Shattered Vows(83)

‘You can see my lord’s colours?’

‘The red and the gold?’ she asked. He could feel her hanging onto his tunic. ‘Yes. The black gelding at the head belongs to Sir Brian Martell, he’s my lord’s youngest knight.’

‘Keep your head up, angel,’ he said. ‘We must brazen this out. I don’t want them mistaking fear for guilt.’ Gently, he peeled her hand from his tunic.

‘I’m afraid,’ she whispered.

‘Don’t be. Stand firm, I’ll-’

Great hoofs drummed, casting up clods of turf. There was a jingle of spurs and harness and with a flourish the troop drew rein a sword’s length away.

‘Good day, Sir Brian.’ Oliver inclined his head and hoped he looked calmer than he felt. His heart was thudding, he was well aware that his absence from the castle might have been misconstrued as desertion.

‘De Warenne.’ Sir Brian gave him a terse nod.

The man was bright as a poppy with his scarlet surcoat over his chainmail. When he didn’t lift his visor, tension coiled in Oliver’s guts. Rosamund had said that Sir Brian was young, but with his hair and features concealed in his helmet, he looked every inch the implacable knight. Oliver’s recollection of him was still vague. However, he hadn’t missed the fact that Sir Brian had avoided using Oliver’s title. And because of that helm, he couldn’t see enough of his face to judge whether the omission had been accidental or deliberate. He decided to let it pass. He also decided to speak in English for Rosamund’s benefit.

‘You’re in command of these men, Martell?’

Sir Brian nodded and – thank Heaven! – doffed his helmet. Balancing it on his pommel, he pushed back his mail coif. He was indeed young and a mixture of expressions flitted across his face. Embarrassment. Discomfort. It came to Oliver that though Sir Brian knew that he should make the next move, he was uncertain as to what to do.

That weakness might be used to Oliver’s advantage...

Oliver ran an experienced eye over the steaming horses. Their chests were heaving after their gallop along the cliff-path. He shook his head. ‘If you plan to return my cousin’s horses to the stable in the same condition as they left it, you might take some heed of the terrain.’

Sir Brian’s jaw dropped. ‘Eh?’

Oliver gestured at the honeycomb of rabbit-holes. ‘The warren, man. One false step and you’ve got a screaming horse with a broken leg.’

Sir Brian’s face went the colour of his surcoat. He seemed to recollect that it was he who should be taking the initiative, for he drew himself up and opened his mouth.

Oliver got in first. ‘I don’t expect you’ve had the pleasure of finishing off a horse, have you?’ he asked, quietly.

‘No.’

‘It’s not the easiest task.’ He grimaced. ‘Very unpleasant. Messy. And, Brian, lad?’

‘De Warenne?’ Sir Brian, red to his ears, eyed him warily.

‘Never lead a troop of horses to a flat-out gallop unless it’s absolutely vital. Think of the poor beasts labouring under the combined weight of you and your armour. You exhaust their reserves and when you come to need it most, you’ll find they don’t have a trot left in them, never mind a gallop.’

Sir Brian cleared his throat and glanced at the rest of the troop as though drawing strength from their presence. ‘De Warenne, these knights owe fealty to Lord Gilbert Hewitt. We have combined forces and we’re charged with the task of finding you and bringing you in.’ Leather creaked as he shifted in his saddle. He looked as though he was sitting on a thistle.

‘Bringing me in? Surely you’re not asking me to surrender my sword?’ Oliver held the young man’s gaze. ‘Is there a charge against me?’

Martell’s eyes slid away. ‘No, no charge. But...but you were missing at reveille, and before my lord was wounded he commanded-’

Oliver snatched at the bridle of Martell’s gelding. ‘My cousin is hurt, you say?’

‘Aye.’

‘Badly?’

‘I...I...think so. Lady Margaret was so distraught that her babe has started, and it’s not her full time.’

‘I need a horse,’ Oliver said, quickly running his gaze over the troop. Two of the men were youths, they wore no mail and their arms were light. One was riding a stocky-looking roan. ‘You, sir. You’re a knight?’

‘I’m a squire, sir.’

‘I’m borrowing your mount.’ His lips twisted. ‘I mustn’t offend a fellow knight by taking his, must I, Martell?’

Sir Brian made a choking sound.

Oliver flung himself into the saddle and turned the roan’s head towards the castle. ‘You can follow on foot,’ he said to the squire.