Knight's Rebellion. Suzanne Barclay
and he moved a bit closer. “Sister, you have saved—”
“No thanks to you.” Her eyes were not soft or gentle, now, but blazed like hot coals in her ashen face.
Gowain drew back, the praise he’d been about to offer catching in his throat. “I do not answer to you.”
“And you can be grateful for that. If you were my father’s man, he’d whip you raw for such callous disregard of human life.”
“Would he, now?” Gowain’s eyes narrowed, studying the regal tilt of her head. “And who might your illustrious sire be?”
She blinked, then lowered her lashes, effectively shielding her eyes. “No one you would know.”
“Ah. But I might have heard of him.”
“Not all men’s names are whispered about like an ill wind.”
“I long ago ceased to care what others said of me.” He gathered the reins to leave.
“Wait.” She stretched out a hand to him, and he noted she yet wore her gloves, stained from her night’s labors. Odd she should keep her hands covered, for the air was not that chilled. “How much farther to your camp?”
“A mile, no more,” he said curtly.
She nodded and fell back on her haunches beside Stork. “Good. Send ahead and bid them heat water. I will also need bandages…clean bandages,” she added, eyeing his filthy tunic.
“You are adept at issuing orders, Sister.”
“And you slow to follow them,” she snapped. Her raised chin and contemptuous expression clearly showed her willfulness. “If you do not value their lives, think how hard it may be to replace them with other boys willing to follow you into battle.”
“On the contrary, Sister,” Gowain said icily, straining to contain a temper he usually had no trouble controlling. “It is easy to find boys who will fight for me. The water will be waiting.” He spurred his horse forward so swiftly a cry went up.
“Are we attacked?” Henry called as he passed the wagon.
“Nay.” But he was beset by a sharp-tongued shrew of a nun. He’d thought Blanche haughty, but this one left her in the shade. He wanted her gone, wished he could send her on to Newstead. If she was in league with Ranulf, however, she’d quickly tell his half brother about the size of Gowain’s force and location of his camp. Gowain could not afford to take that chance.
Nor could he be without a healer till the wounded recovered. None of the other women in camp had her skill. Much as he hated to need anyone, he needed the nun.
“We’re here, Sister.” Henry halted the wagon.
Alys shifted on her numb knees. The forest through which they’d traveled most of the night still surrounded them on three sides. Ahead lay a ridge of jagged mountain peaks. Set out against the gray sky of early dawn, they seemed to growl at the heavens like the teeth of some great, defiant monster. What a bleak, fitting place for an outlaw band, yet she saw no tents or lean-tos. “Surely you do not live in the open.”
He chuckled, revealing broken teeth set in a face as craggy as the mountains. “Nay. Camp is up there wi’ the crows.”
Alys tipped her head back and looked where he pointed. “All I see are stone and sky.”
“Aye. ‘Tis what’s made it nigh impossible for Ranulf the Cruel to find us. There’s caves up there, the entrance hidden well back among the rocks. The trail’s narrow, tricky as hell…er, if ye’ll pardon my speech, Sister…and well guarded. Even if Ranulf did find it, he’d not drag us out in a hundred years.”
Alys groaned faintly. She’d hoped Gowain’s camp would be in the forest, so that she might slip away into the trees and escape. Once trapped in the mountain, how would she ever get out?
Her throat constricted as the enormity of her situation truly sank in. She was the prisoner of a vicious outlaw, protected only by her habit and his necessity. Had Stork not assumed she was a nun, had they not needed her to keep the men alive, she’d be dead, or worse….
What would happen if they discovered she wasn’t a nun?
Alys clasped her arms around her shivering body and struggled to stay calm. There had to be a way out. She’d keep her wits calm and her eyes open for a chance to steal a horse and ride off. Better to be lost in the woods than to be the prisoner of such as these. Mayhap she could find her way to Eastham and Ranulf.
Ranulf, of course.
Alys nearly laughed aloud in relief. Ranulf had wanted to wed her. Surely he would not leave her to the outlaws’ mercy. He’d either send trackers to follow them to this hideout, or ride to Ransford for her family. Once it was known she’d been taken prisoner, they’d come to rescue her. If her father couldn’t sit a horse, he’d send for her uncles, Ruarke and Alexander, and her cousin Jamie, hero of the wars against the French.
“I thought you were anxious to see the wounded cared for,” growled the object of her thoughts. Gowain had dismounted and stood beside the wagon, eyes glaring a challenge from deep within the dark sockets of his helmet. Behind him, his crew of thieves busily transferred the stolen goods from the wagons to packhorses. They worked briskly and efficiently, doubtless with the skill of long practice.
“Come, I will take you up with me,” Gowain said, holding out his mailed hand.
“I prefer the wagon, thank you,” she said coldly.
“The wagons are going to a farm nearby, where…”
“From which you doubtless stole them.”
“What I steal, I generally keep. The wagons are mine. The farmer stores them and the horses for me betweentimes.”
“Between raids. What of the wounded? Do they walk?”
“Nay. We’ll carry them up on litters. ‘Tis a long hike, and I but thought you’d be weary after your long night.” He shrugged, as though the matter were unimportant. “Suit yourself, but don’t fall behind.”
Pride kept Alys from calling him back. She rued it during the long walk up the mountain. Her low riding boots were soft-soled, and the stones bit through the leather. Blisters sprang up on her heels and toes; her muscles, cramped and bruised from jolting about all night, screamed with every step. It took all her will and concentration to keep moving. Soon even the men carrying the wounded had outdistanced her.
“Hoping to fall back and escape?” demanded a familiar voice.
Alys spun, and would have fallen if Gowain’s hard hand hadn’t reached out and grabbed her arm. Though three layers of wool clothes separated her from his touch, the contact sent a sizzle across her skin, raising gooseflesh in its wake. It was not his anger or annoyance. What was this strange sensation?
He felt it, too. His nostrils flared, and his eyes widened, then narrowed. “What the hell?” he whispered. His gaze moved over her. Some emotion she couldn’t name flared his eyes so that the green burned bright. “Dieu, surely I am cursed,” he spat, dropping her arm and severing the connection.
Alys exhaled sharply. What had happened? She hadn’t felt his emotions, not exactly. This was like nothing she’d experienced before. “What…Where is your horse?” she asked lamely.
“Why do you wish to know?”
“I…I do not care where he is.” She tossed her head, fractious and confused. “You had offered me a ride, yet—”
“I felt the urge to stretch my legs.” He executed a bow that would have done a courtier proud, if not for the cynical twist of his mouth. “After you…Sister.”
Alys picked up her skirts, took a step and winced.
“Have you hurt yourself?”
“My