Page 44 of Hers To Command
He left out the complication of his uncle’s will. “It occurs to me that you’re just the man to help me raise a suitable force with which to do that. Once we’ve defeated my cousins, I’ll be rich and very able to pay for your assistance.”
De Mallemaison didn’t look impressed. “I don’t work for free.”
“You wouldn’t be. I assure you, you’ll be paid when—”
“If,”De Mallemaison growled, his sword flicking up again. “I don’t work forifs,either.”
“I give you my word you’ll be well compensated.”
De Mallemaison snorted. “You expect me to gamble on your word?”
“I’m a knight of the realm,” Roald haughtily replied.
De Mallemaison had the most vile chuckle Roald had ever heard. “Oh, I know exactly what you are, Sir Roald, andI’mno fool. I either see half the money before I start, or I don’t start at all.” He lifted his blade so that it was between Roald’s eyes. “I don’t think you’ve got a half a penny, for meorthe goldsmiths.”
Roald tried to think of another inducement to get De Mallemaison to help him. Why, one look at his scarred visage and half the garrison of Ecclesford would probably throw down their weapons without a fight. “My cousin—one of those opposing me—is a very beautiful woman, more beautiful than the queen. Help me defeat them, and you can have her.”
He didn’t like giving up Giselle, but if he must, he must.
“One woman’s as good as another in the dark.”
Good God, was there nothing he could say…offer…promise…?
That scar on De Mallemaison’s cheek…He’d heard a story once, years ago, about how he’d come by it. It was worth a try. “My cousins have the brother of the lord of Dunkeathe helping them.”
“I know the lord of Dunkeathe.” The mercenary pointed at the scar marring his cheek. “Bastard gave me this.”
“Really? Then no doubt you’ll be happy to give his brother a few scars, too.”
De Mallemaison sheathed his sword. “I’d be happy to kill the bastard’s brother and send him his head in a basket.”
Roald nearly collapsed with relief. Thank God he’d been told years ago that Nicholas of Dunkeathe had once nearly killed Charles De Mallemaison by slicing open his cheek.
De Mallemaison’s lips twisted into an evil smile. “How many men do you need and when do we leave London?”
AFEW DAYS LATERon a sunny autumn morn and humming a ballad about two star-crossed lovers, a lone mounted knight trotted along the road toward Ecclesford. His slender yet muscular body was attired in mail, including a cowl pushed back to reveal a head of ruddy hair and a face that reminded many of a fox. His mail hauberk was covered by a forest-green surcoat and he wore a sword at his waist. He had no other obvious weapons, and there was a small pack tied to his saddle.
Despite his seemingly lax attitude, the knight’s gaze darted about like that of a particularly alert hawk or, given his visage, a fox seeking its next meal. And although he was alone, there was that in his bearing and his watchfulness that would have given any but the bravest or most foolhardy of footpads cause to let him pass unmolested.
And wisely so. The garrison commander of Tregellas was no man to meet in a fight, unless you wanted to lose.
Sir Ranulf’s shrewd gaze took in the workers digging trenches and otherwise preparing the fields for winter, the livestock grazing on the stubble and, especially, the village and castle in the distance.
Ecclesford. Where Henry—merry, impetuous Henry—was reported to be.
Several of the peasants looked up at Ranulf as he passed, then quickly returned to their work. No one challenged him, but they were unarmed, so that was not surprising. He was more curious about his reception at the castle.
As Ranulf drew near a fork in the road, he heard a sound like low drumbeats. He recognized it at once—many men marching at a quick pace.
Considering he was alone, uncertain if Henry was here or not, or if this force approaching would be friendly, Ranulf had no qualms about dismounting and leading his horse behind a small thicket of brambles, some still bearing leaves, where he could hide while watching the road. Not for him the foolish bravado of issuing a challenge when he might be outnumbered.
In the next few minutes, a group of soldiers came trotting into view along the rutted road. They weren’t wearing chain mail, but only the padded gambesons generally worn beneath. They carried shields and spears, and had conical helmets on their head and swordbelts around their waists. Their faces were streaked with sweat, their gambesons stained with it. Their feet barely rose from the road, and their breathing was labored. They’d obviously been at this a long time.
“Pick up those feet!” a familiar voice shouted, giving Ranulf one of the greater surprises of his life. “Anybody falls back, they’ll feel the tip of my spear in their backside!”
So Henrywashere—and apparently, astoundingly, training a group of soldiers. That hadn’t been included in the news that had reached Tregellas from Scotland.
The men, although clearly exhausted, quickened their pace and lifted their feet higher.
