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.
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
