Splendor, page 29
All eyes turned toward Eloise.
“I’ll not stay behind,” she said, rising to her feet. “She may need me.”
“Sit down, woman,” Garrick ordered. “You’ll be staying.”
“Make that enough food for twenty-five,” Rolfe told his squire.
As Aubrey dashed off to the kitchens, Garrick stared at Rolfe. “Surely you’re not taking her with us?”
“Aye, I am,” he responded, his gaze on Catherine’s nurse. “As before, Garrick, something tells me ’tis best she comes along.” He pulled Alaric forward, then motioned another man to his side. “Take this lad into your care and make certain he’s fed. Treat him kindly. When I return, I’ll decide what to do with him then.” Handing the boy over, he looked back to the others. “Any questions?”
“Aye. Where are we headed?” Garrick asked.
“We have two choices,” Rolfe announced, watching Eloise. “William’s estate or Geoffrey’s.” The slight stiffening of the woman’s face gave him his answer. “I say ’tis the former. We head toward Oxford.”
CHAPTER
20
CATHERINE WAS WORN AND ON EDGE, MAINLY BECAUSE OF Miles. Since they’d escaped Cartbridge, he complained continuously. Either they were moving too fast, the constant shock of the pounding hooves eliciting pain in his shoulder; or if they slowed their pace to accommodate him, he became annoyed with their lack of progress. Hence everyone’s mood had deteriorated. To say the least, it had been an arduous four days, especially for her. The only good thing was that so far her baby didn’t seem to be suffering any ill effects. She prayed it remained so.
If she’d thought things couldn’t possibly get worse, she was gravely mistaken. That morning her horse had gone lame, and she was now forced to ride with the ill-humored man whom she was once impatient to marry.
How she’d ever believed Miles to be the perfect mate was beyond her. Fortunately, fate had intervened, sparing her from a marriage that would have brought her nothing but unhappiness.
Yet Catherine wondered what she’d actually attained, for in actuality she’d simply traded one form of misery for another. Rejected by the man she truly loved, she was now destined to live out her days alone, bittersweet memories of her golden warrior her only companion.
Lost in her thoughts, Catherine started when Miles emitted a vivid curse. “Hold up,” he shouted to those ahead of them.
Sir Balder, the knight who’d met them just outside Cartbridge, reined in his steed. A scowl marked his discontent. “What’s wrong this time?” he asked when Miles came up beside him.
“My horse cannot keep up with two of us astride,” Miles announced. “’Twould be better if we slowed our pace.”
“We’re not that far from Oxford,” Sir Balder replied. “I’d feel far better about the Lady Catherine’s safety if we tried to press ourselves a bit harder.”
“How close do you think we are?” Miles questioned.
“Ten miles, maybe nearer,” the knight replied.
“If the bastard hasn’t caught up to us by now, ’tis unlikely he’ll do so—that’s if he gave chase in the first place. Even if he did, I doubt he’ll follow us into Oxford.” Miles shook his head. “There’s no need to rush. We’ll still make our destination before nightfall.”
“If you insist,” Sir Balder said. “But if anything happens, ’twill be on your head.”
Turning his steed, the knight rode on ahead and ordered his men to slow their pace.
“Why do you think Rolfe won’t follow us into Oxford?” Catherine asked.
“’Tis too close to Stephen’s castle at Crowmarsh. From across the river, the royal troops have been besieging Henry’s fortress at Wallingford for nearly a year now. I’m sure your lover is aware of that. Even if the aforementioned places do lie ten miles beyond Oxford, I doubt he’ll risk his capture by coming so near to enemy territory.”
From what Miles had said, Catherine grew worried about Rolfe. If he had followed them, his innate sense of duty having impelled him to do so, she feared he would indeed ride straight to Oxford, danger or no. The man was dauntless and, yes, reckless. Just knowing that she and Miles had duped him was more than enough to drive him onward. Wanting satisfaction, he’d not rest until he’d settled with them both.
Catherine sincerely hoped he’d not be so foolish as to put his life in jeopardy. Certainly not for some mandatory sense of commitment to Henry, certainly not for his gnawing need for revenge, and, most of all, certainly not for her.
Looking to the blue heavens, she prayed: Dear Lord, if he is in pursuit, please make him turn back before he comes to harm.
Rolfe had no such compunction.
Riding ever closer to Oxford, he was determined to find both Miles and Catherine.
From the former, he wanted his gold, along with the opportunity to bring the bastard to his knees. His intention was to spare Miles, but oh what enjoyment he’d receive from watching the fool grovel at his feet while pleading for Rolfe not to take his life.
And from Catherine?
He wanted the chance to face her so he could profess his love and discover at last if she felt the same about him. Should she reject him, which he prayed she didn’t, he’d already decided he would set her free. And if by some miracle she reciprocated his affection, he planned to allow her the choice of either returning to Cartbridge or seeking out her father.
Nearly certain she’d opt for the latter, he’d willingly comply with her wishes. Despite what he once felt, despite what he’d told her, his duty and allegiance to Henry no longer mattered. It was Catherine whom he wanted to please.
But above all of this, what concerned Rolfe most was the danger Catherine faced. Just before his riding out from Cartbridge, a messenger had arrived from Henry. The duke, he learned, was marching to the relief of his stronghold at Wallingford and planning to besiege Crowmarsh. Since it had taken a week for the messenger to arrive from Bedford, Rolfe imagined Henry was presently in position. Considering such, Stephen’s troops had to be gathering in defense of Crowmarsh. What better place than at Oxford?
It was quite likely that skirmishes would break out all around the region, Stephen’s troops meeting Henry’s as they tried to station themselves. Therefore Rolfe knew he had to find Catherine before she found herself trapped in one such fray. There would be no mercy for her, especially when she was dressed as a man.
A shout rose from behind him. Rolfe looked around to see one of his men pointing at the opposite hillside. Focusing on the area, he saw a band of riders topping the knoll. Immediately he barked a command, then urged his stallion into a full gallop. His armed knights followed.
As sure hooves thundered beneath him, Rolfe smiled inwardly. His relentless pursuit had paid off. Catherine, he felt certain, was just over the next rise.
Cresting the hill, the group of riders descended the slope and started across the open field. Catherine was the first to notice that something was out of sorts. It was far too quiet.
The birds—not a twitter or a call rang from the treetops. She looked first to one side, then to the other, and studied the woods that lined the clearing. Way too quiet for such a balmy summer day, she thought.
Apparently Sir Balder was the next to notice. He raised himself up in the saddle to nearly stand in the stirrups. Turning, he viewed the field’s perimeter.
Movement caught Catherine’s eye. She was about to alert the knight when a clamorous cry sounded to their right. The yell was reciprocated from the left. Then from both sides armed horsemen bolted out of the woods.
Everything happened at once.
Miles issued a curse. The knights who surrounded them reached for their weapons. Before anyone could do much else, their attackers were upon them.
While swords clashed and clanged furiously in her ears, Catherine thought it might be Rolfe who’d been lying in wait for them. But as Miles constantly turned his horse, obviously trying to find an outlet, she swayed in the saddle and searched the faces of the men who were engaged in battle. Rolfe wasn’t among them.
The fighting became more frenzied. Men were falling around them. Miles was still unable to escape from the entangled mass. Unexpectedly he began shoving at her. Confused, Catherine turned her head. There was a wildness in his eyes that frightened her.
He shoved her again. “Bitch, get off.”
Catherine gaped at him. Had he gone mad?
“Do as I say!” he grated through his teeth.
The force of his next push unseated her from the horse; Catherine sailed downward and hit the ground with a thud.
Her palms stung, her knees ached. Shaking her head, she dragged herself to her feet to see Miles, his sword drawn, breaking a trail through the pack. When she noted he didn’t stand and fight, the realization struck that he intended to flee the battle. Rolfe was right: The bastard was a coward.
Knowing she had to get from the midst of this chaos, Catherine tried to pick a path through the crush of horses and men. She wended around one steed, only to find another blocking her.
Bumped and battered by the spinning destriers, she became frantic. She shoved and pushed her way from the center. Then, spying a break in the warring bodies, she dashed forward. When she next looked up, a rider came toward her, his sword swinging. Her mind whirling with thoughts of Rolfe, their unborn child, and her father, she froze in her tracks.
“Merciful St. Michael,” she whispered, remembering the Archangel was Rolfe’s protector, “spare me and his child. Please.”
Catherine’s entreaty was instantly answered, for a horse abruptly bolted in front of her.
Sir Balder.
Quickly tripping away, she was hit from behind. At the same time, Sir Balder’s steed sprang backward. Catherine found herself pressed between the rumps of two horses. When they jolted apart she stumbled, then dropped to her knees, gasping for breath.
Steel struck steel above her. Glancing up, she saw the blade plunge. No! her mind screamed. The knight who’d tried to save her toppled from his horse. Protectively hugging her stomach, she rolled to the ground. The air rushed from her lungs as Sir Balder landed lifelessly atop her. For Catherine, all went black.
Rolfe topped the rise to mark the confusion below. The blood drained from his face, for in his mind he was reliving the road to Antalya. This time, though, it was Catherine’s life that lay in jeopardy.
Dear God, don’t allow it to happen again. Protect her, please.
The prayer streaked through his mind as he pushed the young stallion to its limits, his sword drawn and ready. While his men galloped behind him down the hill, Rolfe scanned the field. Relief washed through him the instant his gaze latched onto her. She was in the center, astride a horse with Miles. His sword swinging, Rolfe was at once in the fray.
Whether he fought Stephen’s men, William’s, or Henry’s, Rolfe couldn’t say. He cared less who fell by the wayside. His one goal was to get to Catherine.
By the time he next looked up, searching for her, four men had fallen under his sword. Across the way, he spotted Miles’s back. The man’s horse bolted from the crush.
From his position, Rolfe couldn’t tell if Catherine were seated before the fleeing Miles. He had no choice but to chance that she was.
Backing the stallion out of the squeeze of bodies and steeds, he sheathed his sword, cut around the perimeter of the group, and gave chase. The yards between them dwindled. Two hundred. One hundred. Fifty. Rolfe was yet uncertain if Catherine were on the horse.
When he was nearly beside Miles, Rolfe’s heart sank. Just as quickly, fury rioted through him. “Pull up!” he shouted.
Miles ignored the command and whipped his horse with the reins.
Rolfe gritted his teeth. Now even with Miles, he sprang from his steed. His body crashing into Miles’s, both men sailed through the air and tumbled to the ground.
Rolfe was immediately on his feet, jerking Miles to his. With the action, the pouch that Rolfe had given Miles came loose from the man’s belt. Gold scattered around their feet to glisten in the sunlight. Rolfe ignored his once precious treasure.
“You left her back there, didn’t you, you bastard?”
Rolfe didn’t wait for a reply. His fist slammed into Miles’s jaw. Picking Miles up from the ground, he issued the punishment again. Then with a hard kick into Miles’s side, Rolfe grabbed up his helm, which had flown from his head, and whistled for his horse. The stallion came running. In a few seconds, Rolfe was again headed toward the fray. Behind him, Miles was quickly gathering the coins.
A mile away, over the next rise to the south, William de Mortain rode alongside Geoffrey d’Avranches. Some fifty men followed behind them, including the three who had traveled from Cartbridge. They had arrived several hours before dawn. Now all were headed north to join with the group that was aimed toward Oxford.
As he topped the hill, William stared down on a lone rider and horse galloping pell-mell toward them. He noted how the man swayed disjointedly in the saddle. His tunic doubled against his belly, the rider looked to be more interested in what lay in its folds than the route ahead.
“The fool is going to kill himself,” William commented to Geoffrey.
As though William had just foretold the rider’s fate, the horse’s forelegs plunged into a depression in the field that was hidden by the long grass. The beast toppled, its rider flying over its twisting neck. William cringed when he saw the man strike the ground headfirst. The rider tumbled along the earth for a short distance, then lay eerily still.
Beside William, Geoffrey was oddly silent. When William glanced at the man, he noted how his companion had gone pale. Then Geoffrey spurred his horse. As he rode toward the fallen rider, the lone word that broke from his lips told William all, for Geoffrey had shouted his son’s name.
Directing his men down the slope, William came upon Geoffrey. He was on his knees, cradling Miles’s limp form. Dismounting, William walked to the man’s side and placed his hand on Geoffrey’s shoulder.
“He’s broken his neck,” Geoffrey said, smoothing his son’s brow.
With a compassionate squeeze of his hand, William left Geoffrey’s side. If Miles was near, so was Catherine. He had to find her. As he approached his horse, he noted Miles’s steed struggling to rise. Its forelegs were broken. “Slay the poor beast,” he ordered one of his men.
Now atop his own steed, William spied a glittering trail. Gold coins spread along the ground from the fallen horse to where Miles lay. He wondered if that was what had held Miles’s attention. Had the young fool been less interested in the treasure, William was certain he’d now be alive. Then with a stern command issued to his men, William set out in the direction whence Miles just came.
Rolfe’s blade was red with the blood of another half-dozen men. On his return to the group, he was immediately drawn into the clash. He fought his way valiantly to where he’d last seen Catherine.
He swung his sword and another man fell, his arm severed. All the while, memories of that not-so-long-ago time kept flashing inside his head. Faces flitted. Robert’s, Francis’s, and yes, most of all, Catherine’s. Determined that history didn’t repeat itself, Rolfe struggled onward. She had to be alive!
Please, God. Let it be so.
Then as if by some miracle, the clash ended. The attackers, their numbers far less than they were, retreated across the field and into the woods. Rolfe quickly guided his horse to the spot where he thought Catherine might be. Dismounting, he began searching through the bodies strewn across the ground.
He heard his name shouted. Looking up, he saw Brother Bernard and Aubrey coming toward him. Between the pair was Garrick, his arms draped over their shoulders. Blood seeped from a wound on the knight’s thigh. A second injury showed at his side. Behind them ambled Eloise.
Ten feet from Rolfe, the monk looked up. “Riders come,” he said, pointing to the south.
Rolfe turned. This new force appeared to be just over a quarter mile away. “Get him into the wood, quick,” he said of Garrick. Then spinning around, he frantically scoured the area for Catherine.
He heard Eloise cry out. Loping to her side, he gazed down on the fallen knight and the small form curled beneath him. A long braid snaked along the ground, sable brown in color. Rolfe felt his gut lurch.
Tearing the helm from his head, he tossed his sword to the ground, then rolled the lifeless form aside. He dropped to his knees. His hand shaking, he smoothed the other braid from her pale face.
“Catherine?” he whispered, as tears filled his eyes.
His heart twisting, he stared at her. Oh God, she was so still.
Her chest rose. Seeing the motion, Rolfe silently uttered his gratitude to every saint he could name, the Archangel in particular.
“Catherine … love. Wake up.” He lightly patted her cheeks. “Open your beautiful eyes for me.” She didn’t respond. “Please, love. Awaken.”
The sound of hooves thundered in Rolfe’s ears. Not knowing who these new intruders were, he grabbed his sword and came to his feet. Poised to do battle, he stood protectively over Catherine.
The man at the group’s fore bounded from his horse prior to the beast’s stopping. He came at Rolfe, his blade swinging, a cry of fury vibrating in his throat. Rolfe deflected the blow; then as the blades sliced apart, he swung quickly, skillfully. The man’s sword flew from his hand.
The tip of his blade pressed at the man’s neck, Rolfe stared into his opponent’s eyes, ready to skewer him. Then recognition took hold.
William de Mortain.
Aware his own life would now lay in jeopardy, Rolfe relaxed his stance and lowered his sword. Never could he harm Catherine’s father. At once, Rolfe was surrounded by twenty of William’s men. His hands were quickly bound behind him.
Brushing past Rolfe, William knelt at his daughter’s side. Eloise was already on the ground, attending to her charge.
“How is she?” William asked.
“I’m not certain,” Eloise responded. “She won’t awaken.”
William clenched his jaw and jerked his head. “Is that the bastard who took her?”
