Redeeming The Rogue Knight

Lucy ignored him, but blushed. Half insensible and wounded, the man was still fixated on lovemaking. In full health she dreaded to think what he would be like. She hoped he would be gone before she had to discover it. She lowered Robbie into his cot with trembling arms.

Thomas dropped the fletch of the arrow to the floor.

‘We will remove the arrow now,’ Thomas muttered. He mimed pulling the head towards him. ‘There will be blood that needs stemming. Fetch your poker from the fire.’

Sir Roger groaned and his left hand curled into a fist. For the first time he looked genuinely fearful rather than in pain or intent on seduction. ‘Do what he says. And bring more wine while you’re about it.’

Lucy glanced towards Robbie’s cot. He was sleeping and would be no bother to the men. She ran down the stairs, heart in her mouth, hoping the poker would be heated enough for the purpose that turned her stomach to think of it.

* * *

Roger closed his eyes and listened to the rapid footsteps. The girl would be quick. She had already proven to be biddable when it came to doing what needed to be done. He clenched his fists. His left was strong, but his right curled limply and seemed reluctant to obey his commands. He lifted his hand to the wound and probed gingerly with his fingers. The blood had congealed and a crust had formed across his breast where it had trickled. He had lost less than he feared, but that would change when Thomas pulled the arrow free. He explored further, relieved to discover the arrow had missed bones, passing through the muscle between his arm and collarbone.

Roger’s head swam with weariness and cold. He reached for the blanket, pulling it up to his neck once more. There was something important he needed to do. He could not lie here waiting for the girl to come back to his bed, however appealing she was with her hungry lips and wide blue-grey eyes, so like another pair and with an equally familiar expression.

‘She looks on me with fear,’ he murmured.

‘Did you speak, Sir Roger?’

Roger opened one eye. Thomas was peering down at him, Thomas who had started the day with his ill-considered swiving. Curse him for bringing Lord Harpur’s men upon them.

‘This is your fault.’ Was he speaking? His voice was deep and bold, not a husky whisper. ‘It was you they wanted.’

Thomas fell to his knees. ‘Forgive me. It was weakness. Madness! But I will make amends. I’ll pay their due. Tell me what to do to right the wrong I have done.’

What had the lad done? Roger was finding it hard to think. He licked his lips. They tasted strangely bitter. He’d drunk something to ease his pain, but it had dulled his thoughts. Ah, yes. A woman was the cause of it all. They always were. Was it the wide-eyed girl in grey; the dove whose fingers had been cool against his aching muscles? No, she was someone else. Someone here.

‘She’s taking too long.’

He’d seen on the fields of France what lay ahead for him once she returned with the heated iron and the longer she delayed the less his nerves would bear it.

‘I’ll go see,’ Thomas replied.

‘Can we trust her?’ Roger reached for his arm.

‘I think so. She won’t betray her brother. My only family now!’ Thomas sighed. ‘Poor Lucy, she looked half out of her mind with terror.’

Clarity broke through the clouds surrounding Roger’s mind. He clutched Thomas’s arm. ‘Is the message from King Edward safe?’

‘In your saddlebag, still on your horse,’ Thomas answered.

‘Good. Hugh Calveley must receive the summons from His Majesty and send troops to France,’ Roger cautioned Thomas.

If he did—and if he lived to claim his fee—Roger would be rich. He could return to Wharram and pour coins into his father’s hands. Finally he would have the means to show he was a success.

He listened to the hammering of the blood in his veins. Through the fog of the wine and Thomas’s drugs he understood the noise was not within his head. Someone was beating at the door of the inn and there was nothing to stop the girl admitting whoever was knocking.

‘Go,’ he instructed Thomas. He let go his grip, his mind struggling to remain clear. ‘Take your sword. Leave without me if you must. King Edward’s message must be delivered, without me if necessary.’

He tried to keep his eyes open as Thomas left the room, but he found it impossible. Unable to fight the demands of his body, he slipped into unconsciousness.

Chapter Three

The embers of the fire glowed a dull red and gave off little heat. It did not seem possible it would be fierce enough to heat the poker to the required temperature to seal the wound. Though she really could not spare the wood, Lucy added a little kindling along with a handful of old rush stalks from the floor to wake the flames a little. She buried the poker deep, causing sparks to fly on to the floor. She stamped them out urgently before they caused the rushes to catch, letting the floor bear the brunt of her anxiety.

Lucy put two knives on the countertop, thinking they might be useful. She slid on to the stool beside the hearth and closed her eyes, her legs feeling hollow as straw as she imagined the additional pain the poker would cause when the iron tip seared Sir Roger’s flesh. The sooner she returned with the poker, the sooner the deed would be done and the men would be on their way.

She knew it was a comforting lie. Even assuming Thomas was not home to stay, the injured man would not be going anywhere until morning. He must be close to reaching the limits of endurance now and a wave of sympathy rippled through Lucy. Leaving aside his continual innuendo, she decided on balance she would rather he lived than leave her with his corpse and an agitated brother.

She pushed herself from the stool and began to hunt in the cupboard beneath the counter for the bottle of eye-wateringly strong spirit her father had kept for when the canker in his gut ached him beyond endurance. She also found a clay pot of powdered pain-killing draught that she had bought from the surgeon in Mattonfield.

Bought! Her nose wrinkled at the description of the transaction. No money had exchanged hands, but she had paid for it dearly, indeed. Mixed together, the brew always sent her father into a deep sleep in which he would experience much less pain and from which Lucy could gain an afternoon of peace from his continual censure of her for producing a baseborn child. Sir Roger would no doubt benefit from the same remedy and Lucy would appreciate the silence.

She had her head beneath the counter, feeling her way in the near blackness when three loud thumps on the door made her jump in alarm and she banged her temple sharply on the edge of the counter. Dazed, she sat on the floor and was hidden from view when Thomas appeared from the floor above.

‘Where are you, Lucy?’ he muttered, his voice low and urgent, and laden with anxiety. He raised his sword before him. ‘Show yourself quickly.’

His voice was unexpectedly vicious. Whatever he had done in four years had given him a tough attitude, but Lucy could see the desperation in his eyes. She raised a hand to her forehead, which felt tender from the bump. She stood and placed the bottle on top of the counter alongside her two knives.

‘I was finding...’ she began, but Thomas silenced her with a hiss and a wave of his hand. He held his finger to his lips. Lucy gestured at the bottle and he relaxed his stance. The beating on the door started again. Lucy started towards it, but Thomas stepped in front of her, seizing her upper arm.

‘They must not come in,’ Thomas muttered. ‘Keep silent. Perhaps they’ll go of their own accord.’

‘Who are they?’ Lucy whispered, her blood chilling at his words. ‘Why are they looking for you?’

Thomas looked shiftily from side to side.

‘I have done everything you asked,’ Lucy reminded him. She folded her arms and gave him the look she used on Robbie when she caught him pulling the kitchen cat’s tail. ‘You appear here with no explanation or warning and throw me into something I don’t understand. Why has my home been invaded?’

‘It’s my home, too,’ Thomas muttered.

Lucy placed her hands on her hips and glared. ‘A home I’ve been keeping while you were off doing goodness knows what!’ A thought occurred to her. ‘Is this to do with your Northern Company?’

‘No!’ Thomas protested. He bowed his head. ‘We were staying with a nobleman not far from here. It was Sir Roger’s fault. He offended our host.’

‘What did he do? Tell me or I will call out right now.’

‘He seduced Lord Harpur’s daughter,’ Thomas admitted with an odd expression on his face.

Lucy folded her arms tighter as surprise coursed through her. To hear that hated name from Thomas’s lips! He couldn’t know her connection to the nobleman.

At the same time, her worries eased a little. They were not thieves evading capture. They had not murdered or committed treason, or any of the other crimes she had been imagining. From the little she had seen of Sir Roger’s behaviour towards a woman, a seduction did not seem unsurprising and the tale had the ring of truth to it. Sir Roger was guilty of doing what any nobleman assumed was his right, but to trespass against John Harpur, then take refuge in Lucy’s house was a cruel twist of fate. It struck her as far too funny and made her want to laugh: a deep eruption bubbling beneath her brittle surface that would most likely never cease if she allowed it to the surface.

The thumping on the door stopped abruptly. Perhaps the men had assumed the inn was deserted and gone. Lucy was uncertain whether or not to be relieved. She felt a pang of sympathy for cold, pinch-faced Katherine Harpur who would no doubt be suffering her father’s cruel temper. She was mildly surprised that Sir Roger had found the mouse-like woman worth risking his neck over. The kiss he had pressed on Lucy—unwelcome though it had been—felt oddly diminished by the knowledge.

Nevertheless, she felt a delicious sense of spite that Lord Harpur had been shamed in such a way. If Katherine had been left with a child, would she, too, be cast out to starve?

She smiled at Thomas and reached for the bottle.

‘Let’s take this back to your friend. I think they’re gone, but I promise I won’t open the door. Lord Harpur is no friend to me.’

‘Why?’

Thomas looked puzzled at her abrupt, and what must seem confusing, change of attitude, but she had no intention of revealing the reason behind it. That was her secret alone.

‘That is no concern of yours.’

Thomas was not completely dull-witted; perhaps he would work the reason out for himself. Eventually.

Thomas lowered his sword. They were halfway to the stairs when a thump louder than before thundered around the room. The previous noises had sounded like fists on wood, but this had a more sinister tone. There was a second thump and the door hinges creaked, light bursting round the frame. Lord Harpur’s men had found the means to try to force entry and the old door would not withstand them for long. She glared at Thomas in desperation.

‘They’ll break in. I can’t refuse to answer it.’

Thomas glanced from the door to the stairs. He crossed the room, drawing his sword once more, and slipped into the shadows, crouching at the end of the counter where the door would conceal him once open. Lucy ran her hands through her hair, tangling it and pulling some of the fine, brown strands forward across her cheek. She unlaced the front of her kirtle and pulled at the neck, easing it low until more of her linen shift could be seen than was decent. She eased the neck of her shift down, too, dragging the cloth to one side. She rubbed her eyes to redden them. Taking a deep breath, she crossed to the door.

‘Who is it?’ she asked, pressing her hands on the wood and putting her lips close to the gap at the side of the frame. The door thumped once more, sending tremors running through her palms and up into her arms. She cried out in shock.

‘Open up!’ came a harsh voice. ‘We mean you no harm. We are searching for fugitives.’

Thomas paled.

‘That voice! Open it. But please, do not betray us,’ he whispered.

He sounded terrified and Lucy ignored the unfair insinuation. She nodded.

Thomas hid beside the door, disguised amid the folds of Lucy’s cloak. For the second time that night, she slowly drew the latch back, her hands trembling. She opened the door slightly and peered through the gap. Two men tried to look past her, one large enough he had to stoop to look at her. She wedged her foot against the door.

‘I have seen no one all night.’ She yawned and brushed the hair from her eyes, frowning at them in confusion. ‘You woke me from my bed.’

‘It took long enough to rouse you,’ the smaller man remarked. ‘Let us in. One of them might be hurt. Perhaps both. They’re dangerous men and we need to find them.’

‘On whose authority?’ Lucy asked.

‘On our own,’ rumbled the giant from deep within his hood. ‘Let us in or we’ll flay the skin from your back.’

Lucy opened the door wide, careful to conceal Thomas without hitting him and making the door bounce back. Still holding the door to prevent the men closing it, she beckoned them in. Her heart was in her throat as she watched them take in the sight of her inn, gazing all around the small room. Lucy stood silently, glad the only light was from the dying fire.

The men finally turned their attention to Lucy. One man, dark haired and swarthy, could not take his eyes from her. She smiled nervously, hoping he would treat her kindly. His companion, hulking, equally dark but beardless, was not so easily distracted.

‘What’s in there?’ he asked, jerking his thumb towards the storeroom.

‘It’s where I keep the ale.’ She tried to keep her voice level. ‘Who are you searching for?’

The giant walked into the storeroom. His companion stayed with Lucy. She could hear the sound of boxes being moved and the lid lifted and dropped on the ale cask.

‘We’re hunting a pair of thieves and rogues,’ the dark man answered, his black eyebrows coming together.

Neither man looked like someone in Lord Harpur’s employ. Lucy wondered if Thomas had told the truth about why they were being hunted.

‘They took something that they should not have,’ the large man called from inside the storeroom. He emerged with a hunk of bread in his hand, chewing loudly. Lucy’s eyes narrowed in anger that the man could talk of theft while helping himself to her bread.

‘What did they take?’

‘What it was doesn’t concern you. They’re thieves and killers.’

‘Killers?’ Lucy’s scalp prickled. For all his new-found ferocity, she could not imagine Thomas cutting down anyone in cold blood. Sir Roger she knew nothing of, but her brief impression was that his mind seemed to focus entirely on seducing women and not on fighting, stealing or killing.

‘No better than a dog in a bear pit. When we find them, the misbegotten curs are dead men.’

He made a slitting motion across his throat, then tossed the bread to his friend who snatched it from the air and tucked it into the front of his tunic, eyes still on Lucy.

‘What’s upstairs?’

‘My bedchamber,’ Lucy answered. She swallowed. If they asked outright if the men they were looking for were there she could not lie, but the mention of death set her legs trembling with terror. The men began to move to the stairs. Unless she prevented them, they would discover Sir Roger.

‘Stop! You can’t go up there!’

‘Why not? What are you hiding?’

Lucy faltered, desperately trying to think of a reason. Perhaps it was the talk of Lord Harpur and his wife that put the idea into her head and she blurted out the first thing she could think of.

‘My husband is up there asleep.’

The men paused and looked back suspiciously. Lucy hoped she had been the only one to hear Thomas’s sharp intake of breath from behind the door. The men exchanged a glance, then looked back at Lucy, eyes raking over her. She drew her kirtle high to her neck as if ashamed of what they might see, whilst at the same time contriving to push her breasts together with her wrists so that the full mounds were visible where the fabric dipped. The smaller man was leering openly, his eyes following and lingering on the shadow between her breasts. Good. If he was looking there, he was forgetting to search the inn, or examine the space behind Lucy too closely.

‘So it wasn’t sleep that kept you from answering straight away.’ The dark man laughed, finally raising his eyes to meet her face. ‘Why was it you who came down rather than him?’

‘My husband has a fearsome temper,’ Lucy whispered. Tears sprang to her eyes as the composure she had somehow maintained throughout the evening began to crumble. She edged around the room to the bottom of the stairs so that the men had to turn to keep her in view, their backs to Thomas’s hiding place.

‘Please don’t disturb him,’ she entreated.

The large man loomed over at her. ‘If I find you’re lying...’

He raised a fist and Lucy flinched. He lowered it again and peered at her face closely, his thick fingers lifting the hair at her temple. She recalled the bump on her head and lifted her fingers to it. The mark must be red and the man’s assumption was clear. Lucy looked at the floor, caring nothing that she had in one instant branded Sir Roger as the basest of husbands.

‘We’re going up anyway. You first.’

Almost in tears and unable to think of another way of preventing them, Lucy led them up the stairs. The men followed close behind her. She would be unable to warn Sir Roger, even if he had been in a position to defend himself. She stopped in the doorway. The oil in the lamp had burned almost to nothing and the room was in near darkness. Lucy hoped it would be enough to prevent the men recognising the occupant.

Sir Roger was lying where she had left him, the blanket tucked high beneath his chin and covering the arrow. He was unmoving and appeared asleep with his head lolling towards the window, though Lucy suspected he was unconscious. His right arm had dropped down the side of the bed and his left was tangled in his dark curls that spread across the pillow. Just in case he was conscious and pretending to be asleep, she spoke loudly, filling her voice with fear that she did not have to act.

‘See, my husband is sleeping. Please, kind sirs, don’t wake him. It will be the worse for me if you do.’

The smaller man sniffed deeply.

‘Sleeping? I think not.’

Lucy’s legs threatened to give way, but instead of pulling a sword and running them both through, the man gave a guffaw of laughter.

‘I can smell the wine on him from this far away!’

Drunk. Of course! Why had she not thought of that? The blanket was sodden with wine, as was the occupant. Lucy slipped across the room and knelt by the bed, blocking Sir Roger from view. She gathered the empty bottles in her arms. Bowing her head over them as if ashamed at least gave her the opportunity to collect her thoughts. It was possible this might just work.

‘You could be tricking us.’ The giant sounded less certain now he was confronted with the scene before him. ‘How do I know this is your husband?’

Lucy raised her head imploringly.

‘Who else would he be? Please, leave us alone,’ she begged. ‘I cannot bear the shame if this becomes known. My husband is a good man, but he cannot help himself.’

She began to cry in earnest, the tears falling freely down her face as her fear and exhaustion threatened to overwhelm her. As she wept she leaned slightly forward, knowing that it would give the men a perfect view of her full breasts and hoping that would draw their attention from examining Sir Roger too closely.

‘Lucy?’ Sir Roger mumbled, lifting his left arm. He attempted to fumble for her, but merely succeeded in clouting her across the shoulder. It did not hurt, but Lucy sensed the opportunity for further proof of his abuse and gave a small cry.

‘Just bring me my wine like the sweet, obedient dove you are. I need warming,’ Sir Roger crooned. His voice was thick with the effects of the painkilling draught. She looked round at him. Shadows played over his face giving him a demonic—and hopefully unrecognisable—demeanour. A lustful grin spread across his lips, making his face glow with life despite the sweat beading on his forehead and the pallor of his flesh. ‘Sweet one, my dove. I’ll never hurt you.’

His words sent her stomach tumbling, until she recalled he had most likely said something similar to seduce Katherine Harpur into bed. Lucy clambered to her feet, deciding a change of tone was needed. Still standing in front of Sir Roger, she wiped her hands violently across her eyes and stared coldly at the two intruders.

‘Are you satisfied?’ she asked angrily. ‘You see I am harbouring no rogues here. Is it enough I must parade my shame before strangers, or would you further question my integrity?’

The giant nodded slowly.

‘I still don’t like this,’ muttered his companion. ‘What is your husband called, mistress?’

Lucy opened her mouth. She could not call him Roger and reveal his identity, but an alternate name had not occurred to her. It would be too cruel for the deception to be uncovered when it was so close to success.

‘Henry,’ Roger slurred from behind her. ‘Leave my woman be!’

He dropped his head back and began to snore. Before she could wonder how Sir Roger had pulled the name from the air, or if his shout had been a coincidence or intentional, Robbie gave a shrill wail of alarm. He had been slumbering in his cradle, but for the second time in the night his home had been invaded and his sleep interrupted by strangers.

Nailed to the spot, Lucy watched her son clamber from his bed. Red-faced but half-asleep, he tottered across the wooden floorboards towards the bed. Pulling at his dark hair with his podgy fists, he looked around with unfocused eyes then, in a manner that Lucy would ever be grateful for, he did what he always did when he half-awoke in the night.

He tumbled on to the bed, tugging at the blanket until there was space to climb beneath and pulled himself up beside Sir Roger. The two men in the doorway looked at the bed where two dark heads now lay. Seeing her salvation Lucy exclaimed, ‘See! My son knows his father!’

That might have been the end of the matter in any case, but at that moment there was a commotion from outside. A voice shouted. Then another answered. The sound of hooves—two sets—grew louder as they neared the inn and diminished as they went past. Lucy had forgotten Thomas in her desperation to prevent the men discovering Sir Roger’s identity, but he had clearly been active while she had been engaged upstairs. He must have led the horses on foot along the road before mounting to give the impression they were riding past.

The two men lunged for the stairs in unison. Lucy raced after them, close on their heels, and slipped her way between them. For a moment the three bodies stuck at the top of the narrow stairs. She succeeded in tangling their feet between hers and wedging the giant back into the door frame, delaying them all reaching the bottom of the stairs. The door was closed and by the time they pulled it open and ran outside, the two horses were the size of Robbie’s toy cow, climbing the hill towards Mattonfield. Both horses were close together and heavily laden. One rider appeared oddly hunched over until Lucy spotted that the old sacking she had wrapped around the small apple tree had been removed. Thomas had cunningly contrived to give the impression there were two riders.

The pursuers ran to where their own horses were tethered to the fence alongside the house and attempted to pull the reins free. Upon discovering they were knotted and tangled together, the giant swore loudly. Lucy hid a smile and backed into the shadows as the men fumbled to disentangle their animals. Thomas had been hard at work while they had been distracted upstairs. As the men swung themselves into the saddle the smaller one shifted round to look at Lucy. His expression was not unkind.