Chapter Five
Mood as sour as vinegar, Ralph St. Clair emptied the contents of his goblet down his throat and gazed, unseeing, out of the window. For the past two days, the world around him had all but ceased to exist. Instead, he’d spent most of his time living in the fabricated world between his ears. In the dark recesses of his mind, he could give free rein to his rage and live out his fantasies. Punish the one who deserved it, over and over again. Revel in her cries of pain and her pathetic pleas for mercy.
Curse the bitch.
His brother’s sorry fate had little bearing on Ralph’s anger. He knew Cristen had fled in fear of repercussion, but he also knew the lass didn’t have the strength to topple her husband. The daft whoreson had undoubtedly gotten drunker than a brewery rat and tripped over his own feet.
What enraged Ralph to the point of rupturing a testicle was that the lass had disappeared without a trace. She had outfoxed them and made them look like fools. Two days they had searched without any success. It seemed no one had seen her at all.
News of her misdeed and disappearance had since spread. A reward had also been offered for her capture, alive and unharmed, or information leading to it. The lass had obviously gone to ground somewhere, but she’d have to surface eventually.
And when she does…
Ralph’s knuckles whitened against the stem of his goblet.
A knock on the door dragged his mind away from his venomous thoughts. “Aye,” he growled, belching as he lolled back in his chair.
The door creaked open and Frehampton’s steward peered in.
“There’s a man requesting to speak with you, my lord. Says he believes he saw Lady Cristen the day afore yesterday.”
Unwilling to acknowledge a momentary flare of hope, Ralph sighed and leaned forward. There had been several similar claims recently – suspected sightings of Cristen here and there. None of them, so far, had borne fruit.
“Very well, send him in.”
Hat in hand, a small man sidled into Ralph’s chamber, head bobbing like a chicken. “I thank ye fer seein’ me, milord,” the man said. “I don’t think ye’ll regret it.”
“I hope you’re right.” Ralph drummed his fingers on the armrest. “What’s your name and occupation?”
“Irwin, milord. Cobbler.”
“Well, Irwin the cobbler. Out with it. Tell me what you saw.”
“’Twas near dusk on Monday night.” Irwin sniffed. “On the Melcombe road. Lass came out o’ nowhere, all wide-eyed and scared lookin’. Nearly ran ’er down with me cart, I did.”
A pulse throbbed in Ralph’s temple. “Describe her.”
“A little lass with red hair, wearin’ a –”
“God’s bollocks.” Ralph squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his forehead. “I swear this wretched land is fraught with idiots.”
Irwin’s head continued to bob. “Milord?”
“The lady we seek has fair hair,” Ralph said, through gritted teeth. “Not red.”
“Aye, that’s what I heard, but –”
“I should have you lashed for wasting my time.”
The man paled. “Oh, nay, milord, I’d not dare to waste yer time. If ye’ll only hear me out, I think ye’ll agree I ’ave good reason to be here.”
Ralph eyed the man for a moment. A niggle in his gut told him to listen, give the man a chance. “Very well,” he said, biting back his temper. “What makes you believe the lass you saw was the one we seek?”
“My wife.”
“Eh?”
“My wife was with me. Said the red hair weren’t natural. Reckoned it’d probably been dyed with marigold. She knows about these things, my wife.”
The hair on Ralph’s neck lifted. “Marigold?”
“That’s what she said, aye.” Irwin sniffed again.
Ralph leaned forward. “What was she wearing?”
“The wife?”
Ralph slammed his fist on the armrest. “Nay, you damned fool, the lass!”
“Oh. A green mantle with fancy stitchin’ around the hem. Wife said it weren’t somethin’ a country lass would wear, neither. More like a noble vestment.”
The description matched that of Cristen’s cloak. Could it be? Red hair? If so, she’d obviously had help from some quarter.
An icy tingle settled between Ralph’s shoulder blades and the pulse in his temple quickened. “Melcombe, you say?”
“Looked to be headin’ that way, milord.”
“Where, exactly, was this sighting?”
“Jus’ past Ringstead.” Irwin cleared his throat. “The wife said I was to be sure an’ ask about the reward, milord.”
Ralph’s eyes narrowed. “The reward is for information leading to the capture of the girl. Since she is still at large, it remains to be seen whether or not you merit compensation. Leave your particulars with the steward.”
“Ah, right.” Irwin took a step back. “So, there’ll be no reward today, then?”
Ralph rose to his feet, smiling over his desire to throttle the man. “Nay,” he said, fingering the hilt of the dagger at his belt, “and I’ll not say it again. Now get out.”
“We leave at dawn.” Ralph paced the floor like a caged beast. “She’s had a good head start, but at least this time we have a definite direction.”
Dudley, Ralph’s most trusted knight, sat on the window ledge picking at his teeth. “You’re convinced it’s Cristen?” he asked and spat out a liberated crumb.
“Aye, I am. The healer confessed to coloring the bitch’s hair. It took a little bit of persuading, mind you.” Ralph’s mouth twisted. “The bruises will fade, though.”
“Should be easier to track the lass down now we know where she’s headed.”
Ralph hissed through his teeth and continued his pacing. “I’ll not rest till the bitch has been caught and my brother avenged. She’ll be sorry she ran. I’m wondering, though, why she’d go to Melcombe.”
“Why wouldn’t she?” Dudley shrugged. “She’s on the run. Doesn’t mean she has a destination.”
Ralph grunted. “The lass isn’t daft. I have a feeling there’s a reason she’s gone that way.”
“A secret lover?”
He gave Dudley a withering look. “I’m not even going to honor that with a response.”
Dudley grimaced. “Aye, good point. Seeking a boat to France?”
“I doubt it. She has no family there and the country is rife with sickness.”
“Relatives down that way?”
“Not that I know of. Her uncle was the last and he died soon after she married Cedric.” Ralph’s frown deepened. “I don’t recall anyone else from her side being at the wedding.”
“Friends?”
“Nay. She never –” Ralph paused as an image arose in his head. Cristen sitting beside the priest at the wedding feast, their heads bent, deep in conversation. “Father John,” he muttered. “Could that be it? But why would she…?”
Dudley spat again. “You remembered something?”
Ralph curled his lip. “Spit on my floor one more time and I’ll make you lick the damned thing clean.”
Dudley paled. “Sorry, milord. Um, you were saying?”
“The priest who officiated at the wedding had a soft spot for the lass. I seem to recall him being offered a post as abbot at some monastery out that way.”
“Abbotsbury is not far from Melcombe,” Dudley said. “’Tis a Benedictine house.”
“Aye, that’s the one.” Ralph halted his pacing. “She might have gone there seeking his help, although I’m not sure what she thinks he could do. Taking refuge in a convent would make more sense. Still, it’s worth checking.”
“For sure.” Dudley grimaced. “Then again, my lord, on second thought, it might be as well not to get your hopes up.”
A scowled darkened Ralph’s bearded face. “Explain.”
“’Tis a good walk to Melcombe. A noble lass wandering the countryside unescorted? Certain to attract the worst kind of attention. Chances are, she’s laying dead in a ditch somewhere with her throat cut.”
“Christ, ’twould be a shame, that,” Ralph muttered, his rage bubbling up anew. “Death is too easy. I want to see her punished. I want to hear her beg for my mercy.”
“And will you give it?”
Ralph remembered all the times Cristen had snubbed him. Ignored him. Avoided him. “Nay,” he said, unable to stop the smile that twisted his lips. “I will not.”