When Love Awaits(25)

What, she was wondering, would Rolfe say if he knew what was being gossiped about him? Would he find a way to blame his wife for the unfair talk making its rounds among his people?





Chapter 23




AT dawn, the camp outside the walls of Wroth Keep was quiet. Dreams of victory had followed the men into sleep. The watch reported hourly to Thorpe de la Mare, but the news he was expecting had still not been sent. The camp stirred and came to life just after dawn, but there was little to do. Most of the preparations had been made the night before, so the men waited for word, talking among themselves and getting restless.

At midmorning, Thorpe approached Rolfe inside his large tent.

“It appears the plan has worked. There is so little activity on the walls that they seem deserted.”

Thorpe said it so grudgingly that Rolfe laughed. “You were hoping for different news?”

“I still do not believe your wife would help you.”

“I told you, she wants to spare lives, both ours and those inside Wroth.”

“More likely only those inside Wroth.” Thorpe grunted.

“You will not stir up my anger this morning, my friend. I’m in good spirits. Leonie’s concoctions have worked! Let us go and take Wroth now.”

“You will be careful?”

Rolfe chuckled at the large man’s concern. “You are acting like an old woman, Thorpe. I am not here to take tea. I’m here to secure this keep. But I promise not to sheathe my sword until you tell me it is safe to do so. Does that satisfy you?”

The taking of Wroth was ridiculously easy. As the ladders were scaled, moans were heard. The foulest stench greeted them when they reached the top of the walls. Everywhere men were bent over with cramps or puking up their food. Some of the men tried to fight Rolfe’s men, but they had no strength and resistance was quickly quelled.

In short order, the keep was emptied and the prisoners taken to an area Rolfe had set up away from his main camp. The knight, John Fitzurse, would be held for ransom. The rebellious vassal might have been killed, but Rolfe was feeling a little guilty over the easy conquest, and so was inclined to be lenient.

It was still morning when Rolfe entered his tent and tossed his helmet to Damian. Then he settled down at his improvised desk. It was on his mind to send a message to Leonie, but she might know there was no clerk there, and he didn’t want to write the note himself. He didn’t want her to know he could read and write with ease. That would give her an excuse to refuse to act as his clerk. The sooner she began doing wifely things, the sooner she would accept him.

Thorpe entered the tent, and Rolfe asked, “All is secure?”

Thorpe nodded. “Will you offer the soldiers here what you offered the others?”

“Are they mostly recruited serfs, or hired men?”

“Serfs I think, since most speak only English,” Thorpe replied.

“Then I will offer them what we offered the Axeford and Harwick soldiers. They can stay and fight for me or go. The hired men, too, because the fewer of our own men we have to leave here the better. Who do you suggest I put in charge?”

“Walter Wyclif. He has asked for Wroth, and since Richard and Piers and Reinald want to stay with the army—”

“But I would have given Sir Walter a larger keep, one of those we’ve yet to win.”

“He wants to be settled now. He’s tired of riding back and forth from Axeford Town where his wife is staying. He wants Lady Bertha with him, because he says she causes too much mischief when she’s left alone.”

Rolfe chuckled, but Thorpe frowned. “I would not laugh, my friend. You yourself have a wife who is prone to mischief-making.”

“She’s caused no trouble since she married me,” Rolfe said defensively.

“Not yet,” muttered his friend.

Rolfe was in the midst of defending his wife when they heard horses galloping into camp. As they left the tent, a rider dismounted, nearly bursting with news.

“My lord, Nant Keep has surrendered!”

“What terms?” Rolfe demanded.

“No terms. Their food supply ran out, and it seems they had rationed it so long, they were too weak to fight. The vassal simply begs mercy.”

“I believe my luck has turned, Thorpe,” Rolfe said, grinning.

But as the words left his mouth, another rider skidded to a halt and shouted, “My lord, your mill at Crewel has been set afire!”

Rolfe glowered at Thorpe. “Have five men ready immediately, but you stay to lead the army to Warling Keep.”

“Sir Piers can lead the army—”

“I do not need a keeper! I will see to the fire myself. Do as I ask, Thorpe.”

Less than ten minutes later Rolfe was riding toward Crewel, five men-at-arms following in his wake. Fifteen miles separated the two properties, and they rode hard, the ancient road leading through forests and open fields.

Rolfe’s large destrier was not bred for speed, yet he reached the area of the Crewel mill well ahead of his men. Pausing beside the rapid stream that cut through the woods north of the village, Rolfe saw dozens of village men as well as several of his soldiers. They were moving slowly, so he guessed the fire had been put out.

He urged his horse ahead, but there was no longer any need to race the wind. He was barely within shouting distance when the arrow struck him. It tore through several chain-mail links and then it lodged in his hip. Rolfe caught a fleeting glimpse of forms slithering away into the shadows of the woods before a full measure of pain washed over him.





Chapter 24




LEONIE was accustomed to seeing blood, even as much blood as this. She had treated many wounds, but she became almost hysterical at the thought of treating Rolfe.

Their eyes met as he was carried, conscious now, into the hall. The look in his eyes froze her. There was fury in that look, furious accusation. Why?

“My lady?”

Wilda and Mildred were looking at her anxiously.

“Yes?”

Wilda said, “Sir Thorpe wants to move my lord Rolfe to his—your—room. Will you see to him?”

“Has he asked for me?”

Wilda could not meet her eyes. “He asked for the leech.”

That hurt more than his accusation. “Then that is that.”

“But, my lady,” Mildred whispered, “Odo is only a barber! I know many barbers have some knowledge of healing and serve as leech, but Odo is a fool. He would rather let a man die than admit he cannot help him. You remember Odo, my lady. He is the one you chastised when he nearly let my mother die.”

Leonie stared hard at Mildred, then turned away. Had she mistaken Rolfe’s look, or did he truly believe she had somehow contrived to wound him?

Upstairs, she found a guard in the antechamber, barring her entrance. She tried to pass him and he moved quickly to block her way.

“I am sorry, my lady,” was all he would say.

“Did my husband order you to keep me out?” she demanded.

He looked down at his feet without speaking. That was answer enough.

“Is the leech with him now?” she asked.

“I—”

He was interrupted by a bellowed curse and a crash from behind the closed door. Leonie turned stark white, and then the color rushed back into her cheeks as her temper exploded.

“I could have saved him that pain!” Her eyes stabbed the guard with her fury. “Let me pass now before he suffers more.”

“I am sorry, my lady, but you must not—”

“You have no more sense than that fool in there who dares to call himself a healer. Do you hear that, Odo?” she shouted at the door. “If you harm him or maim him with your ignorance, I will see you hanged by your thumbs until they fall off! And if he dies, you will wish a thousand times that you had died instead!” Then she whirled at the guard, now staring at her wide-eyed. “And so will you!”

Inside the room, Odo had heard her clearly. He hesitated as he bandaged the gaping wound where he had ripped out the arrow. But it was quiet outside the door now, and as long as the lord was now unconscious, he could bandage him easily.

Leonie had been heard below the stairs, and she received many strange looks when she returned to the hall. She paced, in anger and frustration, striding back and forth before the cold hearth. No one dared speak to her.

Sir Evarard refused to go against Rolfe’s orders and admit her to their room, although he was allowed inside. Leonie finally sent a messenger to Thorpe de la Mare, hoping that Rolfe’s friend, an older and wiser man, would put an end to this foolishness.

But Sir Thorpe arrived early that evening and closed himself in the room with Rolfe, not emerging until late that night. Leonie waited for him in the hall, and attacked him the moment he came down the stairs. “How is he?”

Thorpe eyed her coldly. “Sleeping.”

“And the wound?”

“He will mend—no thanks to you.”

“You too?” she hissed. Knowing she was too angry to restrain herself, she turned aside, staring at the ceiling, reining herself in. Then she turned back to him. “Sir Thorpe, no matter what you think—no matter what he thinks—I was not responsible for what happened. Nor would my people attack him now. He is my husband. Why do you believe I caused this?” she demanded.

Thorpe settled into a chair and bellowed for a servant to bring food. Not until food and wine had been given him did he pierce her with his dark eyes…eyes so like Rolfe’s. “He saw whoever fired the arrow moving off through the woods toward Pershwick. Evarard says that you have returned to Pershwick since coming here.”