He towered above her outstretched body but she was not afraid. Certes, he’d just saved her life. Whyfore be affrightened?
Her mind catalogued the various and persuasive reasons: perhaps because he was such an imposing figure, all hard slabs of muscle and piercing eyes? Perhaps because he’d just killed four men in less time that it took to de-feather a chicken? Or perhaps because he held in his hand a sword that still dripped with raw blood.
“Get up.”
“I…I—”
“You—” He reached down and grabbed her hand. “Do not listen well.”
He lifted her clean off the earth, hauling her away from the body. The soldier’s split head lolled to the side and a thin trickle of reddish spittle dribbled from the corner of his mouth. Dropping to one knee, her saviour lifted his chin, as if inspecting his handiwork, then crossed to the other dead men and did the same before dragging them to the side of the road.
Her saviour’s next words came from the dense st
and of trees, where he was depositing the still-warm bodies. “We’ve only a little time. D’Endshire will know as soon as de Louth reaches the gate, and then he’ll be after you.”
“Or you.” She ran her hands over her dress from collar to waist, fluttering. “Happens he might enjoy finding you more, at the moment.”
There were sounds of shuffling and earth moving, then he emerged with a costly steel arrow-tip in his palm. She stared in horror. It could only have been plucked from the dead man.
He picked up his sword. “As I have said, his pleasure is not my concern.” Lodging the arrow-tip in his belt, he walked towards her, sliding his blade back into its sheath with a whispery sound. He retrieved his bow, lying beside the oak tree. Then he whistled.
From nowhere came the sound of a snorting horse, and a raw-boned rampager appeared from between two giant oak trees. He looked like a furry error, all slanting edges and legs. He wore a bitless bridle inlaid with silver, though, a headpiece that would cost more than a bribe for the Nottingham sheriffdom. Costly finery for an error.
The warrior made a gesture with his hand and the horse started picking his way over. She watched as he ran an affectionate hand over his horse’s neck, murmuring in the tongue of the Normans to his obviously beloved mount.
Her gaze drifted aimlessly, then froze. Why, there was her slipper, huddled along the side of the road like a frightened child, half-hidden beneath the muck. She hobbled over and picked it up. By all the saints, how had she thought to save her saviour with that?
And what was she to do now? Her original destination, so swiftly planned as she tripped and ran down the streets of London, was St. Alban’s Abbey. But the monks were twenty miles away, and unhorsed, that had become an insurmountable distance.
She put her hand to her forehead. Everything seemed sinister. The mists, the dark, rutted road, and most especially the sword-bearing stranger who was watching her now with grey-blue eyes, his body motionless. What before had been red-hot fire in her blood became ice-cold fear, and it slid down her back in knife thrusts.
“So,” he said with a booming roar—at least that’s how it sounded—“what am I to do with you?”
The chill plunged deeper into her spine. What did that mean: do with her? Hadn’t she spent the whole first part of this evening assuring no man should do anything with her?
To this awful end.
She shoved her foot into her slipper. Cold, wet mud slopped out the sides. “My thanks for saving me, sir, but there is nothing you are required, nor invited, to do with me.” He lifted an eyebrow. “I am truly grateful for the risks you have taken here,” she added. “Not only to your person, but any reputation you might have.”
He didn’t appear overly concerned about that last, considering that nothing about his grey-eyed, taut-bodied regard changed. He didn’t appear very pleased. She didn’t have many choices. She cleared her throat.
“You wouldn’t be pilgrimming towards Saint Alban’s Abbey, now, would you?”
He shook his head.
“No, I didn’t think so.” She took a breath. There was one other option, much closer, although she did not know the way herself. But perhaps this knight did. Of course, it was not the safest option. Papa had always said Lord Aubrey of Hippingthorpe, who had estates nearby, was a man with a ridiculous name and a most dangerous temperament.
Well, Gwyn decided, pushing her foot deeper into the cold muck filling her slipper, danger was really quite relative now, wasn’t it?
She looked up at her saviour. “You wouldn’t be able to direct me towards Hippingthorpe Hall, would you?”
The smallest flicker altered his gaze. “Are you to name every stop along the road to York?” he asked coldly.
She drew back, hugged her tattered cloak around her shoulders, and lifted her chin a little bit. “No. Of course not. My apologies for all the…troubles. May I recompense you?” She began fumbling with the bag of silver tied around her waist.
“No.”
“Are you certain? Your tunic was torn, and…?” She drifted off as he crossed his arms over his chest and regarded her like he might some heretofore-unknown insect.