Robert’s reaction was hopelessly conflicted-enormous pride in Ranulf warring with an urge to grab hold of the younger man and shake some sense into him. “I should think that one fool in the family would be enough. You just be sure to get through this unharmed, or Maude will never forgive me.”
“Come on,” Ranulf said. “I’ll race you to Ludgershall.”
They’d come more than eight miles and were almost upon Le Strete; it was on the other side of the hill. Rainald signaled for a brief halt to ease their horses, and unwittingly earned Maude’s undying gratitude. She shifted gingerly in the saddle, seeking inconspicuously to tuck her skirts in under her legs. When Brien glanced her way, she mustered up a smile, for she was determined to keep her discomfort hidden as long as possible. Hopefully, it would not occur to them that skirts were not meant for riding astride. Nor were they likely to realize that her stockings were gartered at the knee, that with nothing between her inner thighs and the saddle leather, the constant jouncing had soon rubbed her skin raw. She was already chafed and blistered, and they had hours of hard riding ahead of them-if they could get safely across the River Test.
That was still in doubt, for they’d run into two of Ypres’s scouts a few miles back. Brien’s crossbowmen had brought one of them down, but the other had been luckier and had vanished into the woods. Their greatest danger lay just ahead at Le Strete, for there the Salisbury Road was joined by the one from Wherwell. If the scout had succeeded in giving the alarm, Ypres’s men could be waiting for them at the river crossing.
Maude was not the only one thinking of that. Brien moved his horse close so they could talk. “The man on the roan is a local lad, who’ll guide us across the downs to Ludgershall. He says there is a ford at Leckford, but it is too close to Wherwell for us to risk it. There is a royal manor at Le Strete, a handful of houses, and a bridge. If we can get across it without being seen by Ypres’s men, they’ll not know which path we took. Are you ready to ride as if the Devil were on our tails?”
She nodded. “If I had to choose between Ypres and the Devil, I’m not sure which one I’d pick. Let’s outrun them both.”
For Ranulf and Gilbert, the Battle of Winchester was chillingly familiar. It was as if they were reliving that frantic skirmish on the Wherwell Road, for once again they were being assailed from all sides, caught up in a surging, frenzied tide of thrashing bodies, panicked horses, and bloodied weapons. Only this time there was no abbey to take shelter in, just the road ahead and the enemy behind.
Robert was urging them to stay close together and to keep going, and they did their best to heed him, for his was the one voice of reason in a world gone mad, a world filled only with their enemies now that their retreat from Winchester had turned into this wild rout.
Miles had known they’d be pursued; what suspense there was lay in the timing of the attack. But he’d not expected his men to crack under the assault. It happened, though, and with shocking suddenness. His army had disintegrated as more and more men lost heart in this unequal struggle, sought salvation in flight, and Robert’s rear guard found itself on its own, fighting a desperate and valiant delaying action in a war already lost.
The battle raged along the Salisbury Road. The fugitives from Miles’s broken command were being chased down, bodies were being looted, and riderless horses seemed to be everywhere, circling about in confusion. Ranulf’s own mount was tiring; it had begun to shorten stride. He had to strain now to find Robert midst the crush of men and horses. They would have to make a stand soon; if not, they’d be cut to pieces. But where? The road was sloping up again. He glanced over his shoulder, seeking Gilbert, and was jolted to discover he’d lost his squire.
He twisted around in the saddle. Some yards back, a chestnut stallion was flailing about on the ground, unable to rise. It had a white blaze and foreleg, and so did Luke’s palfrey. As little as that was to go upon, it was enough for Ranulf, and he swung his horse about.
He soon spotted Luke. The youth was on his feet, although he seemed dazed by his fall, and did not respond to Ranulf’s shout. But he’d drawn the attention of these men searching a nearby body for valuables. Recognizing him as easy prey, the men moved in confidently.
Their cockiness almost cost them dearly. They scattered just in time as Ranulf’s destrier plunged into their midst. But they did not go far. Instead, they spread out and began to circle warily, swords and pike at the ready. Ranulf aimed his stallion at the closest of his assailants. Blood spurted, the man’s sword thudded to the ground, and he recoiled hastily. Ranulf turned to confront the others, only to find them in retreat, too, for he was no longer alone; Gilbert was coming toward them at a gallop.
“You came back for me!” Luke lurched forward, tripped, and nearly fell under the hooves of Ranulf’s stallion. Ranulf saw no blood, but the boy’s face was the shade of curdled milk. “I hurt my arm,” he said, sounding apologetic, as if his injury was somehow his fault. “I fear it is broken.”
Ranulf and Gilbert exchanged troubled looks. They could not leave the lad here, injured and on his own. But never could they have ridden away, abandoned Robert to his fate. They wasted no time in discussion, caught a loose horse for Luke, put his foundering chestnut out of its suffering, and hastened after their beleaguered comrades.
The battle had swept past them, over the crest of Winchester Hill. They spurred their horses up the road, glancing back to make sure Luke was following, and came upon the last bitter moments of the ill-fated seven-week siege of Winchester. It ended there at Le Strete, when Robert’s struggling rear guard collided with a contingent of Flemings coming down the Wherwell Road, ended in one final flurry of doomed resistance, dying, and defeat.
The longest and most desperate day of Maude’s life was at last drawing to a close in the inner bailey of Ludgershall Castle. She was trembling, so great was her fatigue, and when she was helped from the saddle, she feared that her legs would not support her. Brien came to her rescue, offering his arm for support. She thought he looked exhausted, too. They all did, men and horses alike, drenched in sweat and choked with the reddish dust of the dry September roads. She allowed herself a moment’s indulgence, borrowed Brien’s strength. Then she squared her shoulders, and moved to meet the man just emerging from the tower keep.
She was not surprised that John Marshal was up and about, rather than languishing upon a sickbed. She knew the man well enough to have been sure that if he was not dead of his wounds, he’d be on his feet. She thought she was prepared for the extent of his injuries, but she was not. Her breath stopped as she saw his face. She forced herself not to avert her eyes, feeling that she owed it to him to look without flinching upon the wounds he’d gotten in her service. His eye socket was covered by a pusstained bandage, and from hairline to beard, his skin was raw and red and encrusted with scabs, slathered with goose grease. But she knew he’d have scorned her sympathy; in that, they were alike. So she said only, “Do you think you can find room for some unexpected guests?”
His mouth twitched. “I’ve never yet turned an empress away from my door.” A woman had come from the keep behind him, and he said, “Madame, may I present my wife, the Lady Adelina?”
Adelina made a graceful curtsy. Maude took one look and liked her not, for she was small-boned and fair- haired and flower-fragile-like Matilda. But when Marshal’s men began to crowd around, assailing them with questions, it was Adelina who saw Maude’s utter exhaustion. “I’ll not have it said that the mistress of Ludgershall does not know how to welcome a highborn guest,” she chided. “Explanations can wait. If you’ll be good enough to follow me, my lady…?”
Maude did, gratefully, and by the time she was seated upon the bed in John and Adelina’s private chamber, she’d completely revised her unfavorable impression of Marshal’s wife. Adelina brought her a laver of scented washing water, a soothing salve for her sunburned face, a flagon of spiced and sweetened wine, all the while carrying on an easy conversation that was oddly comforting in and of itself, for she asked no awkward questions and gave Maude no time to dwell upon Winchester’s fall and the men who might be dying even now on her behalf. When she urged Maude to stretch out on the bed, Maude did not demur, although she insisted that she’d never be able to sleep.
“Just rest then,” Adelina said. “Supper can wait.” She’d already helped Maude to strip off her gown, lamenting its bedraggled condition and the fact that Maude was too tall to wear one of her own gowns. “Never you mind, though. We’ll clean and mend this one for you. I’ll look in on you later, my lady. Now I must tend to John. The doctor said I should soak his bandage in vinegar and change it often.”
“It is a wonder,” Maude murmured, “that the pain did not drive him mad…”
“Most likely because we kept him drunk for days…”
Adelina’s voice was lulling. Maude closed her eyes. When Adelina leaned over the bed and touched her shoulder, she thought at first that she’d just fallen asleep. But as she sat up groggily, she saw the night sky framed
