Chapter 9
Back at the inn, Rafe took Angelet directly to her door, and he was actually grateful the maid Bethany was there, attending to some task by candlelight. Two guards stood outside, just as Rafe ordered, which also kept him from making any remark that was too familiar.
On the left stood Dobson, one of the four men-at-arms that Otto had included as part of the revised agreement after the value of the chest had been revealed.
Dobson nodded a greeting to Rafe. “We’re to switch watches halfway through the night, sir?”
“Yes. Two others will take your place.”
“Are two guards at a time necessary, sir?” Dobson’s tone was diffident, but he obviously thought that it was overkill to guard a door inside the inn at all, let alone with multiple men with multiple watches.
“I hope it’s not necessary, Dobson,” Rafe said, keeping his manner easy. “But those are my instructions. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.” Dobson looked to be about forty—in other words, old enough to have learned that questioning an order wasn’t worth the hassle. “You’re in charge.”
Rafe relaxed. The last thing he needed was an insubordinate soldier on his first outing as a leader.
“Get some rest, my lady,” he told Angelet. “We leave early tomorrow.”
She nodded graciously, her manner not giving a hint that they’d exchanged a wildly inappropriate kiss. “I thank you for your advice, Sir Rafe. After such a long day of travel, and knowing my door is guarded so thoroughly, I shall sleep well indeed. Good night.”
He turned away and then got the hell out of range. Her words, designed to be neutral, immediately caused Rafe to picture Angelet laying on a soft, white featherbed. Her hair would spill out on the fabric, and her body would be just as soft as the feathers themselves. God, what he’d give to see that with his own eyes, to have her smile and invite him to join her, to spend a whole night with her.
However, she hadn’t accepted his offer, and who knew if she ever would? Rafe guessed she wasn’t quite as demure as she seemed as first—after all, she had been married, and she had kissed him. But she didn’t exactly jump at his offer, either.
Until she did, he wouldn’t do anything about it. Well, he would try not to. Old habits died hard, though. Rafe spent most of his life indulging his vices, which happened to center around women. Over the past year or so, he’d been trying to be a better man. Truly. And in many ways, he had improved his behavior. But he’d never run into a temptation like Angelet before. Beautiful and intriguing and somehow still very innocent. He'd never been attracted to the fair, wide-eyed type. But he was attracted to Angelet. Far too much.
Even before her unexpected kiss, she had affected him in some strange way. He told her about his parentage—or lack thereof—which was something he hated to think about. He certainly never chatted about it, not to anybody. And there he was, offering up his history without the slightest reservation. He was worried by how much he’d already revealed, not thinking of the consequences. Something in Angelet’s fey eyes made him forget all his defenses. He couldn’t risk anyone in this party learning of his past transgressions.
The bitter truth was that Rafe hadn’t merely left his lord’s service to pursue fame and glory on the tourney circuit. He’d violated an oath, nearly killed one of his only true friends, and betrayed the blood of the one man who’d offered him a home.
As a very young boy, Rafe knew that he owed everything he had to Rainald de Vere. Rafe was a bastard, a child of no importance or distinction. He didn’t even know how he’d come to Rainald’s attention, in fact, but once it became clear that he had an aptitude for fighting, Rainald allowed him to join the small group of boys who were at his manor for training.
They were sons of the gentry, and in one case the nobility. Allies often sent their children to be fostered elsewhere as a way of strengthening bonds and taking advantage of each others’ resources. De Vere employed an excellent master of arms and several very skilled veteran knights. Now retired from active service on campaign, they still served their liege lords by training up new men to be squires and knights.
For some boys, the training was rather perfunctory. A young lord needed to know the basics of battle, but not much more than that. One of Rafe’s cohort, Luc of Braecon, had been a proud and annoying little snot, assured of his place and certain of a comfortable future due to his family’s wealth and connections. Luc participated in practices for swordplay, riding, and hand-to-hand fighting. But he had aspired only to competence—his true interest lay in politics.
Rafe was the opposite. He knew little of politics and cared less. However, he could make a name for himself on a battlefield. In a world perpetually at war, skilled fighters were always in demand. Rafe was blessed with natural athleticism and innate skill for combat. He could see weaknesses in any opponent, and he trained himself to know how to exploit those weaknesses. From the age of fourteen, Rafe could beat Luc every time they met on a practice field.
In fact, Rafe’s only true competition was Alric of Hawksmere. He was the son of a knight, so his dedication to training equaled Rafe’s. Alric was big and broad, even as a boy, and he was nothing to laugh at when it came to a duel. Still, by the time they finished training, Rafe usually triumphed against Alric too. He was just a little quicker, a little more adept, a little more driven.
“No question. You’re the best of us,” Alric had often said after practices. The other boy never knew how much those words meant to Rafe. To hear someone praise him—to confirm that Rafe had worth at least in one setting—was music to him. Without a mother or a father, or any family at all, Rafe never heard such things.
When they all grew from boys into men, they fought together on the battlefield, relying on each other to stay alive. Those experiences forged a bond among them, one eventually solemnized with an oath they each gave to the others. Rafe promised, on his life, to be a brother to Alric and Luc.
Well, Cain was a brother to Abel, he reminded himself. And it is written how that ended.
He still remembered the day he broke his vow. The day that started his descent from a respectable knight to what he was now…a mercenary and a vagabond.
Since fleeing from his old life, Rafe hadn’t stayed in one place for more than a week or two. The longest he’d stayed anywhere was London. He thought he’d be able to fade away, lost amid the thousands of other bodies. And for a while he had been happy there—well, not happy, but at least not miserable.
Then, one day, he saw a familiar face across a market square. The face and figure of Octavian de Levant was unmistakable. There was more than one African-born, black-skinned man in England. But only one who was friend to Alric and Luc, and who saw Rafe’s misdeeds up close. So when Rafe noticed the young knight in the market, he ducked behind a linen seller’s stall.
He felt like an idiot. Octavian couldn’t have seen him, and in any case, he was probably in London on his own lord’s business—he wasn’t searching for Rafe. But that didn’t mean that Tav wouldn’t send a message to Lord Rainald if he learned Rafe’s whereabouts. So Rafe left the city the next day, and had kept moving ever since, usually to the next tournament he could find. Winning at tournaments was a profitable living, but it wasn’t a vocation. When he got Angelet delivered to her destination, he’d be able to take a few days to decide his next step. And he might need those few days to forget Angelet, who already occupied more of his brain than he wanted to admit.
In the morning, the wagons and carts were packed up again, the chest once more secured, and the cortège made its way out of the village. By midmorning, they were once again on the road, which ran through patches of woodland and then farms and then woodland again. Rafe should have been irritated by the slow progress. No one in the group besides himself—not even Otto’s four men-at-arms—ever served in a real army, and none of them were seasoned travelers. They had little notion of how to pack efficiently or move quickly. The journey to Basingwerke might take longer than he first guessed, especially if they didn’t pick up a little more speed.
On the other hand, a slower pace meant more time with Angelet. Rafe glanced toward her well-appointed carriage and caught her leaning on the sill of the window, gazing out at the passing scenery. When her gaze crossed his, she averted her eyes, ducked her head, and pulled back within the darker confines of the carriage.
He chuckled to himself. A shy, embarrassed woman was a woman thinking of things she shouldn’t. And Rafe liked that quite a lot. Then he sighed.
“Nun,” he muttered to himself. Angelet and he should never have crossed paths. Even though they were now traveling together, he had to remember that in a very short time they’d never see each other again. He never should have mentioned a liaison. He’d revoke the offer the next time he could speak to Angelet privately. He’d apologize. He’d be the better man he told himself he wanted to be.
“Behave for a week,” he told himself. “Two weeks. You can do that. Anyone can do that.”
“Sir Rafe?” Simon asked, startling the hell out of him.
“Gah! What?”
“Did you need something, sir? You were talking.”
“Taking to myself,” he said. “It’s nothing.”
He just had to keep it to nothing. Nothing between him and Angelet. Ever.
They rode on. The day was sunny and bright, perfect for traveling. Yet Rafe didn’t share the cheerful mood of nearly everyone else around him.
Rafe turned in his saddle, casting a look backwards at the road they’d traveled so far. There was nothing amiss. Nothing out of the ordinary, just fields of freshly turned soil, with little green seedlings beginning to wake up. Beyond, there were a few copses of trees and a distant farm, the low buildings now just specks in his vision.
But he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Rafe trusted his gut when it came to such things. He’d be dead a dozen times over if he ignored that familiar creeping sensation along his spine. Something was wrong. Someone was after them.
He said nothing to the others of his suspicions, largely because he couldn’t prove anything, and also because even if someone was following the group, it could be as much for Rafe as for the chest of gold. He didn’t particularly want to explain to the others why someone had sent men to track him down.
He looked again, scanning more slowly, taking in the whole landscape. It was a part of the world that was unspectacular, though very pleasant. Rolling hills and scattered woods lay between the farms and villages—the very heart of the country.
Plenty of places to hide, he thought. In the few years since he’d fled his old home of Cleobury, this had happened more than once. A figure, sometimes two, would edge into his vision and Rafe could tell they were there for a reason.
Someone wanted to know where he was, and was willing to pay people to find him. Alric. It had to be. Rafe betrayed Alric, nearly killed him, and despite an awkward confrontation and apology on Rafe’s part, it was very likely that Alric wanted a more thorough accounting for Rafe’s actions. Hence the paid henchmen sent to dog Rafe’s trail.
Sometimes, Rafe got a message from an innkeeper that a man stopped by looking for him, and wanted to talk. Rafe left quickly whenever that happened, not believing that “talk” was all they wanted. Every so often, Rafe had actually seen one of those pursuers at a distance, allowing him plenty of time and space to slip away. He followed the tourney circuit because a wanderer had no home, and no place where he was vulnerable. Rafe could pick up and move on at any moment. He needed nothing other than his sword and his horse, Philon. He could run forever.
Or could he? Someday, he’d miss the signs. He’d be caught unaware, and whoever was following him would catch him.
“Not today,” he muttered aloud. He’d keep his eyes and ears open, deal with the pursuer, slip away…
“Damn.” That was the difference. This time he couldn’t slip away, because he had to see Angelet all the way to her destination.
He’d have to deal with this particular shadow in another way.
They halted for a midday meal, drawing off from the line of carriages and carts to a little clearing just off the track. Everyone seemed content to linger, since adjusting to the constant jarring motion of riding a horse or in a wagon was unpleasant.
Angelet had barely spoken to him all morning, undoubtedly regretting whatever impulse had led her to kiss him. Understandable. Angelet was a lady, and a lady had no business dallying with a mere soldier like Rafe. It had been loneliness and pity that had driven her, and it was Rafe who turned her kiss into something more. No wonder the lady kept Bethany by her side all day.
At the moment, the two women sat on a green grassy slope, eating the last of their meal, which was largely bread and cheese. Rafe approached, offering a friendly greeting. “Happy to get out of the carriage for a while?”
“By the saints, a carriage is a weapon,” Bethany moaned.
“It must be borne,” Angelet said, with more equanimity. “At least we got to rest for a bit.”
“Are you still hungry?” he asked. “Do you need anything else?”
“Before we leave, I should refill my flask from the stream,” Angelet said, patting the newly sprouted, long grasses around her. “Where is it? Did I leave it in the carriage?”
“I’ll fetch it, my lady,” Bethany said, sounding much less cranky than usual. The meal must have soothed her temper.
“No need,” Rafe said, gesturing for the maid to stay seated. “I’ll make myself useful.”
He left the women to relax, and walked to Angelet’s carriage. Laurence, who was leaning against the back of it, nodded when Rafe approached. Rafe had insisted that the carriage holding the chest never be unattended.
Rafe opened the door and saw the flask Angelet used for water. It was made of horn, with a cork stopper and a leather strap, a much finer product than the waterskins most people carried. He was just about to snag it by the strap when he saw something else lying there, half hidden on the cushioned bench. It was a velvet pouch, barely the size of his palm.
He’d seen it before. Last night, when Angelet had gone into her room, she’d moved directly to her bed and picked up the same tiny pouch, clutching it as though fearing it would be stolen. And now it was still close by, though Angelet tried to hide it from view while she was gone from the carriage.
Rafe picked it up, curious what Angelet would conceal like this. He opened the drawstring and shook out a tiny silver box. It was etched with a pattern of a curling vine, looping over and over around the box. He thumbed the catch, lifting the lid to reveal the contents.
Inside was a lock of hair, a curl of light brown about two inches long. One end was carefully stitched together to prevent the hair from scattering. Rafe was puzzled, until he saw the inside of the lid, where an H was inscribed.
Angelet had mentioned her husband’s name once when they had been talking at Dryton Manor. Hubert.
Rafe snapped the lid shut and jammed the little box back into the pouch. He yanked the drawstring shut and replaced the pouch where it had been before, then walked away with the flask.
Lord, he was a churl. Here he’d been flirting with Angelet, even offering to seduce her, while she clung to a memento of her long-deceased husband. She must still be in love with him. And she was going to a nunnery. Whatever her physical response to Rafe, which had been real enough, she still harbored strong feelings for another, keeping a secret token of her love with her every day. He wanted to curse himself. Even after he’d vowed to try to live better, to be better, he still fell into the trap of his own self-indulgence. He saw Angelet and wanted her, and he didn’t even stop to think how she felt or if she wanted anything from him.
He filled the flask and gave it to Angelet, keeping his usual flirtatious remarks to himself. She looked at him with curiosity in those big, pale green eyes, but said nothing.