sounding not a little annoyed, although he wasn’t angry with her.
“Why shouldn’t I go by myself?” she demanded. “This is my home, after all.”
Obviously, since she couldn’t really read his mind, she’d taken his tone of voice to imply criticism and condemnation rather than anger at himself. Yet even though he shouldn’t have spoken so brusquely, he did think she’d taken a risk. “You and I both know Roald is without scruples or honor. I can well believe he’d stoop to abduction to get what he wants.”
Which was perfectly true.
When Lady Mathilde faced him, her expression was as stern as that of any man. “Even if Roald did something so stupid, it would avail him nothing.”
“You think not?” Henry replied. “You don’t think your sister would give in to any demands he might make if your life depended on it?”
For one instant, her gaze faltered, but in the next, she boldly, defiantly declared, “No.”
She wanted to believe her sister would be strong and resist, but Henry knew otherwise.
“I think she would, not because she’s a woman and a woman is supposed to be weak, but because I’ve seen how love can make even the strongest man vulnerable,” he said. Merrick had beaten him nearly to death when he believed Henry had attempted to abduct his wife.
“I will not cower in the castle like a frightened child,” Lady Mathilde retorted, intense and resolute. “I will not live in fear of Roald.”
“I’m not suggesting that you cower, my lady,” he replied, finding it difficult to imagine this woman being afraid of anything. “I’m not suggesting that you stay within the castle walls. What I am suggesting is that you take a guard with you when you leave the castle. That’s not so much, is it?”
“No,” she answered, sounding suddenly weary as she again started toward the castle.
“I can appreciate that you don’t want anyone to think you’re afraid,” he said as he caught up to her. “But my old teacher, Sir Leonard, used to say there’s bravery and then there’s bravado, and bravado can get you killed. I would rather you be safe, my lady.”
She bowed her head. “Forgive me,” she said, her voice much more like her sister’s dulcet tones than her usual confident declarations. “Once again, I have let my feelings get the better of me. I should not have gotten so upset when you sought only to offer well-meaning advice.”
Henry himself hated being offered advice, well-meaning or otherwise, and he had to admit he had been rather domineering—an attitude he usually never took with women. But then, Lady Mathilde more often seemed his equal than a mere woman. Not now, though. Now he was forcibly reminded she was a member of the weaker sex, and a young one, at that. “No, my lady, forgive me. I shouldn’t have let my temper get the better of me. It must be the heat, or perhaps the fight with Cerdic momentarily addled my wits.”
That brought a smile to her face. It wasn’t the most joyous he had ever seen, but he was pleased nonetheless. “When we return to the castle, my lady,” he said, offering her his arm, “I shall regale you with the story of my impressive defeat of your brawny friend. It’s very exciting, I assure you.”
She lightly laid her hand on his arm, and he considered that something of a triumph, too. “I will ask Cerdic for his version of the tale, as well,” she said, sliding him a wry, sidelong glance that implied friendship between them was a distinct possibility, if not yet a certainty. “I suspect the truth will lie somewhere in the middle.”
He laughed, happy that they had made peace. “You wound me, my lady—but you’re probably right.”
CHAPTER FOUR
SINGING SNATCHES of a dirty little ditty, Sir Roald de Sayres staggered down a street poorly lit by flickering flambeaux. Fortunately, the moon was full and bright to light his way, and this was Westminster, home of the king and court, not the slums. A man like himself, well dressed, well armed and obviously noble, need not fear being set upon and robbed.
“Say what you like, I’ll like what you say,” he sang, his voice wavering and off-key.
Not that he cared what he sounded like. He was happily thinking about the brothel he’d just left. If only he could have stayed longer. If only he’d brought more money. There had been that one glorious creature with the full breasts and long legs ready to pleasure any of them. And the dark-haired lovely who would do anything if you paid enough. God’s blood, if only he were richer, he’d spend every night he could there.
Then, with a sigh of satisfaction, he remembered that he was rich. Well, almost. All he had to do was claim Ecclesford. He should go there soon. It had been, what—five…six days since he’d killed Martin? Maybe he had enough in his purse for one more night before…
Suddenly a man shrouded in a long cloak, with the hood pulled over his head, stepped out of the shadows to block Roald’s way. He seemed huge in the darkness, like an ogre or other supernatural creature.
“Sir Roald de Sayres?” a low, rough voice rasped.
Not an ogre or devil, Roald told himself as he felt for the hilt of his sword. Just a man. A very big man, but a mortal man nonetheless, and men could be killed or captured and imprisoned by the watch.
The fellow laughed, a sound more ugly than his voice. “Don’t bother calling for the watch. They can’t help you. I’d be gone before they get here.”
As he spoke, the blade of a broadsword flashed out of the man’s cloak, the tip pressing against Roald’s chest.
“My purse is empty!”
“All the worse for you, then.”
Nudging him with his sword, the man backed Roald against the nearest wall, then threw back his hood, revealing his face—and a horrible face it was, heavy and brutish, and scarred from several wounds. His nose had been broken at least twice, and he was missing most of one ear. A jagged scar ran down his cheek in a puckered, red line. “You owe a lot of money to some of the Goldsmiths’ Guild.”
“This is about a debt?”
The sword moved close to Roald’s heart. “A big one, or so they say. Big enough they’re willing to pay me to make you honor it.”
Those stinking, money-grubbing merchants. “I will repay them,” Roald said haughtily, now certain this blackguard wouldn’t kill him. “They have my word.”
Still the sword remained where it was. “They don’t seem to think your word counts for much. That’s why they sent me.”
“Haven’t they heard my uncle’s died?” Roald retorted, sounding only a little desperate. “I’ve got an estate in Kent now, so of course I can pay.”
The tip of the sword flicked upward, touching Roald’s chin. “That news reached their ears, but if the estate’s yours, why haven’t you gone there, eh?”
“Because I saw no need,” Roald replied with all the dignity he could muster, very aware of the blade so close to his face.
Suddenly, the man’s powerful left hand wrapped
