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Hypocrite, a small voice in his mind shouted. His own had led him into trouble often enough.
‘Not at the moment, when we’ve got work to do,’ he clarified. ‘Once we’ve delivered our message you can sard as many women as you like. You’ll be rich enough to pay for the best.’
‘And what if I don’t want to pay?’ Thomas mumbled. ‘What if I want to marry?’
Roger felt his jaw tighten. ‘Then hope the girl’s father thinks you’ve got enough in your pockets to warrant handing over his treasure and don’t leave it too long to decide she’s the one you want.’
‘Is that what you plan to do?’ Thomas asked.
Roger thought of Jane de Monsort, the woman he had briefly been betrothed to before her father decided Roger’s pockets were not full enough. Thanks to a stint in the newly formed Northern Company fighting as a mercenary, they were fuller now.
‘I have to marry eventually. I’ll find a dutiful, dull girl with good connections and a little wealth who can give me an heir to appease my father.’ He scratched his belly. ‘I can’t say it appeals.’
Thomas was silent, perhaps thinking of Katherine Harpur. Another face filled Roger’s memory, one that caused deeper pangs of regret even years after he had last seen her. He had been fond of Joanna, his brother’s wife, but had not realised quite how deeply until it had been too late. He concentrated on the pattern of raindrops falling into the puddles that were forming rather than let his mind drift back to the mistakes he had buried in his past.
‘Much better to stick to tavern wenches who will give you what you want in return for a ribbon or a kind word,’ he commented, to no one in particular.
‘Do you think Lord Harpur will send men to fight in France?’ Thomas asked.
Roger stretched out his legs, glad of something fresh to think of. He uncorked a wine flask and drank deeply.
‘We don’t get our bounty otherwise, but I don’t see why not. Leaving aside you seducing his daughter, he was interested in the thought of increasing his fortune. The peace won’t last forever, and a man prepared to fight is a man who will become rich.’
A man such as himself.
Roger drew his cloak tighter around him.
‘We’re going to stay here until the sun has passed overhead. Then we’ll head back the way we came.’
‘Past Lord Harpur’s house instead of the higher road to Mattonfield?’
The roads that bordered Lord Harpur’s estate gave it the shape of a triangle with sides of uneven length. To take the route Thomas suggested would mean they travelled on the longest side and over the steepest edge of the hill.
‘Yes. It would add more than a day to the journey if we took the other side of the hill.’
‘We’d be close to my home!’ Thomas said wistfully. ‘It’s a fine inn, the grandest on the road to Mattonfield, and my father would welcome us gladly.’
Roger considered the possible routes. There was hope in the lad’s voice, but Roger was damned if he was going to detour to allow Thomas to pay a call, however tempting a night at an inn sounded.
‘No. I want to be done here as quickly as possible.’ He stared moodily at the ground, Thomas’s mention of home raising an unwelcome thought. ‘I should visit my father before I return to France.’
Thomas looked startled by the dark tone his voice had taken on.
‘Don’t you want to see your family?’
Roger took another drink to delay answering the question that had troubled him since he stepped back on to English soil. Finally he spoke.
‘It’s been a long time. I parted angrily with my brother and I vowed not to return until I was rich and had proved myself. At least that is within my reach now. Let’s get some rest.’
He closed his eyes and settled back. The day had started far too rudely.
* * *
The weather had worsened into driving rain by afternoon. Iron clouds rolled across a steel sky as they climbed the hills into Cheshire. Early spring in England was truly appalling and Thomas looked more miserable with every twist of the road, glancing behind him and pulling his cloak forward to envelop him.
‘Of all the reasons that compel me to return to France, this weather might be the greatest,’ Roger called.
Thomas merely shivered and glanced around moodily. They passed the turning for Lord Harpur’s manor without encountering any hindrance and as they skirted round the far side of the densely forested hills Roger began to believe his plan had worked. Tension he had not known he was carrying began to melt from his shoulders and he slowed his horse to a walk, rolling his head around to ease the knots.
It was probably this slowing that saved their lives, because as they reached the brow of the hill Thomas gave a cry of alarm. The road ahead curved downward, then sharply snaked left around a pool. Just beyond the bend three riders were waiting. If Roger and Thomas had ridden a few paces further the men would have been hidden from view until they rode straight into them.
The men could have been ordinary travellers, but they lingered at the edge of the road in a manner suggesting they were planning trouble.
‘I think we’ve been found,’ Roger muttered.
Thomas let out a moan. ‘Lord Harpur’s men?’
‘Probably,’ Roger muttered. That was the simplest answer and the most welcome. The suspicion they might have been followed from France by men intent on preventing him completing his commission for the King had crossed his mind once or twice since setting foot back in England. Roger felt for his sword, wishing he had a lance to hand. He’d ended more lives with his preferred weapon than he cared to count.
‘We can’t fight them,’ Thomas whimpered.
He was right. Three men against two was not good odds. Roger stared around him. The road was crossing the highest point as it circumnavigated the forest and night would soon be upon them. Taking the easier road had been a mistake after all. In the distance beyond the forest, Roger could see lights coming from different villages and a large cluster that must be the town where both roads joined.
‘We’ll cut through the forest and try to reach the other road,’ Roger decided, wishing he had taken that route in the first place. Cross-country in the near darkness was risky, but better than riding straight into trouble. ‘If we can reach one of those settlements, we may be able to hide.’
A shout echoed in the silence of the hills. One of the prospective ambushers pointed towards them. Roger cursed his stupidity. He’d been so intent on watching the men ahead he had given no thought to their own visibility; on the hilltop they would have been in clear view. Already the horsemen were riding towards them.
Roger plunged through the trees away from the path. Thomas followed. They rode fast into the darkness, pushing their horses as hard as the forest would allow. For the first time since returning to England, Roger was thankful it was early spring. A few months more and the undergrowth would have grown up, making it impossible to ride quickly.
A quick glance behind reassured Roger they had not been followed, but he had not accounted for being intercepted ahead. One horseman appeared seemingly from nowhere to their right. His head was down and he rode directly at them, his cloak obscuring his face.
Roger swung around in the saddle, reaching for his sword, but before he could draw it something punched him in the back of his right shoulder, sharp and cold and forcing the breath from him. He had been stabbed in the leg once during a brawl over a whore in a French inn and the sensation was familiar. There was no real pain yet, but he knew from experience that would follow shortly. He looked down to discover the barb of an arrow protruding from below his collarbone close to his armpit.
Arrows! Roger hadn’t anticipated that! He gave a laugh that ended as a grunt as pain began to spread through him like ripples across a pond when a rock was hurled into the depths.
They were in real danger now. The bowman was fumbling behind in his quiver, but on horseback and amongst trees he was struggling.
‘Give me your sword,’ Roger barked at Thomas.
The boy passed his weapon, but the strength was already going from Roger’s arm. He took the sword in his left hand and wheeled around, slashing behind him blindly. He felt the sword make contact. The bowman gave an unearthly, wordless gurgle. Roger looked and saw to his disgust that he had caught the rider full in the throat. The man fell forward over the horse’s neck. Roger retched and leaned across to slap the horse with the flat of the blade. It whinnied in fear and pain and galloped away with its rider still in the saddle. He dug his heels into his own mount’s flanks.
‘Come on,’ he grunted at Thomas, riding in the opposite direction the horse had taken. There was no time to think where they were heading now, but he rode towards what he hoped was the smaller of the villages. The other two men would not be far behind, but he hoped they would follow their comrade in confusion.
Roger’s head was spinning and his arm felt like ice by the time they reached the depths of the woods. His fingers refused to grip the reins and he knew he was becoming drowsy. He bit his lip, the small pain sharpening his senses as the greater one dulled it. Instinctively Roger reached for the arrow, but stopped. Without examining the shape of the tip he did not know whether to pull back or forward. At the moment there was little blood, but he had seen what happened when such wounds were treated. Now was not the time to deal with his injury. He did not think they had been followed so finding refuge was the priority.
He heard splashing and realised they had reached a shallow river and were halfway into the water. On the furthest bank, the trees began to thin. A single light flickered in the darkness, so briefly that he thought he had imagined it.
‘Can you find your home? Will it be safe refuge?’
‘I think so. I hope so,’ Thomas answered.
‘Get me there,’ Roger ordered. They were his last words as he slumped forward in the saddle. He dimly saw Thomas dismount and take both reins. Roger closed his eyes. His last thought was that if he died tonight he would at least be spared from making the decision to return to Yorkshire and face his family.
* * *
The chickens were safely shut away for the night. Any fox that hoped to help himself would find he was out of luck. Lucy Carew picked up the lantern from the ground and made her way round the side of the brewing shed towards the door of the inn, swinging the light back and forth to light the path.
She dropped the bar across the door. Shivering as a draught blew through the rip in the linen window covering, Lucy hung her cloak beside the door. The fire was almost spent. She gave the solitary log a vigorous prod with the poker and sank on to the stool beside the hearth. The rain had eased, but the earlier downpour had meant no passing customers had called since mid-afternoon. Lucy took her cap off and let her hair fall loose from its plait.
A hammering on the door made her jump. She was halfway to her feet when she caught herself and sat back down. She badly needed the money that customers would pay for their drinks, but her head ached and several tasks remained before she could retire to bed.
Apart from the lantern and the glow from the fire, the inn was in darkness. If she sat quietly they would leave. She felt a pang of sympathy for whoever was about in the bad weather, but not enough to rouse herself and let them in.
The hammering grew louder and more insistent. It was not going to cease.
A male voice bellowed, ‘I know someone is there. I saw your light.’
Lucy pushed herself from the stool. Clutching the poker behind her, she eased up the latch and pulled the door open a crack. It was pushed open with unexpected violence from outside, causing her to spring out of the way with a gasp of alarm.
Two men pushed their way inside. One had his arm slung around the other’s shoulder and was being supported. He staggered as he walked, moaning softly, and his tangled black hair obscured his face. The second man’s head was bowed under the strain of bearing his companion who was taller and broader.
Lucy gritted her teeth.
‘I don’t want drunks at this time of night.’
‘He isn’t drunk, he’s hurt,’ the supporting man wheezed. He raised his head and Lucy gave a cry of surprise at the face she had not seen since he declared his intention to fight with King Edward’s army in France.
‘Thomas? Is it really you?’
Lucy started forward, but her brother drew a short sword from beneath his cloak and brandished it. Lucy gave a squeak of alarm at the sight of her younger brother with such a fierce expression which ill suited his kind face. Thomas was an amiable dolt and to see him acting so fiercely was disconcerting. She clutched the poker firmly in her hand and retreated to the bottom of the staircase.
The man she had taken for a drunk now raised his head, which had been lolling to one side. He gave a wolfish grin beneath his thick beard, but it was his eyes that transfixed Lucy. Brown as walnuts and studying her with such intensity that a sensation stirred inside her she had not felt in longer than she could remember. She felt a blush begin deep between her breasts that was only prevented from spreading by the dawning realisation that her admirer’s gaze was so intense because he was struggling to focus.
‘What happened?’
‘Ambush,’ the injured man slurred. ‘Don’t fear, little dove. We won’t hurt you. If you do what we ask.’
‘Are you alone?’ Thomas raised his sword again and stepped towards Lucy, dragging his companion with him. ‘Has anyone else come this evening?’
‘No one,’ Lucy answered, sweat pooling in her lower back at the sight of the weapon. ‘I’m the only one here.’
Except for Robbie. A throb of anxiety welled inside her as she thought of her son lying peacefully in his cot in the room above. A son whose uncle did not know of his existence.
‘Thomas, what is happening?’ she hissed. ‘You left four years ago. Why are you here and who is this?’
‘I’ve been in France, fighting with the Northern Company.’
Lucy gaped. ‘A mercenary? You?’
‘Why are you here?’ Thomas asked. ‘Where is Father and why is the inn in darkness so early?’
Lucy dropped her head. When Thomas had lived here the inn was always busy and open late. Now was not the time to explain why it had changed so greatly. ‘I came back...to nurse Father. Thomas, Father died almost a year ago,’ she whispered. ‘I didn’t know how to contact you.’
Thomas shook his head, his eyes filling with grief.
‘No! Oh, bad tidings, Sister.’
Lucy’s heart twisted. This was not the way a son should learn such news. Thomas would regret their father’s passing more than she did. But then Thomas had never suffered the consequences of having disappointed him as greatly as Lucy had.
The man groaned. Thomas glanced at him. ‘Tell me more later, but now we need to take him upstairs to a bed.’
Lucy took a step back, shaking her head. Not to the floor where Robbie slept in peace, blissfully unaware of the drama happening beneath him. She barred the way, finally revealing her poker and brandishing it like a sword.
‘Come, little dove,’ the injured man slurred, grinning crookedly. ‘Be sensible and we all might live.’
Lurching forward unexpectedly, he raised his left arm and knocked it out of her hand. He staggered, as if this had taken the last of his strength, and fell forward towards her. Instinctively Lucy reached her arms out to catch him, her hands sliding beneath his armpits. She stepped backwards and found herself wedged between him and the wall, his weight crushing her. She yelped in pain as something sharp scratched her left shoulder through her thick wool dress. She looked down to see the head of an arrow protruding from the man’s right shoulder.
‘He’s really hurt!’ she exclaimed.
‘Don’t let me die unmourned, dove,’ the man slurred, his voice deep and husky.
Before Lucy could think how to reply he had reached his left arm to the back of her head, tilted it back and covered her lips with his.
Chapter Two (#u0b1533ae-43c6-584e-9acc-5c380e342693)
The kiss took Lucy by surprise, the rough beard scratching at her cheek and lips teasingly, sending shivers through her. His mouth enclosed hers, his lips firm and his tongue seeking hers with a fierceness that left her weak. Her mind emptied as desire lurched in her belly and without intending to she was kissing him back. If he could kiss like this when close to death, what would his touch be like when at full strength?
She came to her senses almost immediately and jerked her head away. His mouth followed, greedily seeking her out again, and his good hand slid from her neck down her body, fumbling at her breast.
A kiss she could tolerate, but the groping was too much. Outrage surged inside Lucy and now she had her wits about her. He was not the first of her customers who had tried to force attentions on her and was likely not to be the last. Injured or not made no difference. She twisted her leg until it was between his and brought her knee sharply upward.
The man gave a whimper of pain and crumpled on to her, his eyes rolling back in his head. He went limp and Lucy realised, aghast, that he was close to passing out. Her hand shifted against his back and touched feathers. The fletch of the arrow was sticking out. Guilt swept over her that she had done such a thing to a wounded man. She bit her remorse down. She had not asked for her home to be invaded, or to be kissed. He had brought it on himself.
She supported him as best as she could, but he was a tall man and broad with it, and was crushing the breath from her as she leaned against the wall. Even by the feeble light of the fire, the man looked as pale as a wraith with a waxy sheen to his brow. His hair was matted to his cheeks. He must have bled from his wound, but against the darkness of his cloak it was impossible to tell.
‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured, reaching to brush the hair from his face. His forehead was cold to the touch and her fingers came away damp with his sweat. He opened his eyes.
‘Do you have wine? Anything stronger?’ he moaned.
‘Enough of this!’ Thomas cried. He wrinkled his nose in disgust, reminding Lucy he had always been as prudish as a monk when it came to shows of physical affection. ‘Get him upstairs before you do him any more harm. We may not have much time.’
He pulled the injured man off Lucy. Lucy ran to get the lantern, thrusting the poker back into the fire where she could find it later if needed.
‘Bring wine,’ the injured man growled.
Lucy ran to the counter where the flagons and cups were stored and found what he had requested. Carrying a bottle in each hand and the lantern hooked over her arm, she followed as her brother half dragged the injured man up the narrow staircase.
The first floor was low ceilinged and dark. Lucy’s room took one half of the space, though it was filled with all manner of boxes and piles of unused or unusable objects she could not bear to throw away. The second room contained pallets for travellers who wished to spend the night, but until the better weather arrived the frames were piled up and the straw mattresses wrapped in oilcloth as prevention against vermin. It was this room that Lucy intended to take the two men into, but Thomas entered the bedroom that had once been their father’s and where Lucy now slept. She opened her mouth to protest, but decided it was better to make no arguments and hope that Thomas would explain before long.
