Knight's Ransom. Suzanne Barclay

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СКАЧАТЬ back to the field. The battle had ceased, and the war-horses were lined up for closer inspection.

      “Have you seen one that interests you?” asked a deep voice, and Bernard found himself facing the very man he’d come to rob.

      Clad in a black wool tunic finer than Bernard’s feast-day best, Ruarke Sommerville sat tall in the saddle, staring down his haughty nose at Bernard. Despite his, what, three and forty years, Ruarke had the bearing of a man half that age. His broad shoulders and thick chest tapered down to a lean belly. The tiny lines fanning out from sharp brown eyes and a hint of silver in his sandy hair were the only signs of aging.

      “They are fine specimens,” Bernard said, his hatred increasing.

      Ruarke’s expression grew distant and wary. “You come from the South of France.”

      “How can you tell?” Bernard asked, masking his apprehension.

      “My wife is from there, so I recognized your accent.”

      “Ah. I was born in Narbonne,” Bernard lied. “But I’ve lived outside Paris for many years. My name is Jean Cl-Clarmont,” he stammered. Jesu, he was so rattled he’d nearly forgotten there might be men here who’d recognize his false name as readily as his birth name. “And this is my groom, Maslin Sauveur.”

      Ruarke inclined his head, but his eyes lingered overlong on Maslin’s scarred face and serviceable sword, and Bernard could read the disbelief in them.

      “The cessation of hostilities have forced many of us to find new occupations,” Bernard said smoothly. “Yourself, as well. Who would think to find the hero of Poitiers turned horse breeder?”

      The flattery didn’t take the chill from Ruarke’s rough-hewn face. “My older brother and I have worked hard to build up the finest fighting stock in all Christendom.”

      “Well, they are certainly that, and ‘twas clever of you to come so early to Bordeaux. With the tourney drawing fighters like bees to honey, you are sure to sell the lot.”

      “Has one of them caught your eye?”

      “Ah, several.” Bernard blew a lock of lank brown hair from his face and looked away lest that piercing gaze read his intent. He seized upon the first horse he spotted. “That large stallion looks promising. The one ridden by the lad in blue.”

      “Lad in blue?” Ruarke turned his head. “Ah.” The corners of his hard mouth softened in unmistakable affection.

      Bernard blinked. Lord Ruarke favored boys? Interesting, and mayhap a weakness upon which he could capitalize. Not that he shared such a fetish. Girls were his preference…the younger the better. His blood warmed as he recalled the pair awaiting him at home. Thirteen-year-old twin sisters acquired when he’d attacked their merchant father. The sooner this business was done, the sooner he could get back to teaching them his preferences.

      “Philippe,” Ruarke roared, stopping conversation on the whole field and making Bernard cringe.

      A knight clad in Sommerville’s crimson and black materialized at his elbow. “My lord?”

      “Sir Jean would take a closer look at Thor. Have the lad bring him hither.”

      “Lad?” Philippe followed the sweep of his lordship’s arm. “But Thor is being ridden by—”

      “I know who rides the stallion,” Ruarke said softly. “But Sir Jean has not yet met the lad.”

      “Ah.” Philippe shot Bernard a grin and departed.

      “Did you watch the lad during the exercises?” Ruarke asked.

      “Aye. He rode well.”

      “That he did,” Ruarke boomed proudly.

      “You, er, taught him yourself?”

      “Aye. Though we had to sneak about for fear his mother would discover what we were about.”

      “I see,” Bernard murmured. “It has been my experience that if you pay them enough, the parents don’t object.”

      Ruarke’s rugged features tensed. “What the hell are you talking about?” he demanded, his voice like the crack of a whip.

      Bernard recoiled but was spared a reply by Philippe’s arrival. “Here is the lad, milord,” the knight announced.

      “Shall I put Thor through his paces for you, sir?” inquired a low, melodious voice.

      “Er, I suppose.” Bernard glanced up. The slender build and smooth cheeks were expected, the thick lashes framing the dark eyes were not. It took him a moment to realize the rider was a female…another to realize the eyes laughing down at him weren’t blue but a startling shade of purple.

      Purple! He’d only beheld their like once before. On his sister Gabrielle. He’d last seen her nineteen years ago on the road to Chinon. She’d been surrounded by the soldiers who’d just chopped off their father’s head. Bernard had left her there and saved himself. Served her right. Prissy little bitch. He’d always hated Gabrielle…and thus hated this unknown woman on sight.

      Still, Bernard had been forced to play many roles in his life and knew well how to hide his feelings. Schooling his features into a mask of chagrined surprise, he exclaimed, “By the rod, Lord Ruarke, you’ve tricked me well. What is such a comely wench doing fighting in the melee?”

      Ruarke grinned. “This is my daughter, Lady Catherine.”

      “Daughter!” Bernard cried, while Maslin choked on what sounded like laughter. Bernard felt like biting something…preferably a Sommerville. “My apologies.” He gritted his teeth instead and forced himself to bow, his hatred of these haughty, rich English so strong it nearly choked him.

      “Accepted,” the chit said cheerily. “Papa is ever the trickster,” she warbled, smiling fondly at her parent. The look that passed between them was ripe with love and understanding.

      Bernard flashed back to his own youth and the night Odell had gifted him with his first woman. A girl, no older than Bernard’s thirteen years. They’d beaten her, then shared her. Too bad the old man was dead. Odell would have liked the twins.

      “Papa, I think you’ve discomforted Sir Jean.”

      “Nay.” Bernard pasted on a smile. “I was but thinking that a melee, even a mock one, can be dangerous. ’Tis surprising you would agree to allow so tender a maid—”

      “Allow?” Ruarke threw back his head and laughed. “I gave up on trying to manage Cat when she was still in the cradle.”

      “Are you hinting I’m spoiled?” She shoved back her hood to reveal a coronet of honey-colored braids. She was older than Bernard had supposed, mayhap seventeen or eighteen, but lovely. The aura of fragility was ruined only by her determined chin.

      Willful, Bernard thought. No doubt her doting papa had indulged her shamelessly. It occurred to him that although she was only a female, her father seemed to value her greatly. An interesting fact, that. One he might be able to use, though just how he did not yet know. Anxious to be away and make plans, he said, “It takes spirit СКАЧАТЬ