Bartholomew was studying the scene, wondering how best to ensure he was discovered. Anna’s plan was a good one, but it relied upon the presence of someone trusted by the baron. “There,” he murmured, pointing to a man who stepped out of the burned remnant of the old hall. He handed his crossbow to Duncan. “Let him follow me.”
Duncan nodded. “If he does not enter the mill after I have counted to a hundred, I will drive him inside.” He settled a bolt into the crossbow and cocked it.
Bartholomew recalled that he yet had the keys of Father Ignatius. If he was captured, they would be taken from him. He granted the ring to Duncan, who tucked it into his purse.
They exchanged a glance, then Bartholomew headed for the mill. He remained in the shelter of the forest, heading toward the maid who lingered on the road. He stepped into the clearing of the old village before reaching her, then hastened to the mill. He paused at the portal, ensuring that he was visible and was reassured to not be struck down. He took a deep breath, then entered the mill.
One way or the other, much would be resolved by the time Duncan counted to one hundred.
*
The mill might not have been the finest place for an assignation, but it was not all bad. Marie had chosen it with care. The mill was, first and foremost, sufficiently distant from the hall that Royce would not hear any evidence of what she did. It boasted several hiding spots large enough for a man, for the old granaries were intact. It was cold, but the roof was whole, and the great millstone was of the perfect height, in Marie’s experience, for intercourse. She cast off her cloak and laid it on the millstone, even as Agnes watched the portal.
“He comes,” the maid said softly.
Marie wrapped her arms about herself in the cold. The encounter would have to be quick. While she had consumed the potion that was said to aid in conception, Royce had declined to take more than a taste of the wine she had tainted at the board. He said he had much labor to do on his books, for the taxes would be sent to the crown soon, and had left the board early.
While that had solved the question of her leaving the keep without arousing his suspicion, he would not be asleep as she had schemed. There had been a time when she might have savored the risk, but not on this day.
Bartholomew stepped through the portal, narrowing his eyes against the comparative darkness of the mill. His gaze flicked past her, which did not please her overmuch, to the large chamber of the miller’s house. He looked most intently at the floor, then at a distant window, which made no sense at all.
“Hasten yourself!” she said, stepped forward to seize his hand. “In here and it must be quickly done.” She reached beneath his tabard but he caught her hand before she could unlace his chausses.
“There must be some romance,” he protested, then smiled down at her. He raised his other hand to her cheek. “I would see you pleased, Lady Marie.”
“There is no time for such pleasure,” she insisted, reaching again for the front of his chausses. He backed her into the millstone, which was progress of a kind, and trapped her against him with his hips. All she could feel was his chain mail and it was cold enough to make her shiver anew.
He cupped her chin in his hand. “Beguile me,” he invited, his voice low, and Marie ground her teeth.
“Take me,” she retorted, tugging at the hem of her kirtle. “Before we are discovered.”
He considered her, still holding her captive against the millstone, then removed his gloves, one finger at a time. Marie wriggled against him with impatience, but he took an age to cast them aside. He then eased the flat of his hand over her thigh, smiling as he pushed up her chemise and kirtle, baring the top of her stocking to view. He granted her a glittering glance, and she caught her breath at his allure. He caught her nape in his other hand, then bent to kiss her beneath the ear. Marie sighed and closed her eyes for a moment, wishing there could be more time for this encounter. She sensed a shadow and her eyes flew open.
“Nay!” she cried when she saw the man silhouetted in the portal. It was Gaultier, to be sure. He lifted a knife to throw it. She kicked Bartholomew aside and he scooped her up, just as the knife buried itself in the wall behind them. Agnes leapt for Gaultier, but he struck her in the face with his mailed fist.
Agnes fell to the floor, bleeding, and did not move again.
Marie’s heart thundered in terror. Gaultier aimed to kill, not to maim. He unsheathed his sword and strode into the mill, his gaze fixed upon Bartholomew.
“You would take what is not your own,” he growled.
Bartholomew drew his own sword, the blade glinting in the light. “I defend the lady’s right to make a choice.”
“She has no right to give her lord’s property away,” Gaultier replied. “And I have every right to defend what is his.” The two men charged each other, their blades clashing with fury. Marie fell back and scrambled toward the portal. She fell beside her maid and felt for her pulse.
There was none, and the pool of blood grew ever larger.
Agnes was dead, dead for her loyalty to Marie.
What had she done?
The two knights fought fiercely, moving back and forth across the floor and striking savagely at each other. Marie watched in horror as Gaultier moved suddenly, tripping Bartholomew and flinging him against a wall. His blade was at Bartholomew’s throat, and she knew he would kill the other knight. She could not believe that Bartholomew had been bested so readily, but she would not see him die as well.
“Nay!” Marie cried again, and Gaultier hesitated for a precious moment. “My lord husband will be vexed if you cheat him of his justice.”
Gaultier smiled. He pressed his blade against Bartholomew’s throat and Marie feared her protest had been in vain. She could see red blood running down the blade. “Drop your weapons, and the baron may decide your fate.”
Bartholomew set down his sword, moving slowly and placing it on the floor. He removed his belt with his sheathed dagger, set it down as well, then straightened with his hands held high.
