Page 67 of Hers To Command
The Scot’s eyes narrowed. “What for?”
Who on earth did he think he was? “You have no right to question and detain me,” she replied, mindful of the possibility that Cerdic and others might be coming after her. “I wish to parlay with my cousin.”
His hands on his hips, the Scot frowned. “Parlay?”
“Yes. Speak with, talk to.”
His frown became a scowl. “I ken wha’ the word means, my lady.”
“Then stop repeating everything I say and take me to him,” she commanded.
“As you wish, my lady,” he said with a shrug. He let out a low hoot, like that of an owl.
There was another slight rustling, and a man appeared, bringing with him the stench of sweat and rotten fish. He was shorter than the Scot and dressed in breeches and a gambeson half-undone to reveal a ragged shirt. A leather hat was pulled over his large ears, and she could see he had about two teeth in his grinning mouth.
“Who’s this, then?” he asked with a lisp, looking her up and down as if she were a doxy in a tavern, and a cheap one at that. The Scot’s scrutiny seemed the height of politeness compared to the way this man leered at her.
“You ain’t gonna get nothin’ out of him, deary,” the disgusting fellow said. “He’s got a woman.” He pointed at his concave chest and leered again. “I don’t.”
She nearly threw up.
“I’m taking thisladyto Sir Roald,” the Scot said with undisguised disdain while she struggled to regain her self-possession. “Take my place here on watch.”
“Who died and put you in charge?” the leering lout grumbled.
The Scot reached into the pouch attached to his wide leather belt and tossed a coin at the man. It flashed silver in the moonlight before the lout deftly caught it, his movement swift as a rat darting back into its hole.
“That’s for your trouble,” the Scot said, starting toward the village. “Now come, my lady.”
In spite of this man’s seeming kindness, Mathilde knew she was far from safe. Nevertheless, she fell into step beside him, and was glad that she had met him first, and not that other fellow.
“I don’t think you belong in the company of evil men like Roald de Sayres or Charles De Mallemaison,” she quietly noted—and if he decided he didn’t and left before another battle, so much the better. “You seem far too kind a man.”
The Scot answered without looking at her. “No, I’m not.”
His response was so cold and curt, she felt a chill run down her spine and wrapped her cloak more tightly about her.
When they reached the village, once the happy and prosperous home of their tenants, now half-deserted, the buildings occupied by rough and callous men who would take what they wanted and destroy the rest, she instinctively drew closer to the Scot. If he had not been beside her, she could guess her fate, although this time, death would likely follow.
What these terrible men might not realize was that she’d come armed with two daggers, one in her belt and the other in her boot. If they tried to hurt her, she was more than prepared to hurt, kill or maim them.
The Scot came to a halt and nodded at the large, half-timbered house belonging to the reeve of the village, who was a prosperous wool merchant, too. “He’s in there.”
Of course Roald would take the finest house for his own.
With a nod, Mathilde started forward.
“Take care, my lady,” the Scot called softly after her. “He’s not in there alone.”
IN THE MAIN ROOMof the relatively fine house, in the glow of the light from the hearth and twenty slender beeswax candles in a nearby iron stand, and under Roald’s wary eye, Charles De Mallemaison poured himself some excellent French wine and downed it in a gulp. He poured himself another and finished it, too, before he finally settled his bulk onto a back stool.
The three-legged stool with one leg extended to make a back was made of sturdy oak and had arms, so that it was more like a chair than a stool. Even so, Roald wouldn’t have been surprised if it had collapsed under the weight of De Mallemaison’s armored body. Although the fighting had been over for some time, the big brute still hadn’t taken off his mail. Roald could smell the blood and sweat from where he sat near the hearth, and it was all he could do not to curl his lip and order the man to wash.
“I thought you said they’d be untrained rabble,” De Mallemaison complained. “That the garrison’d not put up much of a fight and would run away. The villagers would huddle in their cottages and hovels like scared rabbits. Well, where are they? Where’re the women?”
“In the castle, I assume,” Roald replied. “The village women weren’t part of the bargain.”
In truth, he didn’t give a damn about the village women, or any woman, for that matter. De Mallemaison and his cronies could do what they wanted with them all and he wouldn’t care, as long as he got Ecclesford in the end. But he would remind De Mallemaison who was in charge here.
