Knight's Ransom. Suzanne Barclay

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СКАЧАТЬ emotions lead to trouble. Sure enough, the worst lecher in all Bordeaux, the man whose tastes were so depraved ‘twas said the whores charged him twice the going rate, was bowing over Cat’s hand. The din in the hall covered Malkin of York’s words, but they leached the color from her face.

      “Bloody hell,” Gervase muttered, teeth clenched as tight as his gut. He shouldn’t care, didn’t want to, but the instinctive urge to protect prodded him forward. He’d only gone a step when her two bodyguards moved in front of her and chased Malkin off.

      Embarrassed by his reaction, Gervase changed direction and headed for one of the long trestle tables where the servants were just setting out the meal. Swinging a leg over the bench, he sat and reached for the wine pitcher. Though ‘twould take more wine than there was in Bordeaux to wash the guilt from his mouth.

      “She shouldn’t be here,” Perrin said, sitting beside him.

      “Agreed.” Gervase drained his cup and set it down with enough force to jar the nearby platter of roasted hare. “Why did she come? Surely she must have realized what ‘twould be like.”

      “Pride.” Perrin grabbed a joint of meat and set it on his manchet bread trencher. “Fragile as she looks, the lady has courage and pride in abundance.”

      “Gall, more like. She doubtless enjoys being the center of attention, even if ‘tis the attention of one such as Malkin.”

      “She didn’t appear to welcome his advances, and she doesn’t look one bit happy now.”

      Against his will, Gervase followed Perrin’s gaze to the dais where Lady Catherine occupied the end seat. Beautiful, he thought, her crimson surcoat the perfect foil for skin pale as the pearls banding the neck. Unnaturally pale. And were those shadows beneath her eyes a trick of the light or lack of sleep? He forced the notion away and remembered instead the destruction that had greeted him when he’d returned to Alleuze, the charred walls, the pitiful graves of his wife and daughter. The mementos left behind to mark Lord Ruarke’s passing through the valley. Lady Catherine’s discomfort was naught to what his people had suffered at her father’s hands.

      “If she doesn’t like it, she can leave,” Gervase said gruffly, and turned his attention to the food. It tasted like ashes, but he forced himself to eat, knowing he needed to build up his strength for the tourney events.

      “The cook has outdone himself,” Perrin said. “I swear we’ve put on a stone since coming here. Weight we both needed.”

      “A year of eating only what little our ravaged land would yield made us skinny,” Gervase replied bitterly. “Would that we could take some of this bounty back to our people when we leave.”

      “We’ll soon be able to buy whatever we need…seed to plant, meat, flour, beans and such to tide us over till the crops are ready to harvest. And stone to rebuild.” Perrin grinned. “Aye, we’ll be warm, dry and well fed this winter.”

      “Hush,” Gervase warned as three people took their places on the other side of the table. An older knight, his lady wife and their daughter, a plump young woman he recalled seeing much in Catherine Sommerville’s company.

      “May I at least speak with her?” the girl asked.

      “Nay, Margery,” her mother snapped. “You’ll stand no chance of attracting a husband if you’re seen in such loose company.”

      “Cat’s not like that, Mama. She isn’t. I…I know it’s a terrible mistake. If only you’d talk with her—”

      “Me?” The woman’s jowls trembled with agitation. “And have these good people think I condone such behavior?”

      “Good people.” Margery’s eyes narrowed. “I think they are terrible to treat her so for an unfounded rumor.”

      “‘Tis not unfounded,” the mother replied. “I had it from a woman whose maid knows the duke’s squire that Lady Catherine did indeed run off with a man…a horse trainer,” she added in a horrified whisper. “Some nobody named Henry Norville. Her parents hushed up the disgraceful business as best they could. The duke knew of it, apparently, and swore his people to secrecy, but since all was revealed last night…”

      “I still think ‘tis mean to condemn her for one mistake.”

      “A costly error, that,” her father interjected. “With her bloodlines and dowry, Lord Ruarke could have made an excellent match for her. But now…no honorable man will want her.” He cleared his throat and scowled. “Wed a woman who’ll spread her thighs for anyone and no telling who’ll sire your children.”

      “Too true,” his wife said.

      Gervase slammed down his cup and quit the table before he did something stupid, like defend a woman he didn’t even like. ‘Twas the principle of the thing, he told himself as he threaded his way through the tables. But then the English were known to be petty and narrow-minded. Sickened by the stench of so many English bodies, offended by the way their tongues twisted the Norman French, he made for the garden.

      “Well, you wanted her isolated,” Perrin said, the moment they stepped outside. “Now she’s even deprived of Margery’s comfort.”

      “Don’t you have anything to do besides hound me?”

      “Not at present.”

      “Then ride out to camp and check on Thor,” Gervase growled. “So handsome a piece of horseflesh may attract thieves. And take with you some meat and wine for Vallis and the others. They are as needful of a good meal as we.”

      “Why not come with me?”

      Gervase shook his head. “I have promised to speak with Lord Etienne de Vigne after supper, and then I must decide which of the French parties we will align ourselves with for the melee.”

      “I thought you had settled on Henri Gaston. He’s the strongest and, if we fight in his group, we will be able to concentrate on capturing the richest prizes.”

      “True.” Gervase glanced about. Dark had fallen and the torches cast golden circles over the beds of flowers, but beyond their reach the shadows were thick, concealing. He lowered his voice. “Lord Henri’s methods are not to my liking. Any man who orders his troops to hamstring fallen knights to prevent their escape or cut the horses from beneath them…”

      “English knights and English mounts,” Perrin said.

      “If we were speaking of war, such deplorable actions might be necessary, but this is a game, a means to fortune and glory, not a matter of life and death. Lord Etienne’s forces may be smaller, but he is a man of honor.” He sighed and scrubbed a hand through his hair, weary of plotting and calculating. “Go and make certain all is well at camp. I’ve heard tell there are those about who would like to improve their own chances in the tourney by disabling their opponents’ mounts and men beforehand.”

      “All the more reason not to have you riding back to camp late at night and alone.”

      “Since the feasting is like to stretch far into the night, and I don’t know when I will be able to speak with Etienne, I will remain here tonight. Expect me early on the morrow.” There would be last-minute preparations for the tourney to oversee.

      “Where will you sleep?”

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