CHAPTER ONE
Year of our Lord 1203 A.D., November
Hyde House, London
“Take her, du Bois.” The command was a staccato hiss. “Even as we speak, there are assassins on her tail. You should have been out of here an hour ago.”
A massive knight with brilliant blue eyes was in motion before the command left the old man’s lips. In the dark corridors of the manor house with its mossy walls and cracked floors, he took the small lady by the arm and pulled her towards the stairs. Behind him, the old man who had issued the orders followed on their heels.
“You must leave London this night,” he went on, almost tripping as he took the steps too fast. “I’ve arranged a safe haven for you in Ealing at Courtenay’s lodgings, but that is of course providing you can even make it there.”
They reached the bottom of the steps, continuing back into the bowels of the neglected old house. There was a sense of urgency in the air, bordering on panic. The knight felt it, even without the elderly man shuffling along behind him or the snarling lady in his grip. But he was a professional, a knight born and bred. He would not allow the fear or panic to touch him. He had a job to do.
“I can make it to Ealing, my lord,” he assured the old man in a tone that suggested no counter comment. “But your men must buy me some time. Just enough time to get her out of London is all I need.”
“No promises, du Bois. Be on your way.”
The old man followed the pair into the kitchen; the hollow chamber would have been pitch black had it not been for the torch the old man was carrying. As the knight grasped the iron latch that would lead into the kitchen yard where his charger waited, the old man reached out to grab him.
“Rhys, listen to me,” the man’s eyes, yellowed with age, bore into him. “I realize this is sudden and I further realize that until a few hours ago, you had no knowledge of the political upheaval transpiring. But hear me and hear me well; this is a mission in which you must not fail. If you do not get this lady to safety, much will be lost. England will be lost.”
Rhys du Bois gazed into the elderly man’s eyes as they reflected the torchlight. Hubert de Burgh was an old man now, having served his share of Plantagenet kings. He was the Chief Justiciar of England, wielding as much power as the king himself and this mission was no folly. As Rhys opened his mouth to reply, the front door to the manor house swung open, spilling forth a collection of men in wet armor. They brought torches with them and more weapons.
Rhys’ first instinct was to go for his broadsword until he realized that he recognized the men. The group headed towards him, splattering rain on the floor and walls.
“Rhys,” the big man in the lead spoke. “Why have you not left yet? We’ve already had two groups of assassins killed within a half mile of this place. You’d better leave right away and we’ll do what we can to cover your retreat.”
“We were just leaving, my lord,” Rhys assured his liege. “The lady had a bit of a… delay.”
The group of knights came to a halt. Two or three ran up the stairs with weapons drawn as a couple ran past Rhys and Hubert and the lady, throwing open the door and entering the soaked kitchen yard. Lightening flashed, showing their heavy broadswords poised and ready. They were looking for a fight, waiting.
The big knight flipped up his visor, his sky blue eyes fixed on Rhys. “What delay?” he demanded softly. “This is no time for foolishness, du Bois. You must remove the lady immediately.”
De Burgh cleared his throat softly, eyeing both Rhys and the cloak-covered lady. “It was not du Bois’ fault, Chris,” he said quietly. “They lady was… well, she was….”
A portion of the cloak suddenly flew back and the figure beneath was revealed. Luscious golden-red hair was bunched up around her slender shoulders, the face of an angel evident in the weak light. She would have been an exquisitely beautiful creature had the countenance of her face not been so dark. Her dark green eyes flashed furiously.
“I was locked in the closet,” she announced. “If those murdering blackhearts want to kill me, let them try. They shall have to get to me first. I was perfectly safe until de Burgh and his guard dog wrested me from my place of safety. And now they want to take me out into this horrific weather where all manner of creature can take aim to kill me? ‘Tis lunacy!”
Christopher de Lohr, Earl of Worcester and Hereford, gazed at the angry little woman before him. He tried to keep his cool, knowing time was of the essence. Besides, having a wife with much the same flaming disposition gave him the practice of keeping his calm when faced with a furious female. Still, it was a struggle.