the monks out, and took over their abbey.”
“Do you truly think he’d dare to lay siege to Lincoln Castle, Randolph?” Maud asked skeptically and he shook his head.
“Not likely. But until Stephen tracks the whoreson down, there’ll be a lot of bodies found floating in the Fens. It is an outlaw’s Eden, a murky, deadly maze of salt marshes and quagmires and bogs. If Stephen goes in after Mandeville, he’ll never come out,” Chester predicted and smiled at the thought.
“Well, I am flattered,” Maud murmured, half mockingly, half flirtatiously, “that you were so concerned about my safety.”
“No one takes what is mine,” he said, “be it a lamb, a wife, a sack of flour from my mill, a felled tree from my woods. Let Mandeville steal and plunder all he pleases on his way to Hell, but if he makes me his enemy, he is an even greater fool than Stephen. No, lass, better you should keep to Cheshire and away from the Fens. Until Mandeville’s body is rotting on a gallows for all to see what befalls rebels, there will be no peace in these parts, nothing but blood and tears and the wailing of widows.”
It was a phrase that seemed to echo out of Scriptures, trailing a whiff of fire and brimstone. But what startled Ranulf was not that Chester was prophesying ruin and perdition, it was that he appeared to relish the prospect. Ranulf felt repelled when he realized why: that the Earl of Chester saw Geoffrey de Mandeville’s mad, doomed rebellion as an opportunity in bloody guise, a chance to set his own snares and pursue his own prey while Stephen hunted in the Fens.
The next day, Chester and the women departed at first light with a formidable armed escort. But Ranulf was not among them, for a messenger had arrived soon after Chester did, bearing urgent word for Annora. Her husband had heard, too, of Mandeville’s rebellion, and Lincoln was too close to the Fenlands for his peace of mind. If the Countess of Chester would be good enough to provide Annora with an escort again, Gervase would meet her along the route. Maud dispatched a courier to let Gervase Fitz Clement know that she and Annora would be heading west in the earl’s company, suggesting that they rendezvous at Coventry. Gervase’s letter vexed Ranulf even more than his disappointment at having their tryst cut so short. It was as if the man had reached across the miles to claim Annora as his own, and he had to stand aside and let it happen.
Nor could he accompany them on their westward journey, for he dared not risk Gervase’s learning that he’d been in Annora’s company. Even the most complacent, trusting husband would not accept “happenchance” as the explanation upon finding his wife with the man she’d been pledged to wed.
Annora and Maud were both uneasy about his striking out on his own, but Ranulf had a more potent armor than his chain-mail hauberk-the invincibility of youth-and he’d assured them that he’d keep to the main roads, take no needless risks, and send word straightaway upon his safe arrival at Devizes. He set out the day after their departure, taking the Fosse Way toward Newark. There he would follow the road south to Grantham, where he would swing off onto the cross-country road that would take him through Leicester, Coventry, and on to Gloucester.
The roads were even worse than he’d expected, for temperatures had plunged and treacherous ice patches were not always noticeable until it was too late. It had taken Ranulf a full day to travel the fourteen miles to Newark, and as he left the town behind the following morning, the sky was overcast, as leaden and bleak as his mood. More snow seemed in the offing, but he hoped he’d be able to reach Grantham before the weather turned truly foul.
Even in winter, there should have been travelers on the road, but it was virtually deserted; he covered more than five miles without seeing another soul. Loth had ranged off into the bushes, having caught an enticing scent, and Ranulf halted his palfrey, giving it a rest until the dog returned. Gazing at the empty stretch of road, he found himself worrying just how serious this rebellion of Geoffrey de Mandeville’s was. Fear was clearly on the prowl.
He was not sure at first what he’d heard, and he tilted his head, listening intently. It came again and this time he had no doubts-it was a scream. Turning his stallion about, he followed the sound into a copse of trees off to the side of the road.
He came out onto a frozen meadow, where a hunt was on. The quarry, though, was not deer or rabbit. Two men were trying to run down a young girl. There was a second child, too, but the men had no interest in him, and when he slipped on the ice and fell, they veered around him, continuing their pursuit of the girl. She’d been attempting to reach the woods, but the snow was hampering her flight, and they were gaining on her with every stride. When she risked a glance over her shoulder, she dodged suddenly, making a desperate detour out onto the ice of a small pond. The men halted at the edge, cursing, for the ice would never support their weight; as light as the girl was, the surface was creaking ominously under her feet. The men swore again, for by the time they circled the pond, she would have gotten into the woods, where it would not be so easy to find her.
At first glimpse, one of the men bore a superficial resemblance to Gilbert, for he was a redhead, too, and tall enough to look down upon most men. His partner in crime was lean and spare and dark, lacking either the redhead’s brawn or his conspicuous coloring. But he was the dominant of the two. As the redhead continued to stand at the pond’s edge, thwarted and fuming, he swung back toward the boy.
The child was just getting to his feet. Pouncing upon him before he could scramble out of reach, the man stopped his struggles with a blow across the face and then crooked his arm around the boy’s throat, shouting, “You’d best come back, girl, or I’ll snap the whelp’s neck in two, by God, I will!”
The girl looked back and froze on the ice, steps away from safety. The boy squirmed, bit the hand clamped over his mouth, and cried, “Run, Jennet!” He paid a price in pain for that, kicked futilely as he was snatched off his feet, and then gagged as the pressure on his windpipe increased. The girl’s face was contorted in horror; she seemed unable to move, and the man grinned, sensing victory.
“If you care about the cub,” he warned, “you get over here now!” Jerking his head toward his partner, he said, “Go around the pond so you can head her off if she runs for the woods.”
The redhead was accustomed to taking orders and was starting to obey when he caught movement from the corner of his eye. He turned and his jaw dropped open. He wasted several precious seconds, staring, eyes wide and mouth ajar, as Ranulf’s stallion raced toward them, before blurting out, “Holy Jesus! Ned, behind you!”
The man called Ned was of a different mettle than the befuddled redhead. The shock of seeing an armed knight bearing down upon him must have been considerable. But his reaction was instantaneous. Without hesitation, he threw the child into the path of the oncoming stallion.
Ranulf yanked on the reins and the palfrey swerved, with not a foot to spare. But the horse’s sudden plunge carried it onto a glaze of iced-over snow. It skidded, started to slide sideways, and went down.
Ranulf flung himself from the saddle, and was fortunate enough to land in a snowdrift. For a heart-stopping moment, he could not see where his sword had fallen, then spotted it ensnared in a hawthorn hedge. The prickly spines inflicted deep scratches upon his wrist and hand as he snatched it out, but that was the least of his problems, for the men were almost upon him.
He was surprised at their boldness, for he’d had a few encounters with brigands of their ilk, and they invariably backed off from any confrontation with a knight, preferring easier prey. They may have been enraged over the loss of the girl, for both children had seized their chance to flee. Or they may have been hungry enough for Ranulf’s horse and trappings to forget caution. Whatever their motivation, they were closing in fast, and he got a second, nasty surprise, for they were better-armed than he’d expected. The big redhead had a rough-hewn wooden club studded with nails, and Ned had a sword, an unusual weapon for one of these outcast, masterless men.
It was a basic tenet of faith with men of Ranulf’s class that a knight, trained in the ways of war since boyhood, could easily vanquish lesser foes, as much a belief in the superiority of blood and breeding as in the benefits of battle lore and killing competence. Ranulf had accepted this comforting conviction, too, but no one seemed to have told his assailants that they were inferior adversaries.
The thrust he aimed at Ned should have been lethal. It never connected, though, for Ned parried the blow with startling skill; whatever he was now, he’d once been a soldier, for no man handled a sword like that by chance. Moreover, they understood the concept of teamwork, and only Ranulf’s quick reflexes saved him when they bore in again. Fending off Ned, he whirled just as the redhead swung his club. Unlike them, he had the protection of chain mail, but had that blow landed, it would have broken bones. Instead, he was the one to draw blood. Not a mortal wound, but the redhead yelped and sprang backward so hastily that he nearly fell. Ranulf could not take advantage of it, though, for the other man was circling, ready to strike.
They’d taken his measure, too, were more wary now. The redhead, in particular, seemed leery of getting within range of Ranulf’s blade. They backed off a bit, talking strategy, not realizing that Ranulf understood them, for
