“Some of your Arab tricks, eh, Grendel? Well, I like ‘em that way myself on occasion.”
“So you’ll have her released from her captivity?” He made it sound as if it were of the least importance to him.
“Oh, no, Grendel. I would fear for her life. I’m afraid too many of the servants have been gossiping, and they’re afraid of her. They think she’s been tainted by her association with my wizard, and they firmly believe she killed my wife. They’re afraid of you, but they’re perfectly willing to put her to death.” He smiled sweetly. “Besides, I need guarantee of your good behavior. We’ll take her with us.”
“You don’t need any guarantee, and I have little interest in what happens to her.”
“Then why do you keep asking about her?” Richard counted.
Simon managed a cool smile. “Guilty conscience?” he suggested. “She’s only an innocent.”
“You have no conscience, Grendel, and I would have said you have no heart. Nevertheless, Lady Alys will accompany us to court, and we will present her case to his majesty.”
“She’ll be an inconvenience. She doesn’t ride.” He kept the desperation out of his voice, but he doubted Richard was fooled.
“That’s not a problem, dear friend. She’ll be traveling in a barred cage.”
For Claire the night had been endless. Somehow she managed to sleep, curled up in a tight ball beneath the fallen trees. Her clothes were soaked from the rain above and the ground below, her wrist was swollen and throbbing with pain, and she was desperately hungry.
She wasn’t alone in the woods, she knew that much. She wasn’t sure which she feared more—wild boar or civilized men. Both were deadly; neither could be reasoned with. And Claire was beyond reasoning.
When she awoke it was close to dawn, though the light barely penetrated the darkness of the ancient forest. The rain had stopped at last, with not even a stray rumble of errant thunder. She ducked her head out from her makeshift shelter, and her hair caught on one of the branches. She reached up to release it and gasped with pain. Her wrist was bruised and swollen, throbbing with such pain that she could barely raise it. She yanked her hair free with her other hand, leaving long, silken strands enmeshed in the fallen tree, and moved into the clearing.
There was no sign of Arabia. At least she was bridleless; there were no trailing reins to get caught in the trees as she ran in desperation. For that matter, Claire was righteously annoyed with her beloved mare. Had it not been for Arabia’s skittishness she would never have fallen, and she wouldn’t be cradling what was likely a broken hand.
She sneezed, loudly, three times in a row, and her temper didn’t improve. She wanted warm dry clothes, she wanted something to eat, and she wanted her sister to fuss over her, to wrap her damaged hand in herb-soaked bandages to bring down the swelling. She wanted to be taken care of, but there was no one to turn to but herself.
She kicked her long skirts out of the way and started walking in what she hoped was a north-westerly direction. Back to the Convent of Saint Anne the Demure, back to safety and the stern care of the nuns.
She found berries to eat, and fresh water to drink. The sun grew hot enough that the rain-soaked forest grew moist and sticky, but still she walked, her wet leather shoes sloshing uncomfortably around her feet. The thought of Alys, trapped with the cruel and heartless wizard, panicked her, but there was nothing she could do but pray that her sister pass through her time of trial and torment with as little pain as possible.
She prayed for herself as well—that she might stop her endless wanderings and find a clear path to safety.
She prayed for her brother too, though she doubted that God would grant those particularly bloodthirsty petitions.
She even prayed for Arabia, ungrateful beast that she was, that she’d find safe shelter, not in her brother’s stable, but someplace where she would be appreciated and loved.
It was the same that she wished for herself.
There was one more soul to pray for, one she’d avoided thinking about. Sir Thomas du Rhaymer deserved her prayers, for the loss of his wife, for his stern attention to duty. She should thank God he was stalwart and honorable.
She tripped over a root and went sprawling, her injured hand taking the brunt of the jarring. She was wet and hungry and miserable, and she lay in the muddy grass and wept, ugly, noisy tears of pain and sorrow and regret. She wept for all of them, for her sins and her selfishness. And in the end she wept for Thomas, wanting him, needing him.
She was lying in the mud having a temper tantrum, there was no other word for it. Thomas had heard her angry squalls from a long way away, and he’d known with a certain grim humor that it was his quarry. His lady love, his heart’s delight, lying in the mud, kicking her heels and howling like a babe.
She was a spoiled brat and he knew it. She had spent her short young life getting her own way by dint of her beautiful face and her wheedling charm. Someone should have spanked her lovely little arse when she was a child, but he suspected that no one had had the heart to.
It was too late for that now, even though it might have done her some good. He’d married Gwyneth, and now he’d buried her, and in her grave he’d buried his regrets and dour soul. He was a free man, and his love lay sprawled in the mud, screeching. In faith, it was a glorious day.
She didn’t even hear him approach, so caught up in her self-pity that she was oblivious to everything. He slid off his horse and tethered the reins to a nearby bush. Not that Paladin would run
