Not two hours later, a messenger arrived from Oldham, from Mark. The Scots had attacked the demesne farms and killed many of Sir Mark’s people. Retribution for Alan Durwald’s murder, it was said. And Oldham itself would be next. There was anger and fear in the woods, both in equal measure.
Chandra rode at the rear of the thirty men who left Camberley within the next hour. There was a full moon. It was late, very late. She thought of Mary, and what the messenger had told her. She’d known there was no choice at all, despite what her husband would probably say, despite what he would do to her. He would never forgive her, she knew, but she had no choice. Mary, the messenger had said, was begging to her come. She needed her.
She waited until they were a mere mile from Oldham before she rode up beside her husband.
At first he did not pay her
any attention, his eyes straight ahead, his brow furrowed in thought.
“I will be very careful,” she said. “You need not worry about me. Mary is afraid, perhaps even in danger. I need to help her.”
Jerval slewed around in his saddle, not wanting to believe what he was seeing with his own eyes.
“I can weave, I can mend your tunics, I can weed the vegetable gardens. It is time to let me do what I was trained to do. I can help you. Truly, I had no choice but to come.”
“I don’t believe this,” Jerval said, slapping his gauntleted hand to his thigh. “I just don’t.” He wanted to strangle her in that moment.
“I’m here only because of Mary. She needs me. The messenger told me she is very afraid, and she asked me to come to Oldham. She is the only reason I am here. She is very afraid, both for Oldham and Mark.”
“You will not fight.”
“I know. I came to be with Mary.”
When they arrived at Oldham, Mark was preparing to ride out with his men. He was leaving six men to guard Oldham keep. “You have made excellent time. I thank you, Jerval. We hear that the Scots have ridden north. We are going after them. I cannot allow this to remain unpunished.”
“We will ride with you.” Jerval turned to his wife. “You will remain here, with Mary.” He paused a moment, then smiled an evil smile. “Aye, you will protect the lady of Oldham. Didn’t you say that was the only real reason you came?”
“Aye.” He’d believed she’d lied to him. She hadn’t. They rode into the inner bailey. Chandra leapt off her horse and ran to Mary, who was standing on the wide steps to the Great Hall, pale, her hands clasped over her belly.
Chandra didn’t hesitate. She pulled Mary to her, stroking her hands over her back. “It will be all right. There are enough men. Jerval and Mark will catch them, and it will be over. I will not leave you. Come inside now; you must rest.”
“You look like a warrior again.”
“Aye, I am your warrior, here to guard you.”
“Thank you, Chandra, for coming. Was Jerval angry?”
“Only for the last mile.”
“Well, that is an improvement.”
“I didn’t show myself until then.”
“Ah.”
Chandra shrugged. “It matters not. Now, we have six men to guard the keep?”
“And you, Chandra, and you.”
It was nearly dawn when Chandra, who had finally fallen into a light sleep, awoke to a strange gurgling sound. It was deep and low and it sounded like—She jerked fully awake, her knife in her hand, realizing that what she’d heard was the sound of a man choking to death on his own blood. A man usually didn’t choke to death by accident.
It took her but an instant to realize the truth. The Scots weren’t headed north with Mark and Jerval on their heels. They’d circled back. They were right here, and somehow they’d gotten into the keep.
Jerval said, looking up at the bright moon, “We have come too far. There is no sign of them. It isn’t right.”
Mark sniffed the air. “It’s cold, too cold,” he said, “and I don’t like this either. It doesn’t smell right. You’re right. The Scots aren’t ahead of us. I know it.”
“Then where are they?”