“Find you a suitable substitute. ’Tis imperative now that you start breeding this very night. Damn this black hair of mine, or I would do it.”
Her eyes flared wide at the meaning of his last words as much as of his first. “Nay. I will not—”
“You will,” he snarled, “if you wish ever to see your mother again—alive!”
Now it was stated plainly, what she had only suspected before, and she blanched, not doubting at all that he meant it. But the horror of what he intended…a substitute!
Desperately, she asked, “How can you even hope to perpetuate such a deception? The man is dead.”
“No one need know that until a sufficient time has passed to see you breeding. When you are not directly attending to that, you will stay in this chamber—”
“With his corpse?” she gasped, taking still another step back.
“Nay, I will get rid of the body,” he said impatiently. “When ’tis time to bury him, I will find another body to pass off as his. At any rate, he will be officially buried before his brother learns he is dead, and you will be for certain with child before the man arrives to try and wrest his due. But he will have naught. Godwine would have wanted it so.”
That was likely true, but did that justify what Gilbert meant to do? And he sounded so confident in his new plan. But why not? Again, he had to do naught but sit back and wait while her body was sacrificed on this altar of deception. And this time her mother’s life truly depended on her compliance.
Chapter 5
They set upon him on his way out of the common bathing room at the inn. Five of them there were, dressed in the leather jerkins of men-at-arms, yet he doubted they were that. Thieves, more like. Lawlessness was prevalent in most towns that had a weak or absent overlord, or corrupt aldermen. And he did not know the town of Kirkburough, had never passed through it before. For all he knew, this could be another pocket of high villainy where all travelers and strangers were set upon and robbed, or tortured if they could not promise fat ransoms. To travel in Stephen’s England alone or with a small escort was to risk penury as well as your life.
Truly, this had been an act of stupidity and conceit on his part, to come here with no more than his squire just because he wanted to beautify his appearance before he met his betrothed on the morrow. A bit of vanity, and look what it had wrought. Too long had he been confident in his reputation of swift retribution for any wrong done him, to keep offenders at bay. It had stood him in good stead for a goodly number of years, ever since he had turned his life toward vengeance. But for a reputation to do any good, it had to be known, and as he did not know this area, neither was he known here.
Warrick de Chaville could be forgiven his carelessness, though he would not forgive himself, for he was not a forgiving man. The town had looked peaceful and well ordered. He had a lot on his mind. He would soon be marrying for the third time, and he did not want this new wife to fear him as the other two had. He had much hope in the Lady Isabella. For nearly a year he had courted her when he could find the time, though that was not his way. Her father had given her to him at first asking, greatly desiring the match, yet Warrick had wanted Isabella’s consent, and would not make contract for her until he had it. Now he had it, and he was eager to make her his.
Lady Isabella Malduit was not only a great beauty and much sought after, she was also soft-spoken, sweetly tempered, and had a charming sense of humor. Warrick wanted humor in his life. He wanted love and laughter, which had been absent since his family had been destroyed and naught but hate and bitterness had filled him. He had two daughters, but they were frivolous and self-centered creatures. He loved them, but he could not abide them for very long with their bickering and pettishness. He wanted a home life like the one he had known as a child, that would draw him home, rather than send him eagerly into war. And he wanted a son.
He did not ask for too much, no more than any man could expect. And the right wife could give it all to him. He had found her in Isabella. Already he was very fond of her. He hoped it would soon be more than that, though truthfully, he was not sure he was still capable of that kind of love after so many years of hate. But ’twas not necessary that he love his wife, only that she love him. None of which mattered if he was to die here this night.
He was not even properly armed. He had left his sword and armor in the room he had rented, where even now Geoffrey would be cleaning it. He had come down to the bathing room with no more than a dagger tucked in his belt. Now he did not even have his clothes, for he had left them with the attending servant to be washed. He wore only a large bath sheet, wrapped and tucked in at the waist, with the short dagger stuck under the edge of it at his belly.
Even though he was so defenseless, the five men surrounding him were hesitant at first to draw their swords, for Warrick de Chaville was no ordinary-sized man. At six feet and three, he stood a half head taller than the largest assailant, and more still than the other four. With his arms and chest bare, there was no doubt at the strength contained in his large body. But more than that, he looked mean. There was a hard ruthlessness in his face, as if he would enjoy killing for the mere sport of it. And the gray eyes that had marked him as their target were so coldly chilling, at least one man wanted to cross himself before he drew his sword.
But they did draw their swords. And the leader would have spoken, mayhap to make a demand instead of fighting, except Warrick was not a passive knight. He was aggressive in all things, and this was no exception. He clasped his dagger in hand and let out a war cry that very nearly shook the timbers. At the same instant he charged forward, slashing the man nearest him across his face. He had aimed for the throat, but the man’s scream did him more good in putting fear into the others.
It became quickly apparent that either they were clumsy with their weapons or they were not trying to kill him. Well and good, that was their mistake. He wounded another, but then his blade began striking the steel of theirs. They had not meant to hurt him, but they did not intend to die either.
And then Geoffrey joined the fray with a less thunderous battle cry, having heard Warrick’s. The lad was only ten and five, and not the squire Warrick would have taken into any battle, for he deemed him not yet ready for that. He was skilled with a sword, yet his body was not fully developed, giving him not much weight behind his blows. He had more heart and will than anything else, but also the mistaken assumption that he could do exactly as his lord did. He charged, but without the powerful body behind it, no one stepped fearfully out of his way, and without his armor to protect him, he was gutted before he could even get in a full swing.
Warrick saw the look of disbelief and then horror that appeared on Geoffrey’s young face as he bent over the sword buried in his middle and knew he would be dead in moments. The lad had been fostered in his household since he was seven. Only last year Warrick had taken him under his own wing, even though he already had several squires and did not need another. He had developed a fondness for this boy who had always been so eager to please, and now he let out a bellow of grief-filled rage just before he threw his dagger at the man who had killed Geoffrey. It struck true, buried to the hilt in his throat, and no sooner thrown than Warrick had snatched the sword right out of the hand of the man nearest him.
He did not get to use this better weapon, however. Another sword hilt smashed into his skull, and he fell slowly to the floor.
The two men who had been fortunate enough to stay out of his reach now stood over him panting. A full minute passed before they thought to sheathe their swords. One nudged Warrick with his boot, just to be sure he would not be rising. Blood appeared in the dark blond hair that was still wet from his bath, but he breathed. He was not dead and so was still of use.
“This man is no serf, as we were told to find,” the one man said to the other. “The way he fought, he can only be a knight. Could you not tell the difference when you saw him enter the bathing room?”
“Nay, he was coated in travel dust. I merely noted he wore no armor, and he had the right color eyes as well as the blond hair Lord Gilbert insisted on. I considered it fortunate that I happened to see him at all.”
“Gag him, then, and hope Lord Gilbert does not decide to speak to him.”
“What difference? Half of Lord Godwine’s knights are naught but churls. And we have found no other with both the right hair and the right eyes. What is he wanted for anyway?”
“That is not our concern, merely do we do as told. But did you have to hit him so hard? Now we must carry him.”
The other snorted. “Better that than to deal with him awake again. When I first saw him, he did not seem so big as this. That boy, think you he was his son?”
“Mayhap, which means he will awake fighting again. Best to bind those hands and feet as well. Even Lord Gilbert might have trouble subduing this one.”
