For My Lady's Honor

Though he doubted Rafe had any notion just how skilled with weapons the women of that family were.

Lord knew, he would never forget the sight of his cousin, Lady Catrin—who was Lady Gillian’s cousin, as well—wielding his sword, standing alone against several outlaws after she’d tricked him into leaving for help…

So that he could live to fight another day, she’d told him later.

Padrig shook off the memories and cradled Alys a little closer in his arms. She remained motionless and silent, but from the sound of her breathing, she’d settled into sleep, not a swoon, thankfully.

They picked their way toward the shelter, even the meager light from Rafe’s candle a help as they wended through the mess of toppled trees and uprooted brush littering their path.

“Lady Alys spurned Hugh’s advances, then?” Padrig asked, finding himself surprisingly eager to turn the conversation back to the woman in his arms.

“Aye—several times in public, so rumor has it. Truth to tell, I doubt anyone would expect any different.” Rafe frowned. “She’s always seemed a shy little lass. Talks more with the older men, ones who’ve been around since before Lady Gillian and Lord Rannulf wed. Strange, that. Could be she likes ’em well-seasoned—”

Suddenly he stopped and grinned. “Did you show any interest in Lady Alys?”

Padrig paused, as well. “I asked Hugh about her, nothing more than that,” he replied, trying to think back to the discussion. Had he asked about any other women? He couldn’t recall.

Rafe clapped him on the shoulder. “With Hugh, it wouldn’t take more than that. In his eyes, he’s God’s own gift to womanhood—and every other man is his competition. Aye, you got him worried, and he tried to distract you from paying her any notice.”

“Worried? About what?” Padrig asked, completely baffled.

“That you’d ruin his chances, of course. A strong, handsome fellow such as yourself, newly returned from foreign climes, rumored to be a bruising fighter—”

Padrig snorted and started moving again, but Rafe kept on talking even as he kept up.

“—I can see why he’d be concerned. He’s not really as successful with women as he likes to claim.”

“There’s a surprise,” Padrig muttered under his breath, eliciting a nod from Rafe.

“So how can he compete with you, a mysterious warrior the ladies are waiting to discover?”

“Mayhap it isn’t only Hugh who is a fool,” Padrig scoffed. “By Christ, how did you come up with such nonsense?”

Rafe laughed. “’Tis none of my making! I heard some o’ Lady Gillian’s young ladies talking about you. Including Lady Alys,” he said, his grin widening. “Could be that Hugh heard them, as well—they were making no effort to be quiet.”

By the saints! Padrig felt a flush of embarrassment heat his face. Given the speed with which gossip usually spread throughout l’Eau Clair, ’twas nigh a miracle that he’d heard naught of this before now.

Yet he couldn’t help but be amazed by the thought that a group of women—noble ladies, no less—had found him worthy of discussion.

And what should that matter to him? Despite the fact that he had several noble relatives, he himself sat far lower in rank. He was a landless knight, nothing more. Clearly some misunderstanding had occurred, for in the ordinary way of things, he’d hardly have a slew of ladies in pursuit of him.

No matter how “mysterious” they found him to be, he thought with a rueful smile.

Still, he couldn’t help but wonder what Alys—Lady Alys, he reminded himself lest he get too full of himself—what had she thought? What, if anything, had she added to the discussion?

Rafe stopped; Padrig did as well, noting that while they’d been involved in their most peculiar discussion, they’d made it to the shelter. Rafe had paused just outside the makeshift hut.

In the eerie glow of the candle, Rafe’s knowing expression shone all too clear. He moved closer. “Wouldn’t you like to know what Lady Alys—”

“Nay,” Padrig cut him off, ignoring the intense desire to hear what Rafe was obviously eager to share.

“Sir Padrig—” he goaded, “—I did hear her, you know.”

“No,” Padrig said flatly.

Rafe turned away from the shelter and faced Padrig, his manner more serious. “I’ve seen how you look at her, milord… Jesu, if you could only see how you look at her now.”

When had Rafe turned into the devil, to taunt and test a man nigh beyond endurance?

He’d not give in, no matter how strong the temptation.

“Enough,” he growled. Turning from the other man, he tucked Alys more firmly against his chest and ducked to enter the hut.

Chapter Eight

Sheer anger—at himself, at their situation, at God Himself—lent Padrig energy enough to carry him through the remaining hours of the seemingly endless night. Shortly after he and Rafe had brought Lady Alys to the hut, Jock and Peter carried in the last two of the missing men—both badly injured by the storm, and chilled to the bone by the weather besides.

Their party now numbered eleven: four unharmed; four badly hurt, including Marie; and three, including Lady Alys, whose injuries fell somewhere in between.

Once they’d gathered everyone together in the shelter, Padrig, Rafe, Jock and Peter did what they could for their battered comrades. With Padrig tending to the women—an awkward experience he’d rather not repeat any time soon—they got everyone out of their sodden clothing and bundled them up in whatever dry cloth they could find in the baggage.

Fortunately the packs were wrapped in heavy hides, and had escaped the worst of a soaking. Every piece of clothing, bedrolls, spare saddle blankets—even the rags for cleaning armor were put to some use.

Padrig had stripped off his surcoat and mail hauberk. ’Twas a relief to be rid, even for a brief time, of the cold, wet garments. Clad in a shirt and tunic over his still-damp braes and boots, he felt considerably warmer than he had in his armor.

They needed a fire. However, though they might have trees in abundance, wood dry enough to burn was in very short supply. Amazingly they found a small cache of it buried beneath a pile of brush, along with the last man they rescued—who was not too seriously injured.

Somehow Rafe scraped together enough wood to build a fire. Protected within a circle of stones in the back corner of the shelter, scarcely big enough to heat a pot of water, nonetheless its flames threw off a welcome glow of light and a small pool of heat. They’d not get very warm or dry from it, but it provided them with hot drinks to help warm up the injured.

The mere sight of it helped to brighten a truly dismal night.

Considering the paltry light of their few candles, the crude conditions and their meager store of supplies, they treated the injured as well as they could, but Padrig feared they’d not done enough.

Everyone was so cold and wet! In addition, the injured men, Lady Alys and her maid all needed more care than they had resources to provide. ’Twas too long a journey to go back to l’Eau Clair; they needed to find someplace nearby to seek shelter and aid.

Right now he couldn’t say for certain where they’d ended up. Under the current conditions it was nigh impossible to take note of any sort of landmark—they might be in an area he’d have easily recognized before, and he’d not know it now.

Once the sun rose and he’d had a chance to scout the area, mayhap he’d have a better idea of their location, and thus what options they had.

In the meantime, he could do naught else but take care of his charges and pray.

Until he’d fulfilled his duty, relaxing his guard in any way was not a luxury he could allow himself.

Not that he’d have been able to rest anyway.

But once they’d set up their patients on their makeshift beds, Padrig sent Rafe, Jock and Peter to get what sleep they could while he kept watch. Everyone else seemed to have drifted into some sort of rest; ’twas fairly quiet now that the storm had moved on, with only the occasional distant rumble of thunder accompanying the soft patter of rain on the branch-covered roof. Every so often someone would groan or snore, but other than himself, it appeared everyone had settled deep into slumber.

Perhaps he could use the time to collect his thoughts and work out some sort of plan for the morrow. Now that he’d the opportunity, however, his mind—full to overflowing with worries and possibilities—would not cease its headlong whirl.