”
“A good man,” Gareth said slowly.
“I took the matter to him some months ago, when Gowain first turned rebel, but Lord James is too busy with his southern estates to heed my troubles,” Ranulf replied, his tone flat.
“What has this Gowain done?”
“Killed the captain of my guard, attacked and burned two farms, pillaged the villages about my castle and raided every convoy bringing goods to me.”
“These are strong charges.”
“And true. Clive,” Ranulf called over his shoulder. One of the soldiers who had been standing behind him, came forward. “Tell my lord earl what transpired the day Gowain returned.”
Clive, a big, beefy man in scarlet livery, bowed to Gareth. “He killed Donald.” The soldier went on to tell how Gowain FitzWarren had struck down the captain, who was attempting to protect Lord Ranulf from harm.
“What provoked this quarrel?” Gareth asked.
“My refusal to turn Malpas Keep over to Gowain.” Ranulf held up a hand before the questions could fly. “Let me go back and explain that Gowain left home some six years ago, after a bitter argument over property with my father. Nearly a year went by before he wrote to his mother to say he’d taken a post with Sir Falsgraff and was part of the garrison defending Bordeaux.”
“You speak of your father and Gowain’s mother.”
“Gowain is my father’s bastard, gotten on the Welshwoman he brought home the year after my mother died,” Ranulf said stiffly. “There was some talk he was not even my father’s get, but old Warren was a soft man and raised Gowain as his own.”
“Your sire is dead, then?”
“Alas, eighteen months ago.”
“And his…er, Gowain’s mother?”
“Disappeared, along with a chest of my mother’s jewelry. I assumed she’d gone back to Wales. Lacking the funds to mount a war over a few baubles, I let the matter rest. Gowain returned in April. From the meanness of his clothes and armor,” Ranulf added, flicking a speck from his fine tunic, “I judged he’d fallen on hard times and come to beg a handout. When I apprised him of our father’s death, he did not grieve, but demanded Malpas Keep, which he claimed was his mother’s dower property.”
“Was it?”
“Though Elen sometimes portrayed herself as Warren’s wife and chatelaine of Eastham, there was no marriage. Thus, no part of my property was hers…or her bastard’s. Had it been otherwise, do you think she’d have run off to live in some hovel in Wales?”
“I suppose not.” Gareth stroked his chin. “I am sorry for your misfortune at his hands, but why have you come to me?”
“I’ve come to you for a ruling in your capacity as magistrate of His Majesty’s court. I want Gowain and those who ride with him declared outlaws.”
“That is a serious step. And this seems a personal matter. Can you not capture him and bring him to trial yourself?”
Ranulf’s jaw flexed. “’Tis not just a personal matter. He has aligned himself with a band of brigands who were hiding in the hills, runaway serfs and soldiers without a lord. They know every acre of land and every hiding hole in the district, and have managed to elude capture. Gowain has turned the experience he gained fighting the French all these years and now preys on his own countrymen. Is that not so, Clive?”
“Aye.” Clive’s hamlike fists clenched at his sides. “He’s a black one, is Sir Gowain, wild and bloodthirsty as any Scots riever, but canny, ye understand. He favors swooping down on unsuspecting merchants, kills the leader right quick, then forces the rest to surrender. We laid a trap for him, with my men posing as merchants. Gowain sent the leader back to us in pieces.”
A shocked silence fell over the hall.
“These are grievous charges,” Gareth said slowly.
“Aye. If you declare him an outlaw and put a writ about, those who have been helping him will cease, lest they be outlawed, too,” Ranulf said quickly.
“He can also be hanged without a trial,” Gareth muttered.
“’Tis no more than he deserves for killing innocent men, women and even children.”
“Children,” Alys whispered, appalled by the story.
“What proof do you have of his deeds?” Gareth asked.
“Proof?” Ranulf scowled. “My storage sheds lay empty, for he’s stolen my supplies. My captain is dead and others with him. Several farms have been burned to the ground.”
“Was Gowain seen perpetrating these crimes?”
“I know he is guilty,” Ranulf growled.
“Hmm.” Gareth stroked his chin. “Still, I’d not act hastily in this matter. Will you sup with us ere I think it over?”
“Of course,” Ranulf said smoothly, but his clenched fists and narrowed eyes betrayed his anger over the delay.
Nor could Alys blame him. “Papa, surely you will grant his request,” she blurted out. “This Gowain must be stopped.”
Ranulf turned and stared at her so intently her cheeks flamed. “Who is this charming lady who pleads my cause?”
“My daughter, Lady Alys,” Gareth said with pride. “May I also present to you my wife, Lady Arianna?”
Ranulf bowed deep, first to her mother, then to Alys. “You seem in need of a dining companion,” he said to Alys. Mounting the dais, he took the seat to her left.
Within minutes, Ranulfs plans changed. Oh, he still wanted Gowain outlawed and eliminated. But he also intended to wed the wealthy, well-connected Lady Alys.
Ranulf’s gaze narrowed as it wandered over the great hall’s costly furnishings, carved chairs, lavish wall hangings, pristine white tableclothes set with silver plates. The candlesticks gracing the head table were wrought of pure gold, the intricate designs matching the goblets from which they drank. He was calculating their worth when the Lady Alys spoke.
“What your brother has done is monstrous. How horrible to be turned upon by your own kin.”
“It is.” Ranulf gave her his most charming smile. She was a pretty enough thing, if your taste ran to tiny blondes got up in yards of blue velvet. Her gown was so voluminous it hid her shape completely, but her features were lovely. Not that looks mattered, when a girl was heiress to a fortune.
Ranulf had made it a point to learn all he could about the Sommervilles before coming here. He’d known about Gareth’s broken leg and that the two sons of the house were away on their father’s business. These facts had made it unlikely the earl would offer to help fight Gowain. That was the last thing Ranulf wanted. Even with a larger force, it could take months to find Gowain’s hiding place and eliminate him. Time Ranulf didn’t have.
Every day, Gowain grew stronger and more daring. Soon he might become bold enough to attack Eastham or Malpas. Precious as his castle was to him, Ranulf was more worried about Malpas. Thus far, he’d managed to keep the area cut off and the outside world ignorant of what he was doing there. If word got out…
Jesu, he didn’t even want to think about that.
“Do not groan, Lord Ranulf,” Lady Alys said gently. “I promise to aid you in convincing me father.”
“I thank you for your good wishes, Lady Alys.” He’d learned she was a healer of some repute and unwed because, if you could believe it, her parents had left the choosing of a husband to her. Now he meant to be that man. “Will you have some of the roasted fowl?” Ranulf set himself to charm. No easy task, for she was a skittish thing. The meal was an extravagant one, fit for a feast day, but she ate little and drank even less. She also had an annoying habit of avoiding contact with him. Even in such lavish surroundings, with plenty of room for the diners, it was inevitable that hands brush or thighs touch.
Despite Ranulf’s efforts to capitalize on this, Lady Alys managed to keep her distance. Even more curious, she wore gloves. They were of the finest-quality leather, thin and pale as her own lovely skin. But gloves nonetheless. Mayhap she’d been burned or she suffered a skin rash. Not that he cared. He’d have taken her if she had two heads and no legs.
“Gareth, you need to stretch out and elevate your leg,” Lady Arianna said as the servants began clearing the tables.
“I must speak with Ranulf,” the earl replied.
“Why do the four of us not repair to my solar? You could be comfortable there and converse with Lord Ranulf in private.”
Ranulf could scarcely credit his luck. Dining with an earl and now invited into the Sommervilles’ inner sanctum as though he were already part of the family. The Fates had surely smiled on him…a blood connection with a noble family, a large dowry and a toothsome bed partner to initiate in all the ways he liked to be pleasured. He was less pleased when they reached the richly appointed solar and he heard what Lord Gareth had decided.
“I regret that I cannot issue a writ against Sir Gowain without sworn warrants of his deeds,” the earl said. “It may be that someone else has done these things and implicated Gowain.”
Ranulf ground his teeth together. “Your honesty and sense of duty to the law do you justice.” And I curse them both.
Lady Alys exclaimed, “Surely Lord Ranulf’s word is enough.”
“’Tis not a matter of his word, Alys.” Gareth frowned. “Have you forgotten what nearly happened to us?” He turned to Ranulf. “Years ago, my family was wrongly accused of treason, solely on the strength of rumor and the false witness of villainous men. We managed to outwit them and unmask the true criminals, but ‘twas a near thing. Though I am certain your proof is solid, I’d not outlaw a man without making certain he is guilty.”
“But, Papa…” Lady Alys began.
“‘Tis all right,” Ranulf said. He’d rouse the earl’s suspicions did he complain. “I will provide whatever you need.”
As Lord Gareth enumerated the proofs he would require against Gowain, Ranulf took a sip of the wine, rich, smooth Bordeaux wine, not the sour stuff they kept at Eastham. When he and Alys were wed, he’d eat and drink only the finest. He’d refurbish Eastham from cellar to turret. Of course, it would never be as grand as Ransford.
Hmm. Ranulf cocked his head, considering yet another course of action. If something should happen to her brothers, Ransford and the wealth of the Sommervilles would be hers. And his.
“I am sorry to disappoint you,” said the earl.
“Disappoint me? Never. Your caution and concern are proof the king chose wisely when he named you his justice. On the morrow, I will return home and begin gathering information.”
“If you and Lord Ranulf are done, may I ask a boon, Papa?”
“Of course.” The earl gave Alys a dazzling smile.
Lady Alys lifted a velvet bag from a nearby table and withdrew from it a stack of books. Kneeling at her father’s side, she handed him the top one. “I have finished my herbal.”
“Alys!” the earl cried. “What a tremendous accomplishment!”
“Thank you, Papa, but I am anxious to have them copied ere something happens to the originals. Please say you’ll let me go to Newstead Abbey.” Her pleading smile would have melted iron.
“You know I’d let you go if I could, but I’m weeks away from being able to ride, and I’d not send my precious love unescorted.”
“I could take Sir Miles and a goodly troop.”
“Nay.” Tears sprang into the earl’s eyes, and he looked to his wife for support.”
“Mayhap we could send to London for some lay brothers to do the copying,” her mother offered.
Lady Alys shook her head. “The nuns” work is the finest in the land. They alone can do justice to my books.”
Ranulf thought the lot of them stupid and sentimental. But he also saw a way to achieve his goal. “If I might offer my services, my lord. I have with me a fighting force of five knights and thirty mounted men. No one would dare strike at the lovely Lady Alys while she was in my care.”
“Thank you, Lord Ranulf. Oh, Papa. Please, please.”
“Well…” Lord Gareth murmured.
Ranulf sensed him weakening. “If we started early and set a brisk pace, I could have her there by vespers,” Ranulf said.
“Very well.” The earl’s grudging permission was drowned out by Lady Alys’s shrieks of delight.
Ranulf’s pleasure was quieter, but just as sharp. Silently he planned a small detour on the way to Newstead.

Chapter Two (#ulink_a1ce824e-69a3-5aea-9a39-0cc856b59739)
“Are you certain we are not lost?” Alys asked.
Lord Ranulf started. “Nay, I know exactly where we are. You can trust me to see you safely to our destination, dear Lady Alys.” His smile was patronizing yet smug, as though he knew something she did not.
Above all things, Alys hated lies and secrets. She shifted in the saddle, uneasy, suddenly, with a man she’d dismissed as a harmless fop. “I’ve twice traveled to Newstead, but nothing about this wild country seems familiar.” Not the rugged mountains glaring down at her from on high, nor the black forest crowding close to the narrow road.
“Surely you do not mistrust me.”
“Nay.” There was no reason for Ranulf to deceive her, yet the notion that he hid something persisted. She did not have her great-aunt Cici’s ability to read minds, but with her special healing gift had come an awareness of people’s nature. Her first instinct about Ranulf had been wariness. In her eagerness to leave for Newstead, she’d ignored that vague unease.
Well, her family often warned that someday her impetuous nature and penchant for wanting her own way would get her into trouble. Mayhap it had. Feeling lonely and afraid for the first time in her life, she studied Ranulf.
The raised visor of Ranulf’s helmet shadowed his smooth, pleasant features. Too smooth, mayhap. Ranulf had shown her many faces in the short time since they’d met. The bland one he had on now, the furious mask he’d worn when he’d demanded her father outlaw his rebellious brother, the beguiling face of the flatterer he’d put on for her parents. Who was he, really?
Her stomach clenched, and her palms grew damp inside her gloves. Why had he gone out of his way to escort her?
“I’d not take even the slightest risk of something happening to you,” he said silkily, maneuvering his horse closer to hers.
He sounded as annoyingly protective as her family. That must be what had ruffled her. Not some nefarious intent, but his stifling attitude. “I am not some fragile violet, sir knight. My father is a horse breeder, and I an excellent horsewoman, able to ride long distances even over rough terrain.”
“I am sure you are.” He patted her hand.
Alys flinched and drew away, but an impression filtered in through her protective glove. Something dark and murky. Her own fears or something in him?
“Forgive my forwardness,” Ranulf said stiffly, frowning at her gloved hands.
Alys sighed. “’Tis I who should beg pardon, my lord, and thank you for not peppering me with rude questions about my gloves. The truth is, my skin is very sensitive.”
“Ah. You are wise to protect your delicate self from the elements. And to wear such a modest costume for traveling.” He cast an approving eye over her gray gown and matching cloak.
Made from wool of the cheaper sort, the garment was devoid of fancy trim and cut full to resemble the serviceable robes worn by the nuns. She would be living among them for several months and wanted to dress as they did. Also, she hoped to further some of her experiments with herbal cures. Though her mother had insisted she bring along a few velvets and silks…just in case…Alys had packed her simplest things for this trip.
“I want to thank you again for escorting me,” Alys said. “Especially since I know you must be anxious to return home and begin gathering evidence against your dreadful brother.”
“Not at all. Not at all.” He smiled that eager-puppy smile that had won over her parents when he’d proposed escorting her to the abbey. “I would climb the highest mountain, ford a raging river, to see you safe.”
Alys sighed. Merciful heavens, but his devotion and courtliness were annoying. For several reasons, she’d be glad to reach Newstead and bid her courtier farewell.
“Are you tired, my lady? Should I call a halt?”
“Nay.” Alys straightened in the saddle. She’d not delay the journey even for an instant. “I am fine.”
Lord Ranulf smiled like an indulgent auntie. “You have only to say if you are weary, and we will rest. Or I could take you up before me so you might—”
“Perish the thought!” Alys exclaimed.
Ranulf blinked, his smile faltering for the first time all day. “I assure you I meant no impropriety. I had hoped you looked upon me as a friend anxious to help you.”
What could she say? How could she explain that she’d sell her soul for but one embrace, one hug that wasn’t fraught with tension and apprehension? Alas, it was not to be. “You are a friend,” she said gently. “Had you not offered your help, I’d not be making the journey to Newstead till my. father’s leg was healed or one of my brothers free of responsibility.”
“They value you greatly.” Ranulf smiled and again edged his palfrey so close his mailed leg brushed her skirts. “I would gladly be more to you than a temporary guardian.”
Alys fought the urge to retreat. “What do you mean?”
“I should speak with your lord father first, I know, but we left so quickly there wasn’t time. I’d have you to wife.”
“You what?” she cried.
“I’d wed with you.”
“Oh.” Drat. “I—I am conscious of the honor you do me,” Alys stammered. “But it is not possible.”
He stiffened. “I grant an earl’s daughter could look higher, but I’ve two castles and am engaged in a venture that will yield me wealth beyond your wildest dreams.”
“It isn’t a matter of property or money.”
“Your father said you had the choosing.” He sounded faintly appalled. “Yet you’ve not found a man to your liking.” He grinned. “Till now. We deal well together, I think.”
“I am sorry, Lord Ranulf, but it is impossible.”
His smile developed a hard edge, and his eyes turned cold. “You would change your mind…in time.”
Not in a hundred years. Alys bit her tongue to keep the words back. “We will not have time. We part in a few—”
“I realized that. Which is why I decided we’d detour to visit my castle at Eastham.”
“What?” Alys’s heart raced. “You are kidnapping me?”
“Never!” he exclaimed. “Only giving you a chance to see what kind of life I can offer you.”
“But—” Alys was torn between fear and outrage.
“Milord.” Clive and another man pounded toward them from their places at the head of the column. “Egbert reports there are abandoned wagons up ahead.”
“Why trouble me to report some farmers have deserted their goods?” Ranulf snapped. “Can you not see I am busy?”
“But I think they are your wagons,” said Egbert, a chunky man with a wicked scar across his forehead. “The ones sent to London to fetch the winter supplies.”
“What? Was there evidence of foul play?” Ranulf’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the forest up ahead. “This is far from his usual range, but it may be Gowain.”
Egbert shuddered. “There was no one about. Not the guards sent from Eastham or the wagon drivers.”
“That makes no sense,” Clive muttered. “If Gowain, or some other bandits, had waylaid them, why leave the goods behind?”
“Because they heard us coming and took flight,” Ranulf replied. “Or…” His eyes widened suddenly. “Or they are still—”
A bloodcurdling cry cut off his words. Men sprang from behind the trees and rushed onto the road. They were roughly dressed in tattered tunics and hide boots, some mounted on shaggy horses, the rest afoot. Their weapons glinted in the dimness of the tiny glade. At their head rode a mail-clad warrior, his long black hair flowing from beneath his helmet, his sword aloft.
“Bastard!” Ranulf roared. Drawing his sword, he spurred forward, crying, “Take them. A hundred silver marks to the man who kills the bastard!”
Ranulf’s men surged after him, a great screaming tide of mail and muscle. The two groups met with enough force to shake the ground, then dissolved into knots of men striking at each other with blade and ax and mace. The clash of steel on steel, the shouts of the warriors and the shrieks of the wounded rang off the trees till they filled the air.
Left behind, Alys sat transfixed, her fists clenched so tight her bones ached. She’d seen the men of her family practice on the tiltyard and attended several court tourneys, but never had she imagined real war would be so horrible. She held her breath, watching as Ranulf and his opponent exchanged blows in the center of the chaos.
The focus of the fighting shifted like a restless tide, surging back and forth across the road and into the verge of the forest. Men began to drop from view now, outlaw and soldier alike slipping from sight beneath the dreadful thrust of shimmering steel to the flailing mass of hooves below.
The healer in Alys cried out to aid them. Instinct urged her to flee while she could. If Ranulf won, he’d press his claim for her hand. If the outlaws won, she might be in worse trouble. Either way, she was in grave danger.
Just then, a man crawled out of the fighting. Blood covered the side of his tunic. He held one arm against his body. When he was halfway to her, his strength gave out, and he collapsed in a heap.
Heedless of her own safety, Alys slipped from her mount and moved toward him. Kneeling beside him, she touched his shoulder with her gloved hand. “Let me see where—”
He rolled over, a stained knife clutched in one gory hand.
Alys gasped and jerked back as the blade sliced the air just shy of her ribs. “Hold! I’d tend your wound.”
His pain-filled eyes widened, then softened. “Sister?”
Alys debated for only an instant. If it helped him to trust her, she’d lie and claim to be the nun she obviously resembled. “Aye. I’m Sister Alys. Let me see…”
He flopped onto his back, eyes shut. “I’m done fer, I fear, Sister. If ye could give me the last rites.”
“Let me see.” She parted the bloody rent in his tunic and winced at the long, jagged gash. “It’ll want stitching.” She looked at the mass of fighting men. They surged over the roadway and into the forest, careless of anything in their path in their quest to kill. “We have to get away from here.”
Though he was small, the man was heavier than he looked. She half dragged, half carried, her patient off the road and into the brush, then collapsed panting beside him.
“Sister,” he whispered.
Alys sat up and leaned over him. “I’m here.”
“Promise ye won’t leave me to die alone.”
“I won’t leave you…but neither will I let you die. If I can get the bleeding stopped and the flesh stitched—” She raised her skirts and tore a strip from her chemise. In deference to the cool, damp weather, it was wool, but it was soft and finely woven. She folded it into a pad and pressed it against the wound.
Her patient moaned softly. “Feels like I’m dying.”
Poor man, Alys thought. Then she took a good look at his face. Beneath the dirt and blood, his skin was freckled and hairless as a baby’s. “How old are you?”
“Th-three-and-ten.”
“A child. Who would send a child out to fight?”
“My lord needs every man who can heft a weapon,” he said weakly. “Least with me gone, there’ll one less to feed.”
“Indeed.” Alys was torn between pity and fury. What dire circumstances landed people in such straits? She pressed harder on the pad, then lifted it, pleased to see the wound wasn’t as long as she’d feared. But it was deep. She had needle and thread in the pouch at her waist, but her medicine chest was with her baggage. God alone knew where the carts and horse had gotten to. Wait, there was a small pack of herbs in her saddle pouch. If she could just reach it…
“Stork, I’m called…’count of my long legs,” the boy murmured. “But my real name’s Dickie…Dick of Newton. Just wanted ye to know…fer the prayers. Ye will pray fer me?”
Tears filled Alys’s eyes. “You’re not going to die, Dickie. I’m going to fix you up good as new.” She stood and looked toward the road, suddenly aware that the sounds of battle had faded. Either the trees were masking the noise or the fighting had moved farther away. If she hurried, she might be able to find her horse while it was still relatively safe. “I have to get my medicines.” She placed his hand on the makeshift bandage. “Press here. I’ll be right back.” Alys dashed away. Anxious as she was to return to him, she hesitated at the edge of the woods. A stand of young oaks and gooseberry bushes blocked her view of the road. But she could hear nothing over the thrum of her pulse against her temple. What had happened? Had they wiped each other out?
Parting the brush, Alys looked out onto a scene straight from hell. The bodies of men and horses littered the ground. It seemed no one lived.
“Oh, Sweet Mary have mercy.” Alys crossed herself, then hesitated, reluctant to walk among them. But Dickie would be added to their number if she didn’t act. She lifted her skirts and walked slowly down the edge of the road, trying not to see the details of the horror spread before her while she searched for her horse. There, a few feet into the carnage, she recognized the red-and-black trappings her father’s squire had put on her mount. Was it only this morn? Merciful heaven, but it seemed a lifetime ago.
Alys picked her way to the horse, then knelt and untied the pouch from behind the saddle. As she stood, someone grabbed her from behind, lifting her off the ground and pressing her back against a rock-hard body.
“Who the hell are you?” growled a hard voice.
The question broke through her shock. Alys erupted into action, lashing out with her feet, twisting her body. Her scream was cut off by a wide, callused hand. Instantly she was bombarded by her captor’s emotions. White-hot rage. Dark, seething frustration. Terrified, she whimpered and went limp.
“Bloody hell.” His grip gentled. Remorse now warred with his earlier fury. “I will not hurt you. Swear you’ll not scream again, and I’ll release your mouth.”
Alys managed to nod. When his hand lifted off her lips, she dragged in a lungful of air and tried to steady herself. His skin was no longer touching her skin, linking her with his deeper feelings, but the sizzle of his violent emotions remained. “Please,” she whimpered.
He spun her around to face him, and she got another shock. It was the black-haired man who’d led the attack.
Oh, no! Alys’s knees went weak. She’d have fallen over if he wasn’t holding her upright. He towered over her, his massive chest and wide shoulders straining the links of his mail shirt, his face concealed by a dented helmet.
“You!” he thundered. “You were riding with Ranulf.”
Anger sparked then, and Alys flinched. “I—”
“Sister Alys!” Dickie staggered out of the brush.
The giant released Alys and wheeled around, bringing his sword up. “Stork. What the hell are you doing here?”.
Alys forgot her own fear. Drawing the knife from her belt, she darted between him and the boy. “Get back. Leave him alone.”
“’Tis all right, Sister,” Dickie said. “We are saved. This is Lord Gowain.”
“G-Gowain.” The air left Alys’s lungs in a rush; the knife wavered in her hand and her courage with it.
“Sister Alys?” Gowain raised the visor of his helmet and eyed her skeptically. What she could see of his face, shadowed by his visor, was even less reassuring…glittering dark eyes, roughly chiseled features as stark as the surrounding mountains. “You wield a blade right surely for a nun.”
“I—I was not always one. I—I had brothers who taught me to defend myself,” she stammered, more grateful by the moment for her disguise. If the brigand dared attack Ranulf, what would he do to a mere woman? Doubtless the gown that so resembled a nun’s robe and her healing skills were all that stood between herself and ruin. “Desperate times call for desperate measures.”
“A sentiment I support.”
“Is that meant to justify your unprovoked attack on us?”
“Us?” His mouth thinned. “What are you to Ranulf?”
Alys rued her hasty tongue. “He was my escort.”
“How went the battle, milord?” Dickie asked.
“Well enough. Ranulf fled when the battle turned against him. My horse was cut from under me, but the other lads gave chase,” Gowain replied, his eyes remaining locked on Alys. “Where was he taking you?”
“Newstead Abbey,” Alys replied.
His gaze hardened. “I know that place, but it is many leagues east of here.”
“Aye, well…” She could hardly tell him of Ranulf’s insane notion to wed her. Not and maintain her unanticipated but fortunate guise as a nun. “We became lost.”
“In these woods? Ranulf knows this land right well.”
Drat. “I…I do not know.”
He grunted. “Ranulf only cares for that which profits him. What did he hope to gain by escorting you to Newstead?”
Oh, dear.
“Sister Alys,” Dickie called, weaving unsteadily.
“Dickie.” Alys dropped her knife and reached for the boy. As she wrapped an arm around his back, she fancied she could feel the life draining out of him. Dickie slumped against her, nearly dragging Alys down with him.
Gowain rescued them both by sweeping the boy into his arms before he hit the ground.
“Lay him down right here in the grass and remove his tunic,” Alys ordered. She hurried over to retrieve her knife and pack. When she returned, she found the knight kneeling beside the boy.
“Whatever possessed you to follow us?” Gowain asked. His voice was low, gentle, as he stroked back the boy’s sweaty hair.
“I heard them say how important it was to get the food,” Dickie whispered. “You needed every man.”
“That I did, Stork, but I also needed men to stay behind and watch over the camp. Men I could trust to follow orders.”
“I’m sorry, my lord.” Dickie shivered.
Gowain drew off his mended cloak and laid it over the boy, the gesture surprising and touching. “Just lie still.” He glanced around and glared at Alys. “Damn, I thought you’d run off.”
“I would never leave someone who needs me.” Alys fell to her knees on Dick’s other side.
“You’d be the first, then,” Gowain muttered.
“Sister, am I going to die?”
“Not if I can help it.”
“It hurts.”
“I know.” Alys longed to remove her gloves and touch him, to let the warmth of her flesh soothe him. But if she did, his pain would engulf her and she’d be useless. She stroked his cheek with the backs of her gloved fingers and let all her concern, all her confidence and, aye, all the love she felt for this skinny boy, show in her smile. “Trust in me, Dickie of Newton.”
He smiled. “I do.” His lashes fluttered, then closed.
“He’s fainted, thank God,” Alys said.
Gowain tugged off his worn helmet and tossed it to the ground. Leafy light gleamed dully on sweaty, well-chiseled features, a wide forehead, high cheekbones and a square, cleft chin. His hair, black as a raven feather, curled wetly against his bronzed skin. But it was his eyes that caught and held her. They’d looked black in the shadowed depths of his helmet. Now she saw they were green. A rich, velvety shade of green that reminded her of the forest at night. He might have been counted a handsome man, if not for the coldness in those dark, merciless eyes. Aye, he was all hard angles, a harsh face and remote eyes. Unforgiving. Uncompromising. “Can you save his life, Sister?”
“Aye. I need hot water, clean cloths for washing and—”
“You’ll have to make do without.”
“Do you want him to die?”
A twig snapped behind them. Gowain leapt up, sword in hand, and stood over them, as protective as a wolf defending its mate and cub. The bushes parted, and a mountain of a man stepped out.
“Ah, here you are,” he fairly sang out. “Lang Gib said he’d seen you taking to the forest with a wench, but I could scarcely credit that.” He looked down at Alys and her patient. “Dieu, it’s Stork!” His hand hovered over the boy’s head. “Is he dead?”
“Nay,” Alys replied, touched by his concern. “But he needs immediate care. If you could get me water and—”
“I’ve told you we haven’t time.” Gowain sheathed his sword with an angry motion. “Darcy, rig one of the wagons we captured to carry the wounded. Sister Alys will ride in it and tend them. Be ready to travel in a quarter hour.”
“Sister.” Darcy’s wide face was all smiles. “‘Twas a lucky thing we chanced on you.”
“She was with Ranulf,” Gowain growled, making Darcy’s smile dim. “What happened after my horse faltered? Did you manage to capture the scum?”
“He got clean away, though he left many a dead man behind. Wounded, too.” Darcy sighed. “Damn, I thought you had him.”
“So did I, but he maneuvered me into a corner. I could not take him without killing him.”
“Ranulf deserves to die,” Darcy exclaimed.
“But not by my hand.” Gowain’s jaw tensed. “I’ll not kill my own brother.”
“Aye, well. I expect there’ll come another day when we can take him and stop this.”
“I pray so.” Gowain cursed and ran a hand through his hair. “Damn. It would have saved us so much if we could have captured him and forced him to yield to our demands.” His hand fell to his side, clenched into a tight fist. “Losses?”
“Not bad.” Darcy rattled off the name of one who had died. “We’ve a handful with minor injuries and three others sore hurt…. Mayhap you’d see to them when you finish with Stork, Sister?”
“Certainly. I need hot wá—”
“We’ve no time to tarry,” Gowain said. “Ranulf could return at any time. Bind their hurts as best you can. We’ll see you have what you need when we get to camp.”
“I can’t go with you. I’m needed at New stead.”
His gaze turned icy. “So you said, but Newstead Abbey is miles from here…in the opposite direction from the one in which you were traveling, I might add.”
What could she do but try to bluff? “That’s impossible. Ranulf told me—”
“Then he lied. My dear brother has a way of twisting things to suit himself.”
“He did not lie about you,” Alys snapped.
“What did he say about me?” he asked softly.
“That you robbed, burned and murdered. That you attacked innocent travelers…just as you did us a few moments—”
“Ranulf is no innocent.”
“So you say, but I think—”
“I’ve no time to trade insults with you, Sister.”
“Fine. Give me a horse, then, and I’ll be on my way.”
“And leave the wounded behind to die?” he asked in that silky voice she was coming to hate. “Is that not against the oaths you swore to aid mankind?”
“I did not vow to aid criminals.”
Gowain tsked. “I did not know the church made such distinctions. Are not all men worthy in God’s eyes?”
Alys stiffened. He might be a brigand, but he was a clever-witted one to trap her so. “I could have ridden away when the fighting started,” she said with a calm she didn’t feel. “I stayed to help Dickie, and I will gladly see to the others. All I ask in return is an escort to Newstead when they are well. Is that too much to ask?”
“Nay, it is not,” Darcy said quickly.
Gowain’s glittering green gaze remained locked on her wary one, holding it so that she couldn’t look away. “Providing you are not Ranulf’s spy. ‘Twould be folly to let her go if she means to betray us…especially now.”
The last must have held meaning for Darcy, because he nodded, expression dour. “I will set someone to watch her on our ride to camp.”
“If you move Dickie, you consign him to death;” Alys said. “For jolting about in a wagon with his wound unstitched would kill.him. I will not, I cannot in good conscience, leave till he’s properly—”
“I cannot spare more time,” Gowain snapped. “If you are so concerned for them, I suggest you use it to bandage them rather than issue edicts.” He turned and stalked away.
“Clod, cold, unfeeling clod,” she muttered.
“Nay, he is not that,” Darcy said. “You do not know him, so you cannot see what it cost him to give that order. But there are many lives depending on him. We must reach our camp, and swiftly, lest Ranulf return.”
I hope he does, Alys thought. I hope he comes and kills you all. Fortunately, she was wise enough not to voice such an unnunly hope aloud. Nor did she really want all these people killed, but it would give her great satisfaction to see Gowain meet an outlaw’s just rewards…the hangman’s noose. As she bent to tend Stork, her hands shook so badly she could scarcely bind the wound. Partly it was sharing a measure of the pain the young boy felt; partly it was fear for herself.
What would happen if they discovered she wasn’t a nun?

Chapter Three (#ulink_d573c9ba-0238-5c5f-b582-72156f16cc36)
“You were rude to Sister Alys,” Darcy said when they were well away from the scene of the battle.
“I have greater worries than hurting the feelings of a spoiled, prideful nun,” Gowain growled, his mind on the perilous journey to safety. They rode at the head of the swiftly moving column, with a rear guard as well as men afoot to sweep away traces of their passage. It had taken time and work, but his rebel band ran as smoothly as the king’s army in France.
“She is uncommonly beautiful for a nun.”
“I did not notice.” But he had. He could still recall the feel of her small, slender body against his. His nerves still tingled from the spark that had passed between them. One instant he’d been furious with her, the next, swept by desire. Jesu, he was truly a lost cause if he lusted after a nun. And one who might well be in league with Ranulf.
And yet. She had the softest eyes he’d ever seen. Large, expressive blue eyes so dark they’d appeared black in the dim forest glade where she’d tended Stork, Sim and Martin.
“We are fortunate she was there, else we’d have lost three good men,” Darcy said.
Gowain grunted. She had spared him the terrible weight of Stork’s death, yet he didn’t want to be in her debt. In the brief few moments they’d been together, she’d made him feel things he didn’t want to feel. Especially for a nun.
“Curious she is not wed.” When Gowain refused to be drawn in, Darcy went on. “Though she is one of the most comely women I’ve seen, she is not a tender young maid, I think. No girl would have such fire. How old would you judge her to be?”
“Why, thinking of bedding her?” Gowain asked nastily.
“Of course not I did but speculate.”
“Cease prattling about her and speculate instead on whether what we took today is enough for our purpose.” Word that a trio of supply wagons moved along the road toward Eastham had prompted Gowain to risk a daylight raid. The guards and drivers had abandoned their cargo and fled into the woods without a fight.
“We hadn’t the time to examine everything,” Darcy said. “But I saw sacks of beans and flour, which we sorely need, two kegs of ale and several of salted beef.” He patted his belly. “’Twill be good indeed to eat something besides root soup.”
“Welcome as the food is, I’d rather we had taken Ranulf.” Gowain’s hand tightened on the reins. “Then we could stop living like hunted animals.”
“Soon,” Darcy said gently. “This haul brings us that much closer to making our move against him.”
“Aye.” But the knowledge that it would soon be over, one way or the other, brought little solace. Thus far, he and his men had fought defensively, to stay alive, to free those oppressed by Ranulf and to get food with which to feed them. The next step was a huge one. The taking of Malpas Keep itself. The battle required careful strategy and superb timing. “But even if all goes according to plan, we still may suffer heavy casualties.”
“The men know that. They are prepared to sacrifice—”
“Well, I am not,” Gowain exclaimed, thinking of Stork and the others, possibly bleeding to death in the wagon because a delay might cost more lives. “Jesu, do you think I want to buy back my estate with their blood?”
“It is not just your lands we fight for,” Darcy reminded him. “It is our very lives. We could not last the winter without food and better shelter. Nor can we provide for the increasing numbers who flee from Ranulf’s tyranny. The people who’ve joined us are nearly more desperate than we are.” He paused a moment, considering Gowain’s unyielding posture.” “If only the king would grant your request for a hearing.”
“King Richard has no time for dispossessed men such as we,” Gowain said bitterly. “He’s too busy granting grand titles to his favorites to even respond to my letter.” It had been sent by a priest a week after Gowain took to the woods. Father Bassett had assured him the letter was handed to the court functionary, yet no word had come from London.
“Then we must look to ourselves and take back that which Ranulf has stolen from all of us,” Darcy said firmly.
“Aye, we must.” And God save us all. “I will ride back along the line and see how the men fare,” Gowain said, as much because it was his way to check on things himself as because he was restless with the dozens of worries that beset him.
The pair who rode directly behind him were seasoned veterans who’d followed him from France. Despite long hours in the saddle, Robert Lakely and Jean de Braise sat tall and alert, ready to spring into action at any sign of trouble. Seeing Gowain change direction, they moved to accompany him.
“Keep your places,” Gowain said. “I’ll be right back.”
“I’d go with you, just in case there is trouble,” said Jean, older than Lakely and prone to pessimism.
“I’d have you here, for that reason,” Gowain replied and headed down the column. He nodded to the men he passed, noting keenly the condition of each. His soldiers had borne the brunt of both the attack on the wagons and the skirmish with Ranulf’s men, yet the farmers and tradesmen turned warrior looked the most haggard. A few sported red splotches on their rough tunics.
Arthur Jenkins was by far the worst, bent over and wavering slightly in his saddle. “Not far, now, Arthur,” he called. “Can you make it, or would you ride in the wagon?”
“Nay. I think my arm’s broke, and the wagon’d jostle it worse than my horse does,” he said through lips gone white.
Gowain’s jaw tightened with suppressed fury…against Ranulf, King Richard and even God. These good people did not deserve the suffering that life had thrust upon them. Damn, but he wished he could find a way to take Malpas without their help.
When he came abreast of the middle wagon driven by Henry Denys, Gowain turned to ride with it. “How goes it?”
Henry shrugged and jerked his head toward the back of the wagon. “Better ask my brother. I’ve been that busy trying to avoid the worst of the ruts.”
Ralph Denys sat in the back of the wagon, arms folded over his chest, dour gaze fixed on the nun ministering to her patients. “Nobody’s died…yet,” he muttered.
A sigh of relief hissed through Gowain’s teeth, and he moved a bit closer. “Sister, you have saved—”
“No thanks to you.” Her eyes were not soft or gentle, now, but blazed like hot coals in her ashen face.
Gowain drew back, the praise he’d been about to offer catching in his throat. “I do not answer to you.”
“And you can be grateful for that. If you were my father’s man, he’d whip you raw for such callous disregard of human life.”
“Would he, now?” Gowain’s eyes narrowed, studying the regal tilt of her head. “And who might your illustrious sire be?”
She blinked, then lowered her lashes, effectively shielding her eyes. “No one you would know.”
“Ah. But I might have heard of him.”
“Not all men’s names are whispered about like an ill wind.”
“I long ago ceased to care what others said of me.” He gathered the reins to leave.
“Wait.” She stretched out a hand to him, and he noted she yet wore her gloves, stained from her night’s labors. Odd she should keep her hands covered, for the air was not that chilled. “How much farther to your camp?”
“A mile, no more,” he said curtly.
She nodded and fell back on her haunches beside Stork. “Good. Send ahead and bid them heat water. I will also need bandages…clean bandages,” she added, eyeing his filthy tunic.
“You are adept at issuing orders, Sister.”
“And you slow to follow them,” she snapped. Her raised chin and contemptuous expression clearly showed her willfulness. “If you do not value their lives, think how hard it may be to replace them with other boys willing to follow you into battle.”
“On the contrary, Sister,” Gowain said icily, straining to contain a temper he usually had no trouble controlling. “It is easy to find boys who will fight for me. The water will be waiting.” He spurred his horse forward so swiftly a cry went up.
“Are we attacked?” Henry called as he passed the wagon.
“Nay.” But he was beset by a sharp-tongued shrew of a nun. He’d thought Blanche haughty, but this one left her in the shade. He wanted her gone, wished he could send her on to Newstead. If she was in league with Ranulf, however, she’d quickly tell his half brother about the size of Gowain’s force and location of his camp. Gowain could not afford to take that chance.
Nor could he be without a healer till the wounded recovered. None of the other women in camp had her skill. Much as he hated to need anyone, he needed the nun.

“We’re here, Sister.” Henry halted the wagon.
Alys shifted on her numb knees. The forest through which they’d traveled most of the night still surrounded them on three sides. Ahead lay a ridge of jagged mountain peaks. Set out against the gray sky of early dawn, they seemed to growl at the heavens like the teeth of some great, defiant monster. What a bleak, fitting place for an outlaw band, yet she saw no tents or lean-tos. “Surely you do not live in the open.”
He chuckled, revealing broken teeth set in a face as craggy as the mountains. “Nay. Camp is up there wi’ the crows.”
Alys tipped her head back and looked where he pointed. “All I see are stone and sky.”
“Aye. ‘Tis what’s made it nigh impossible for Ranulf the Cruel to find us. There’s caves up there, the entrance hidden well back among the rocks. The trail’s narrow, tricky as hell…er, if ye’ll pardon my speech, Sister…and well guarded. Even if Ranulf did find it, he’d not drag us out in a hundred years.”
Alys groaned faintly. She’d hoped Gowain’s camp would be in the forest, so that she might slip away into the trees and escape. Once trapped in the mountain, how would she ever get out?
Her throat constricted as the enormity of her situation truly sank in. She was the prisoner of a vicious outlaw, protected only by her habit and his necessity. Had Stork not assumed she was a nun, had they not needed her to keep the men alive, she’d be dead, or worse….
What would happen if they discovered she wasn’t a nun?
Alys clasped her arms around her shivering body and struggled to stay calm. There had to be a way out. She’d keep her wits calm and her eyes open for a chance to steal a horse and ride off. Better to be lost in the woods than to be the prisoner of such as these. Mayhap she could find her way to Eastham and Ranulf.
Ranulf, of course.
Alys nearly laughed aloud in relief. Ranulf had wanted to wed her. Surely he would not leave her to the outlaws’ mercy. He’d either send trackers to follow them to this hideout, or ride to Ransford for her family. Once it was known she’d been taken prisoner, they’d come to rescue her. If her father couldn’t sit a horse, he’d send for her uncles, Ruarke and Alexander, and her cousin Jamie, hero of the wars against the French.
“I thought you were anxious to see the wounded cared for,” growled the object of her thoughts. Gowain had dismounted and stood beside the wagon, eyes glaring a challenge from deep within the dark sockets of his helmet. Behind him, his crew of thieves busily transferred the stolen goods from the wagons to packhorses. They worked briskly and efficiently, doubtless with the skill of long practice.
“Come, I will take you up with me,” Gowain said, holding out his mailed hand.
“I prefer the wagon, thank you,” she said coldly.
“The wagons are going to a farm nearby, where…”
“From which you doubtless stole them.”
“What I steal, I generally keep. The wagons are mine. The farmer stores them and the horses for me betweentimes.”
“Between raids. What of the wounded? Do they walk?”
“Nay. We’ll carry them up on litters. ‘Tis a long hike, and I but thought you’d be weary after your long night.” He shrugged, as though the matter were unimportant. “Suit yourself, but don’t fall behind.”
Pride kept Alys from calling him back. She rued it during the long walk up the mountain. Her low riding boots were soft-soled, and the stones bit through the leather. Blisters sprang up on her heels and toes; her muscles, cramped and bruised from jolting about all night, screamed with every step. It took all her will and concentration to keep moving. Soon even the men carrying the wounded had outdistanced her.
“Hoping to fall back and escape?” demanded a familiar voice.
Alys spun, and would have fallen if Gowain’s hard hand hadn’t reached out and grabbed her arm. Though three layers of wool clothes separated her from his touch, the contact sent a sizzle across her skin, raising gooseflesh in its wake. It was not his anger or annoyance. What was this strange sensation?
He felt it, too. His nostrils flared, and his eyes widened, then narrowed. “What the hell?” he whispered. His gaze moved over her. Some emotion she couldn’t name flared his eyes so that the green burned bright. “Dieu, surely I am cursed,” he spat, dropping her arm and severing the connection.
Alys exhaled sharply. What had happened? She hadn’t felt his emotions, not exactly. This was like nothing she’d experienced before. “What…Where is your horse?” she asked lamely.
“Why do you wish to know?”
“I…I do not care where he is.” She tossed her head, fractious and confused. “You had offered me a ride, yet—”
“I felt the urge to stretch my legs.” He executed a bow that would have done a courtier proud, if not for the cynical twist of his mouth. “After you…Sister.”
Alys picked up her skirts, took a step and winced.
“Have you hurt yourself?”
“My boots are soft and not made for walking.”
“Like their owner, no doubt.” Before she guessed what he was about, he knelt and tugged at the hem of her skirt.
“Nay.” Alys tried to jerk free, but he held her fast.
“Show me your foot.”
“Nay.” She wore woolen hose, but it might not protect her from his touch.
“Your modesty is ill placed. Stick out your foot.”
“I do not want you to touch me.”
His expression hardened. “I have yet to stoop to ravishing nuns,” he snapped. “I am trying to help.”
“A first, I am sure.”
Gowain stood in a swift, lithe movement. “I’ve no time to bandy words with a spoiled nun. We must be inside the caves, and quickly, lest we’re spotted.” He swept her off her feet.
“Oh!” Alys waited to be rushed by his emotions, but felt only the sinewy strength of his arms around her back and under her knees, the thunder of his heart against her ribs. Yet, beyond those ordinary things, she sensed power held in check, feelings blanketed by rigid control. The realization that he was able to hide from her was more frightening. “Put me down! How dare you!”
He tightened his grip on her. “Stop wriggling, or we’ll both fall down the side of the mountain.”
Alys glanced over his shoulder at the treetops, far, far below them and stopped struggling, but the feeling of being surrounded by some terrible force persisted. She’d seen a tree once, struck by lighting. It had simply exploded from the inside out and burst into flames. Now she understood why.
“Relax. I won’t drop you.” His breath fanned her forehead, warm and soft.
“I…I am not used to being handled so.” Was that her voice? She sounded breathless and faint.
“You are the first nun I’ve carried, also. ‘Tis a bit… disconcerting. Aye, that must be it,” he added, so low she barely heard the words.
“It, what?” Talking eased her, gave her something else to concentrate on besides him and the feelings he concealed.
“Nothing.” He climbed steadily despite her weight. “How old were you when you felt the calling to be a nun?”
“Thirteen,” she said without thinking, for that was when her life had changed…and not for the better.
“Ah. I am told females do irrational things at that time.”
“Irrational! What is irrational about taking the veil?”
“Nothing, if you are suited to it. Which you are not.”
“You are an expert in such matters?”
“I know women,” he said with a contempt that grated.
“I am sure you do…and all of the low sort.”
“Tsk, tsk. Did not Christ have compassion for them? Why did you wish to become a nun?”
“Because…because I wished to serve God.” Oh, how the lie stuck in her throat. Forgive me, but I have no other choice.
“Ah. There are far too many who enter the church to avoid marriage rather than because they have a true calling.”
That stung. “I’m pleased you approve.”
“I do not.” He shifted her, ducking as he stepped forward. Instantly the dark swallowed them up. He set her on her feet, but surprised her by keeping an arm protectively around her back to steady her.
Alys instinctively braced a hand on his chest. Beneath the iron links of his mail, she felt the pounding of his heart. It raced a bit, matching her own pulse. Why this sense of connection with him, of all people? “Where are the others?”
“They are forbidden to come to the entrance lest any be spotted from below.” His low voice echoed faintly off unseen stone walls. “I but wait for my eyes to adjust to the darkness.”
Alys stood perfectly still, senses straining to pick up clues to what lay ahead. From farther inside the caves, she heard distant scurrying sounds and muted voices as the outlaws settled their stolen goods. Yet she was more keenly aware of the man towering over her in the gloom. The rasp of his breathing reminded her of the steep climb he’d made, burdened by her weight. And that on top of a fierce battle and a long ride.
If she was exhausted, he must be doubly so. She looked up, measuring him in the faint light. She’d not realized before how large he was, taller even than her father and brothers, his mended mail seemingly stretched to accommodate his powerful frame and bulging muscles. She’d been a fool to chafe at him. A shiver worked its way down her spine.
“Come. You grow chilled.” He raised a hand to take her arm, then dropped it when she shied away.
Her eyes must be used to the dimness, for she saw the bitter twist of his lips. It is not your fault, but mine, she wanted to tell him. Though why she should care, she didn’t know.
“Hang on to my cloak or my belt, then,” he said gruffly. “The way is rough and twisting. I’d not want you to trip and break your neck till I’m certain my men are like to live.”
“Thank you for reminding me of my worth.” She stumbled along behind with her hand clutched on his cloak.
“I’m a plain-speaking man.” He forged ahead, down a set of stone steps, ducking through low archways and around impossibly tight turns with her close behind.
A square of light bloomed ahead as they rounded a particularly sharp bend in the tunnel. The air was warmer and smelled faintly of past meals and stale, sweaty bodies. Alys wrinkled her nose. “Whew! It stinks worse than—”
“Gowain!” A woman dashed up the set of steps they were descending and wrapped her arms around his waist. “There were wounded, and I feared—” She stopped, frowning as she looked around him at Alys. “Who is this…this woman you’ve brought?”
“She’s not a woman, Maye. She’s a nun.” Gowain loosened Maye’s arms, then turned her and guided her down the steps ahead of him with the care a man bestows on his loved ones.
Alys followed, shocked by the keen sense of disappointment she felt. Fool. Of course a handsome, virile man like him would have a woman, be she wife or mistress.
At the base of the stairs, Maye stopped again, and glared at Alys. She was plump and older than Alys had first guessed. A hint of silver showed in the long brown braids draped across her ample bosom. Doubtless she’d been a beauty in her youth, might be still, if her features were not contorted with anger. “From whence did she come, this nun? Why did you bring her here?”
“Gently,” Gowain said wearily. “We met Sister Alys on the road. Her healing skills saved Stork, Martin and Sim.”
“And I am staying only till they’re well,” Alys said firmly. “Then I’ll be continuing on to Newstead Abbey.”
“As soon as I decide if it is wise,” Gowain interjected. He raised a hand to cut off her objections. “Your patients await you in one of the caves.” He looked over Maye’s head toward the fire in the center of the cavern. “Bette. Would you show Sister Alys the way and make sure she has whatever she needs?”
A woman detached herself from the crowd around the hearth and crossed to them. “Of course. Come with me, Sister.”
Bette was older than Maye, and far friendlier, chattering on about the camp facilities as she led Alys from the central cavern to a smaller one. But as she looked back over her shoulder, Alys saw Maye and Gowain walk off, heads bent close in companionable conversation. The sight caused an odd lurching in her midsection. Though he was a rough brute of an outlaw, he and his woman had something Alys envied. Closeness.
Fool, Alys chastised herself. She should not waste time yearning for what she could not have, but spend what energy she had on finding a way out of this terrible predicament.

Chapter Four (#ulink_504576e5-bf73-5ccd-9df5-2c3c4af9bc05)
It was an hour before sunrise when Ranulf spurred his tired horse across the drawbridge and through the gates of Eastham, what remained of his men straggling along after him. The castle keep was dark when he reined in before it and slid from the saddle. “Where the hell is everyone?” he screamed.
The steward rushed down the stairs, hair disheveled, still struggling into his tunic. “M-my lord. Welcome home. We didn’t know when to expect you, but I can have a meal in—”
“Silence!” Ranulf backhanded the man, sending him sprawling in the dirt. “How can I think what to do with you posturing and babbling?” He stepped over the cowering servant and stomped up the steps, pulling off his gloves as he went. They were stiff with blood. “Pity it is not that bastard Gowain’s.”
“Aye, milord, that it is.” Clive hurried after him. “What will you do now?”
“Do! Do! I’ll wipe him out, that’s what I’ll do.” Ranulf tossed aside the gloves in disgust. “A hot bath…in my chambers. At once,” he bawled over his shoulder as he threw open the doors to the great hall and stalked in.
The wooden doors struck the wall with a resounding crack. The sleep-rumpled servants jumped, then froze in the act of setting up the tables. Several clung together, whimpering. An old woman crossed herself and tried to slink away.
“You, there, bring wine.” Ranulf threw himself into the massive chair before the hearth, where a new fire struggled to get started. “Curse the luck,” he growled, for the hundredth time in the long hours since the disastrous rout. “If he hadn’t had so many men…if I hadn’t had to protect Lady Alys…” Ranulf moaned and buried his hands in his face. “Damn. I came so close to having her to wife… daughter of an earl…heiress to a fortune.”
“Poor Lady Alys.” Clive gingerly leaned his tired shoulder against the mantelpiece. “Do we go after her?”
“What use?” Ranulf raised his head. “Where the hell’s that wine?” he bellowed.
The steward materialized at his elbow. A livid bruise marred his cheek. His hands trembled as he offered a silver cup engraved with the de Crecy arms. “W-will you break your fast?” he asked.
“Can you not see I am too overset to eat? My dear betrothed torn from my arms by that bastard who dares call himself my kin.” Ranulf gnashed his teeth, then drank deep of the wine.
Clive licked his parched lips, but dared not upset the delicate balance of things by asking for a drink. Then he spied Janie, a skinny wench who’d warmed his bed of late, bravely holding out a wooden cup. Clive thanked her with a nod and gratefully downed the sour ale Ranulf purchased for the servants. Then he waited for his lordship to make his will known.
“Wine!” Ranulf commanded, holding out the cup. “Must a man who’s risked death to save his love, then rode half the length of England with a broken heart, die of thirst in his own castle?”
The only things Ranulf had loved about Lady Alys were her name and her money, Clive thought. “I could take out a fresh troop, milord, mayhap find their trail and follow it to their hiding place,” he added. The time for that was hours past. Coward that he was, when the tide of battle had turned against them, Ranulf had fled with nary a thought for poor Lady Alys.
“What makes you think you’d have any more luck finding their camp than you have before?” Ranulf sneered. “The whole country hereabouts is behind him. The peasants wipe out his tracks when he passes and send us looking in the opposite direction from the one he has taken. You know that for a fact.”
“Aye.” Clive had stood by as Ranulf’s executioner tortured a young farmer into confessing just that.
“What I need to do is turn them against him. I need to make them see he is the villain, not me.” Ranulf drained the cup the steward had refilled, then stared into the fire. The leaping flames cast wild images across his face, igniting an odd light in his dark eyes. “If only Lord Gareth had been willing to declare him an outlaw, but no, he wanted more proof. But now…” Ranulf sprang from his seat, the silver cup rolling across the floor and into the ashes. “That’s it!”
“What is?” Clive retreated a step, for Ranulf was known to kick out at those about him when something went amiss.
“Her father will be only too quick to sign a writ when he learns how his daughter was killed by that heinous criminal.”
“Killed? But we do not know that, milord. It is possible she was taken prisoner.”
“She’s as good as dead to me,” Ranulf snarled. “Think you I’d wed with her after Gowain has used her? Nay, but…” He stroked his grimy chin and began to pace. “You are right about one thing, though. We must convince her father she’s dead.”
“Wouldn’t it work just as well if he thought her kidnapped?”
“Rumor has it these Sommervilles are soft where family is concerned…even their womenfolk. I saw for myself that he’s the type to talk his way around a problem. He’d send messages to Gowain offering to ransom the girl.” Ranulf shook his head. “Besides, there isn’t time. The next shipment of Blue John is due to leave Malpas in a month’s time, providing the roads are safe and we get more workers for Bellamy. Have you seen to it?”
“And where am I to get them?”
“Raid the farms. Clear the streets of Eastham village.”
Clive frowned. “If we take people so close to home, questions will be raised.” The mining of a rich vein of costly fluorspar had remained secret thus far because they’d sealed off all communication with the keep and village. The gemstones were worth a fortune to Ranulf, and he’d promised Clive a fat bonus. “If we took folk from hereabouts and one alarmed relative followed our men, they’d know what we were doing.”
“All right.” Ranulf raked a hand through his fair hair, grimacing at its sweatiness. “Send a patrol to the west of here. They’re to attract as little attention as possible. Raid what farms they can and bring back every able-bodied youth for immediate transport to the mines.”
“What if they run into Gowain’s men? They may look like an undisciplined mob, but they fight like seasoned warriors,” Clive said with grudging respect.
“Damn. He is a continual thorn in my side. He not only starves us by stealing our supplies, he threatens my plans. Well, I won’t have it,” Ranulf snarled. “I’ve worked too bloody hard at this scheme to let that bastard ruin it.”
“Shall I hire more men to guard the roads?”
“Nay. There’s no time. Find me a body.”
“A body?”
“Aye. Young, slender and blond. It will have to be suitably marred, of course, so no one will realize it isn’t Lady Alys.”
“What isn’t?”
“The body in the casket, you idiot.” Ranulf whirled and studied the cowering servants again. “You there, all who are between the ages of thirteen and twenty and fair, step forward.”
No one moved.
“Clive!” Ranulf growled, fixing him with that wild, piercing stare of his. “See to it.”
Clive looked from his lord’s implacable expression to the servants’ terrified ones. He couldn’t do this. But he’d not live if he didn’t. Well he recalled the long, lingering death of the man who’d been reeve of the mine before Bellamy. Black Toby had foolishly thought to skim off a bit of Ranulf’s mine profits and been skinned alive as punishment. Clive’s own back crawled, then he recalled Janie weeping over the death of a childhood friend. “I have heard that a young woman died in childbed a few days ago,” he murmured. “Let me go into the village to ask the priest what she looked like and if she has yet been buried.” Lowering his voice further, he added, “Why deprive yourself of a servant if a body is to be had?”
Ranulf nodded. “Aye, I’ve few enough to serve me as it is, what with those faithless jades who’ve run off to join him.” His fist clenched. “Gowain must be eliminated before he grows stronger. Go at once to the village. When I’ve washed away this filth and rested, we’ll make plans for the sad journey to Ransford to inform Lady Alys’s family of her unfortunate demise.”

Alys tucked the rough blanket under Dickie’s chin and sighed. He looked so still and fragile.
“You’ve done all you can for him, Sister,” Bette said.
“Pray God it was enough.” Alys stood, arching her back against the ache put there by hours of bending over her patients.
“Ach, you’re that done in, up most of the night. Let me show you to your bed,” Bette said. “Bab, that’s my oldest girl—” she nodded in the direction of a capable young woman sitting beside Martin’s pallet “—she and Dame Dotty will watch the lads. If only there was some way we could show our gratitude,” she went on. “But our caves are short on comfort, I fear. Still, you’ll have a chamber to yourself with a brazier to warm it.”
“Thank you.” Alys smiled at the woman who’d stayed by her through it all. Primitive the caves certainly were, but the womenfolk who’d helped her tend the wounded had been unbelievably kind and compassionate. Not at all the rough criminal lot she’d expected. Their clothes were worn, their supplies limited, but their capacity for giving had surprised her.
“Come, I’ll show you the way. These tunnels are so vast and winding even I sometimes get lost.” Bette shoved aside the blanket that served to cover this chamber’s doorway.
Numb with fatigue, Alys ducked under it and into a gloomy corridor, lit only by a single torch. The rough stone seemed to ooze damp chill. Shivering, she chafed at her arms. “What I’d really like is a hot bath.”
Bette brightened. “That we can supply.”
“Really?” Alys glanced down the dank hall. It stank of smoke and past meals and too many people living close together.
“Hot springs within the mountain. Gowain discovered it shortly after he joined us. ‘Twas he decided ‘twould make a good place for us to wash clothes and such. He and Darcy like to soak in them,” she added as she lit a torch from the one on the wall and started down the hall. “Me, I’m not much for such things.” Light flickered as she shivered.
“The others must share your opinion,” Alys said dryly.
Bette chuckled. “It does smell a bit ripe when you come in from the outside, but after a bit, the nose gets used to it.” She tromped on in silence through the complicated maze of tunnels.
“Do you know what time it is?” Alys asked.
“Near midnight, I should guess. Without the sun, it’s hard to gauge. We’ve a sand clock in the great hall. Bertram, that’s my. husband, he’s in charge of turning it. He was headman in Eastham village before Ranulf took over and put in his own man.”
“Is that why you came here? Because he lost his post?”
Bette paused, her round face creased with pain. “’Twas more than that. Osbert—that was the new bailiff—he took all we had. Our cottage, our garden plot, even our animals and household things.” She shook her head, eyes watering. “When I think of that man eating his swill out of me mam’s best bowls…”
“Couldn’t you protest to the manor court?”
“Lord Ranulf is judge and jury there, Sister, and ‘twas by his leave that Osbert ran us off.”
“That is monstrous!” Alys exclaimed.
“Aye.” Bette gave her a watery smile. “But worse than that was done to other folk, so I can’t complain overly. Come, you’ll catch a chill standing here listening to me blat on.”
Alys followed, her mind in turmoil. True, it was no crime for a lord to deal with his people as Ranulf had Bette and Bertram, but a Sommerville would never condone such callous, heartless behavior. Her parents had taught her an overlord owed his people protection, justice and honesty.
“Mind how you go,” Bette said as they mounted a set of stone steps. “This here’s a natural bridge.” She started across, holding the torch higher. Its pale wash revealed a steep drop on either side of the span, into a seemingly endless pit so dark it swallowed the light.
“Oh, my.” Alys hung back.
“Don’t worry. It’s strong and sturdy. Gowain made sure of that before he allowed any of the rest of us to use it.”
Alys gingerly crossed the bridge, certain to stay in the center. “How can decent people like yourself stay with a murderous rebel like Gowain?”
At the other side, Bette turned and waited for her. “Gowain’s no brigand. Leastwise, not like you mean. Oh, he’s done his share of fighting, but in a just cause. If not for him, the rest of us would surely have starved to death, or been caught by Ranulf’s men and butchered like the others.”
“What others?”
“The ones who stayed in Eastham village…the farmers who resisted when Ranulf ordered them from their land or tried to take their children away.”
“What would he want with farmers’ children?”
“To serve at the castle, he said, but the maidens were made to entertain his guests, and the lads were never seen again.”
“Dear God.” Alys shivered, and not from the cold.
“Just so. Bertram and I fled in the night with our young ones, taking only the clothes we wore. Others did the same, Letice Cardon, the brewmistress, Percy Baker—who’s wed to my Bab—Henry and Ralph Denys, Velma, Maye and her wee Johnny.” Bette shook her head. “Each one has a sad tale to tell, but—” she straightened her shoulders “—we’ve survived. Thanks to Gowain.”
“Hmm,” Alys said noncommittally, not ready to elevate a ruthless brigand to sainthood. Mayhap he needed an army to fight his battles and saw a way to gain one by helping these people.
“Here we are.” Bette ducked through an archway, then stood, torch aloft. Light glinted off the vaulted stone ceiling, danced on the dark surface of the bubbling water below it. The warm air smelled damply of sulfur and other minerals. “The water’s deep at the far end, but shallow over here.” She led the way down a narrow, boulder-littered path along the water. “We beat our clothes upon these flat stones, and rinse them in this pool. I’m told it’s the best for bathing, too, for there are rocks below the surface where one may sit without drowning.”
“I can swim,” Alys said, though at the moment she doubted she had the strength to paddle far. “Are there soap and towels?”
“Aye.” A ledge had been turned into a storeroom, with bowls of soap and lengths of linen toweling. “Help yourself to what you need. I’ll give you a bit of privacy while I go and make certain the brazier in your chamber is filled with coals, then I’ll return to show you the way back. Can I bring you anything from your saddle pack?”
If only she had her chests of clothes. All she had in that saddle was a fresh chemise, gloves and her precious herb books. “Thank you, no. I’ll put this robe back on when I’ve washed and sort through my things when I get back to my room.”
The moment Bette left, Alys ducked behind a large rock and shed her clothes. The boots came first. She wriggled her aching toes, and set the woolen hose aside for washing. It was a relief to remove the soiled robe and confining headdress. On the morrow, she’d find a way to clean both. Beneath the linen coif, her coronet of braids felt matted and untidy. She longed to unplait her hair and wash it, but the hip-length mane took hours to dry, so she merely reseated the wooden pins.
Clad in her chemise—for the thought of bathing nude in foreign surroundings made her uneasy—she sat on a smooth rock and dipped her toes in the water. “Ahh.” The seductive warmth chased the chill from her feet and moved up her legs. Sighing again, Alys slid onto a lower rock and submerged up to her chin. It was a bit hotter than her usual bath, but she welcomed the burning sting to banish her aches, soon grew used to it, in fact.
“How delightful.” Slithering around, she rested her back against a warm rock and soaked up the heat. Eyes closed, she let her arms drift in the buoyant water. Her mind drifted, too, mulling over all that had happened since her departure from Ransford. It seemed weeks, not a day and night, had passed.
Getting home again was her first priority, but she was loath to leave until she knew Dickie and the others were out of danger. Once they were well, would Gowain honor his promise and escort her to Newstead? Impossible to tell.
What a curious man he was, she thought, shifting uneasily as his face swam in her mind. Though she sensed volatile passions simmering beneath his cold, hard exterior, he masked them with a control she greatly envied. How did he do it?
Bah! Likely fear and weariness had made her mistake the matter. Either that, or he was the one person in the world whose emotions she could not read.
Alys sighed and forced herself to relax, to think of something besides her enigmatic captor. The hot water bubbled around her, tickling over her skin like a hundred tiny touches. Or a hundred hugs. The comparison made her wistful. It had been so long since she’d felt anything like this. The sensation was soothing, yet oddly sensual. A lover’s caress.
Why had she thought of that, when she’d never been closer to a swain than the lines of a romantic ballad? Nay, but she’d dreamed of them. Dreamed of being held and kissed and cuddled. The bubbles prickled and tickled and enticed. She began to imagine what it would be like to—
Alys sat up abruptly, ending the sweet yearning for what could not be. “Stop tormenting yourself,” she whispered.
She stood, scattering water, and waded the two steps to the bank of the pool. Quickly stripping off her chemise, she dried her trembling body, her movements stiff, brisk and practical. Her gown felt grubby and unappealing. She was just belting it when she heard the sound of a voice in the tunnel outside.
Bette?
Nay, the voice was deep, male.
“Trust me, sweetheart, you’ll enjoy a hot soak,” it said.
Gowain!
Alys gasped, her heart racing beneath her clammy clothes.
“Here we are. See. Is the pool not lovely?” His voice was soft and crooning. A lover’s voice.
Alys didn’t wait to hear the woman’s reply, certain it was Maye. Just as certain she’d die of embarrassment if forced to face the trysting pair. Instinctively she backed away from the bathing pool, scrambling to hide in the rocks behind it.
“We’ll sit over here.” Footsteps scraped on the stones, coming closer, pausing at the spot she’d recently vacated.
Alys held her breath, dying inside. If only she could sneak out without being seen, but Bette had said there was only one entrance. Gowain and Maye were between her and that doorway.
“Shh. Easy, now, dearling,” he crooned. “First let us get your clothes off.”
“Oh, no,” Alys mouthed.
Muffled rustling followed, accompanied by Gowain’s gentle murmurs. “How does that feel?” he asked.
“Mmm,” said a small, sweet voice. Alys groaned and tried to cover her ears..
“Sit here, put your feet into the pool,” he urged.
“Oh!” someone gasped.
“It feels hot at first, but you’ll grow used to it. See?” A splash marked the entry of a big body into the water.
Alys shivered, trying not to imagine what those wide shoulders and broad chest would look like without chain mail. She’d seen her father and brothers shirtless, but some inner sense told her this wouldn’t be the same. The soft voice of Gowain’s companion reminded her he wasn’t alone. Wasn’t for her.
“Ready, sweetheart? Let me lower you into the water,” Gowain coaxed. “That’s it.”
A breathless feminine squeal followed, chased immediately by a rumble of male laughter. Water splashed, chuckles ensued, and Alys’s imagination flitted down amorous paths. She’d seen lovers dallying in Ransford’s gardens. Seen and envied them the lingering touches, the closeness forever denied her.
“Your skin is so soft,” Gowain said. “Especially on your belly. Mmm. Does it feel good when I rub it?”
Alys bit her lip to keep from groaning aloud in shame and misery. She had to get away before things went farther.
“Sister Alys,” Bette sang out.
Alys did groan then and scrunched down.
“Oh, Gowain. I didn’t know you were here,” Bette said. “Sorry to intrude, but I am looking for Sister Alys.”
“Here?” Gowain growled.
“Aye. She spent the whole night tending the wounded. I thought a soak might ease her aching muscles.”
“I did not see her when we arrived.” He sounded wary.
“Oh, dear. I hope she didn’t come to some harm. She said she could swim.” Footsteps came closer. “Sister Alys?”
There was no help for it. Better to stand and face trouble than to be found cowering like this. Generations of proud Sommerville breeding stiffening her nerve, Alys got to her feet. “Here I am, Bette.” She kept her gaze on the woman for fear she’d see more of Gowain and his mistress than she wanted.
“Sister, whatever were you doing back there?” Bette asked.
“Er, lacing up my boots.”
“They must reach to your knees,” Gowain dryly observed, “for we’ve been here a goodly time.”
Alys’s eyes flicked toward him, then away. It was enough to see he stood in waist-deep water, torchlight emphasizing the planes and hollows of his heavily muscled chest. Something fluttered in her midsection. She prayed it was nausea. “I am ready to go back, now, Bette.” She sounded strained.
“Of course.” Bette smiled at her, but bent toward the pool.
“Are you enjoying your bath, lovey?”
“Hot,” said a small voice.
Alys glanced down and saw a tiny sprite of two or so sitting bare-naked on the hollow rock where she herself had rested.
“My daughter, Enid,” Gowain said.
“Oh.” Heat crept up from the neck of Alys’s gown, burning her cheeks. “I thought—”
“Did you, now?” he asked archly. “Shame on you, Sister.”
“Aye, well…” Thoroughly mortified, Alys nonetheless raised her chin and left with as much dignity as she could muster.
“Good night, Gowain,” Bette said. “Wait, Sister, or you’ll get lost in the tunnels.”
“I hope so,” Alys muttered under her breath.
Gowain’s chuckled. “Don’t be shy, Sister Alys, you’re welcome in my bath anytime.”
Alys fumed all the way back to the sleeping chambers. When she saw the one assigned to her, her smoldering temper erupted. “I cannot stay here.” Her horrified gaze moved over the damp, mossy walls and the thin pallet spread on the stone floor. A brazier glowed in one corner, but it didn’t take the chill or the smell of mildew from the place.
“‘Tis the best we have,” Bette said, wringing her hands. “Gowain’s own, in fact.”
“His?” The heat drained from Alys’s face. “Surely he does not expect me to share his bed.”
“Nay!” Bette exclaimed. “He moved his clothes and the trunk with his papers into his counting room so you might have the largest chamber…and the brazier to warm you.”
The lump in Alys’s throat thickened, a tangle of fatigue, misery and, aye, fear. If only she hadn’t dismounted to aid Dickie. Nay, she’d had no choice in that. Nor did she have a choice now, it seemed. Swallowing hard, she managed to nod. “I—I am sorry to seem ungrateful, but at home…” She swallowed those words, too. Kind as Bette had been, ’twould not do to let these brigands know her father would pay all he had to ransom her. She’d gotten herself into this. She’d get herself out. Tomorrow. When she was dry and rested. “I am just tired, is all.”
“‘Course you are.” Bette laid a hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently. The purity of her compassion seeped through the fine wool to soothe Alys’s troubled heart. “You’ve had a rough day and night, but you’ve naught to fret about. You’re safe here with us. Gowain will not let any harm befall you.”

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