light was from the dying fire.
The men finally turned their attention to Lucy. One man, dark haired and swarthy, could not take his eyes from her. She smiled nervously, hoping he would treat her kindly. His companion, hulking, equally dark but beardless, was not so easily distracted.
‘What’s in there?’ he asked, jerking his thumb towards the storeroom.
‘It’s where I keep the ale.’ She tried to keep her voice level. ‘Who are you searching for?’
The giant walked into the storeroom. His companion stayed with Lucy. She could hear the sound of boxes being moved and the lid lifted and dropped on the ale cask.
‘We’re hunting a pair of thieves and rogues,’ the dark man answered, his black eyebrows coming together.
Neither man looked like someone in Lord Harpur’s employ. Lucy wondered if Thomas had told the truth about why they were being hunted.
‘They took something that they should not have,’ the large man called from inside the storeroom. He emerged with a hunk of bread in his hand, chewing loudly. Lucy’s eyes narrowed in anger that the man could talk of theft while helping himself to her bread.
‘What did they take?’
‘What it was doesn’t concern you. They’re thieves and killers.’
‘Killers?’ Lucy’s scalp prickled. For all his new-found ferocity, she could not imagine Thomas cutting down anyone in cold blood. Sir Roger she knew nothing of, but her brief impression was that his mind seemed to focus entirely on seducing women and not on fighting, stealing or killing.
‘No better than a dog in a bear pit. When we find them, the misbegotten curs are dead men.’
He made a slitting motion across his throat, then tossed the bread to his friend who snatched it from the air and tucked it into the front of his tunic, eyes still on Lucy.
‘What’s upstairs?’
‘My bedchamber,’ Lucy answered. She swallowed. If they asked outright if the men they were looking for were there she could not lie, but the mention of death set her legs trembling with terror. The men began to move to the stairs. Unless she prevented them, they would discover Sir Roger.
‘Stop! You can’t go up there!’
‘Why not? What are you hiding?’
Lucy faltered, desperately trying to think of a reason. Perhaps it was the talk of Lord Harpur and his wife that put the idea into her head and she blurted out the first thing she could think of.
‘My husband is up there asleep.’
The men paused and looked back suspiciously. Lucy hoped she had been the only one to hear Thomas’s sharp intake of breath from behind the door. The men exchanged a glance, then looked back at Lucy, eyes raking over her. She drew her kirtle high to her neck as if ashamed of what they might see, whilst at the same time contriving to push her breasts together with her wrists so that the full mounds were visible where the fabric dipped. The smaller man was leering openly, his eyes following and lingering on the shadow between her breasts. Good. If he was looking there, he was forgetting to search the inn, or examine the space behind Lucy too closely.
‘So it wasn’t sleep that kept you from answering straight away.’ The dark man laughed, finally raising his eyes to meet her face. ‘Why was it you who came down rather than him?’
‘My husband has a fearsome temper,’ Lucy whispered. Tears sprang to her eyes as the composure she had somehow maintained throughout the evening began to crumble. She edged around the room to the bottom of the stairs so that the men had to turn to keep her in view, their backs to Thomas’s hiding place.
‘Please don’t disturb him,’ she entreated.
The large man loomed over at her. ‘If I find you’re lying...’
He raised a fist and Lucy flinched. He lowered it again and peered at her face closely, his thick fingers lifting the hair at her temple. She recalled the bump on her head and lifted her fingers to it. The mark must be red and the man’s assumption was clear. Lucy looked at the floor, caring nothing that she had in one instant branded Sir Roger as the basest of husbands.
‘We’re going up anyway. You first.’
Almost in tears and unable to think of another way of preventing them, Lucy led them up the stairs. The men followed close behind her. She would be unable to warn Sir Roger, even if he had been in a position to defend himself. She stopped in the doorway. The oil in the lamp had burned almost to nothing and the room was in near darkness. Lucy hoped it would be enough to prevent the men recognising the occupant.
Sir Roger was lying where she had left him, the blanket tucked high beneath his chin and covering the arrow. He was unmoving and appeared asleep with his head lolling towards the window, though Lucy suspected he was unconscious. His right arm had dropped down the side of the bed and his left was tangled in his dark curls that spread across the pillow. Just in case he was conscious and pretending to be asleep, she spoke loudly, filling her voice with fear that she did not have to act.
‘See, my husband is sleeping. Please, kind sirs, don’t wake him. It will be the worse for me if you do.’
The smaller man sniffed deeply.
‘Sleeping? I think not.’
Lucy’s legs threatened to give way, but instead of pulling a sword and running them both through, the man gave a guffaw of laughter.
‘I can smell the wine on him from this far away!’
Drunk. Of course! Why had she not thought of that? The blanket was sodden with wine, as was the occupant. Lucy slipped across the room and knelt by the bed, blocking Sir Roger from view. She gathered the empty bottles in her arms. Bowing her head over them as if ashamed at least gave her the opportunity to collect her thoughts. It was possible this might just work.
‘You could be tricking us.’ The giant sounded less certain now he was confronted with the scene before him. ‘How do I know this is your husband?’
Lucy raised her head imploringly.
‘Who else would he be? Please, leave us alone,’ she begged. ‘I cannot bear the shame if this becomes known. My husband is a good man, but he cannot help himself.’
She began to cry in earnest, the tears falling freely down her face as her fear and exhaustion threatened to overwhelm her. As she wept she leaned slightly forward, knowing that it would give the men a perfect view of her full breasts and hoping that would draw their attention from examining Sir Roger too closely.
‘Lucy?’ Sir Roger mumbled, lifting his left arm. He attempted to fumble for her, but merely succeeded in clouting her across the shoulder. It did not hurt, but Lucy sensed the opportunity for further proof of his abuse and gave a small cry.
‘Just bring me my wine like the sweet, obedient dove you are. I need warming,’ Sir Roger crooned. His voice was thick with the effects of the painkilling draught. She looked round at him. Shadows played over his face giving him a demonic—and hopefully unrecognisable—demeanour. A lustful grin spread across his lips, making his face glow with life despite the sweat beading on his forehead and the
