“Aye, exactly.”
“Ah, there ye are, Sir Simon. I have been meaning to speak to ye.”
Simon turned to look at Hepbourn. The man looked so pleased with himself Simon longed to punch that look right off Hepbourn’s face. “What do ye want?”
“An answer to the question near all at court are now asking. Why was that woman hiding at your house? That seems a most questionable act by a mon who swears he is all about finding the truth and protecting the innocent.”
Simon could see some of the other courtiers edging closer. It would not be wise to take Walter by the throat and choke the life out of him. Too many witnesses, he decided. Instead he leaned nearer to the mon and asked, just loudly enough for all close at hand to hear, “I will answer your question, if ye answer mine. Just what were ye doing at my house holding a knife to the throat of a wee lass of two years?”
There was a flurry of whispering and gasps of outrage from several of the women. Walter glared at Simon. “Unlike ye, sir, I have a care for our king. Ye were doing naught to catch these traitors so I kenned I had to act. That woman ye were hiding injured me in all her attempts to escape. I had to do something or she would have disappeared again.”
“Aye, I heard she had kicked your balls up into your throat. With such a wee foot as she has I am surprised she could hit a target as small as that.”
Ignoring Hepbourn’s sputtered outrage and the snickers of those around them, Simon took Reid away from the court and tossed him up into the saddle. He was angry at them all now, even the king. Years of hard work, of unquestionable honesty and dedication, and this was his reward. He wanted to bellow out the truth about what he thought of most of the ones lurking around the king hoping for some small gift or step up in power and prestige. Leeches, the whole lot of them.
“Can ye find the bad men, Simon?” asked Reid as Simon swung up into the saddle behind him.
“I can and I will. I ken who most of them are but, at the moment, the best I have is the word of one traitor pointing the finger of guilt at another.” Simon looked down at the boy’s head, knowing Reid was struggling to understand. “I must set aside my own vanity and just do the job. Find the men, arrest them, and drag them before the king. Then I must pray that what proof I have stands up firm against the power and coin some of these men have. To be honest, at this moment, I dinnae care if some of them slip the noose and later try again to kill the king.”
“One of them is that Sir Walter, isnae it? ‘Tis what Ilsabeth says.”
“Aye. It is and he will be caught. Even if I must give up some of the others because I am now pushed to do this quickly, Hepbourn willnae be one of them.”
“Good. I want him punished. He held a knife to my sister’s throat and I had to stand there and hope that she didnae wiggle or try to get down and that knife was so close it would have cut her. And he is still trying verra hard to get Ilsabeth hanged for his crimes.”
“Have no fear, lad. He will soon be paying dearly.”
Chapter 14
One thing Ilsabeth truly hated about being imprisoned was the smell. She was no delicate lass. She knew the scent of blood, the scent of the winter slaughter, the scent of human and animal waste and even the scent of death, but this smell made her stomach curdle. It was the scent of despair, she decided. Despair, lost hopes, fear, and resignation. She was probably adding to the wretched miasma clouding the dank air. Ilsabeth did not want to consider how many of those who had come here to die, their sorrow still mired in the stone, had been as innocent as she was.
Where was Simon? she asked silently. She was headed into her second full day in this hell. The dark, the occasional rattle of a chain, the intermittent screams, told her others were there with her but nothing could help her stop feeling so utterly alone. Her family would rush to her side if they knew where she was, but that would only get them captured and tossed inside with her. No, it was Simon she really needed, so where was he?
The light suddenly grew brighter around her cell and Ilsabeth sat up on the rat-gnawed pallet she had been given to sleep on. Then she heard footsteps. Two men, she decided, listening closely. Ilsabeth prayed that one of them was Simon. When Walter and a larger man came into view, she cursed, her disappointment so sharp she was surprised she was not bleeding from it.
When the two men stopped in front of her thickly barred cell, she sent Walter a look of utter loathing before studying the man he had brought with him. There was something very familiar about his height and shape, the broad shoulders and the long legs, but she decided that should not surprise her. Within her own family there were a lot of broad shoulders and long legs. Then Walter, wearing that smug look that always made her so nervous, held his torch a little closer to the man, shedding more light on his face, and she frowned in concentration while studying that face even more closely.
A gasp escaped her as she found what she had blindly been seeking, the reason she felt she knew him, as her gaze was caught and held by a familiar shade of gray in the man’s one eye. Ilsabeth began to reach out to the man but her good sense and caution returned quickly. She yanked her hand back inside her prison, suddenly glad of the cage she was in, just as the stranger reached out to clasp her hand.
“So ye have brought Henry, the beast of Lachancorrie, with ye, have ye, Walter?” she asked even though she knew that was who the gray-eyed man was. “Trying to better yourself in his eyes by showing him how cleverly ye have escaped punishment for your crimes. How wondrously brave ye are, to make certain a wee lass takes all the blame. Lies, deceit, murder, betrayal. Ye have been a verra busy boy gathering all the weaponry needed by a knight of the realm. A tale to tell your grandchildren for certain, aye? Ah, but if I happen to escape ye will have no bairns for I will find me a verra sharp knife and kill your progeny at the source.”
Walter looked as if he tried to glare at her yet appear untouched by her insults and threats. It was an odd look. Simon’s brother was silently staring at her in cold, hard fury. There was something ugly deep in the man’s one good eye. Ilsabeth could not believe she could have, even for a moment, thought they resembled Simon’s eyes. Unlike Walter’s expression, Henry’s sat easily on his scarred face. The man looked ready to chew through the bars to get to her. She did not even want to think about what he would do if he got his hands on her.
“I hear ye are the woman my brother is bedding and risking his precious good name for,” said Henry.
He looked her over in a way that made her want to slap him and then go and bathe. For the second time since she had been tossed into her cell she was heartily glad for the thick iron bars between her and Henry, both times inspired by him. They stopped her from attacking the man who had caused Simon so much pain and they stopped Henry, laird of Lochancorrie, from breaking her neck or inflicting some other horror on her.
“Whate’er your brother and I might be doing is really none of your business,” she snapped at Henry, suddenly realizing that every time she looked at Henry all she could see in her mind’s eye were the scars covering Simon’s back. “I suggest ye give up your traitorous plots and run along home, Henry. The boy ye tried to beat to death ten years ago is a mon now and that mon willnae rest until he has ye tried, convicted, and executed for the traitor ye are. Mayhap, if ye cease, if ye just go away, ye can keep all ye have now–your life, your lands, your whips, ye filthy bastard,” she ended in a furious hiss. “Did all your clever planning get ye the son ye wanted?”
“Nay. I got yet another cursed, useless daughter.” He smiled and Ilsabeth decided it was the coldest thing she had ever seen. “Sad to say, she was weak, just like her puling excuse for a father. She died.”
Ilsabeth prayed Simon never found that out. “Do ye ken? I believe someone should have hunted ye down years ago and killed ye. I ne’er thought I would say this, as I believed I held all life sacred, but ye are a mon who sorely needs killing.” Oh, aye, Henry would dearly love to kill me or at least make me pray for death. “My mother would say that ye are a mon who has no other purpose in life but to destroy things, people, a young lad’s pet.”
She looked at Walter again. “Say what ye want and go away. Your company grows tedious.”
“If ye were one of my women, I would beat ye, but I would do it so verra slowly, breaking one bone at a time,” Henry said.
That was truly terrifying, she decided, especially when the man saying the words spoke in such a slow, considering way one could imagine him savoring the pictures they painted for him. When she had first seen Henry, she had let anger rule her tongue, not fully considering what she was saying, but now she thought she may have been very close to the truth. There was something very wrong with Henry Innes. She prayed his plot to steal the throne from the king failed miserably because, if Scotland ever came under this man’s rule, it was doomed to fall into a bloody, cruel time from which it might never recover.
