Did Hugh even know the real Eleanor Tallany?
Damn! He must stop tormenting himself. Even if she hadn’t given her heart to Le Renard, she had still betrayed him, still played him false. He should stride down there to that hut and shake some answers out of Eleanor. Congratulate her for playing him for a fool.
But, no. He swallowed down his disgust. He couldn’t face her. Not now, and not tonight. Besides, the pragmatic side to his character knew that he had to wait and watch. Now that he knew of both his wife and the steward of Tallany’s involvement with the outlaws, he had to wait and see the extent of the disloyalty. For all he knew everyone on these lands—all the Tallany villages and its people—might also be involved.
He could sympathise with the struggles that the people faced. Damn it, he wanted to remedy that. But not like this. Not by breaking the law of the land and consorting with outlaws, for the love of God.
He shook his head and screwed his eyes shut, opening them to fix a cold, hard glare upon the small building where Eleanor was even at that moment, waiting for her friends, and felt his heart blacken towards her.
Damn the woman!
She would never, ever play him false again. Yes, he would confront his beguiling, duplicitous wife—very soon—but he’d have to wait until after they had got back from Winchester. By then he hoped he would have learnt more, since she was to travel south with him. Not that he wanted her to now.
For now, all he wanted was to get drunk—blind drunk. To drown his sorrows in as much ale as he could so he could forget about his problems and forget about his duplicitous wife.
Eleanor, disguised beneath her mask and tunic, pulled forward her fur-trimmed hood and wondered wryly, as she did every time she saw her men, whether they would follow her as they did if they knew their leader was really Lady Eleanor Tallany.
Oh, they knew that Lady Eleanor supported them, but the fact that she was The Fox... No... Only Gilbert, Brunhilde and Father Thomas knew that.
She remembered that ominous day when she had asked Gilbert Claymore to carefully seek local men who would commit to their cause. The day the King’s mercenaries had ventured into Tallany demanding yet more scutage they hadn’t had to give.
It hadn’t mattered that Tallany’s coffers were empty—the men had taken everything they could anyway, leaving devastation in their wake. Eleanor had known then that something had to be done. Something that would ensure her people would never have to endure such ignominy again.
Le Renard had been conceived to do just that.
It hadn’t been easy. Not at first. The Fox had had to convince the men assembled before him that he was the one to lead them, and they had been sceptical at first. They’d had to be persuaded to follow a masked leader, an outsider—even one who had the backing of Gilbert Claymore, Father Thomas and even Lady Tallany. A lean, slight leader more cunning than they could ever have imagined...
In turn, Eleanor had had Gilbert vet the group of men, to discover everything about them—especially if they’d be trustworthy—and then train them secretly to become the outlaws she needed.
Those outlaws had had to learn to work together, trust in each other and follow Le Renard’s strategic plans blindly and without question. In return, they were helping to restore something Tallany had lost...something they all needed...hope.
Eleanor coughed, clearing her throat and gaining the attention of everyone in the chamber.
‘I have called this meeting to bring everyone together and discuss a few pressing matters.’ She’d lowered the tone of her voice to sound like one that wasn’t hers. ‘But firstly—our friends!’ She raised her mug as the men followed suit and repeated her toast.
‘You should have let me slit the throat of that new Lord of Tallany when I ’ad the chance, Fox. For our friends,’ the big, burly outlaw Anselm ground out, and a few others added their agreement.
‘And what would that have achieved? Would it have brought our friends back? Would it have honoured them? No. And it wasn’t Lord Hugh who murdered our friends but Edmund Balvoire—a man with no principles at all.’
Le Renard glared at Anselm from under his mask, silencing the big man, who sank, disgruntled, back into his chair. ‘We have honoured our friends instead by taking this.’ Le Renard slammed his gloved hand on the strongbox on the table.
‘Verra well, Fox, but what about Osbert and Godwin? Is Lady Eleanor going to help release ’em?’
‘You must know that will be risky for her, Anselm, but God willing she will do it soon. And whilst they may be imprisoned, our men are being treated well, I believe. Isn’t that so, Claymore?’
‘It is.’
The burly outlaw rubbed his jaw. ‘Good—let’s ’ope it stays that way. What shall we do with the silver this time, then?’
‘I want a few of you to take it in batches to the church. Father Thomas will distribute it between local villages and people.’ Le Renard nodded at Father Thomas, who smiled and nodded back. ‘Some will be given to the poor by Lady Eleanor.’ Le Renard paused before continuing. ‘But what I want to say is that after tonight we will not be meeting again for some time.’
‘What? Why? This is the time to keep going—hit those bastards where it hurts!’ Anselm cried.
‘No, it is getting too dangerous. We have managed not to get caught so far, but look what happened when we weren’t cautious. Two of our own lost their lives and two more
