Hers To Command. Margaret Moore

castle walls. What I am suggesting is that you take a guard with you when you leave the castle. That’s not so much, is it?”

      “No,” she answered, sounding suddenly weary as she again started toward the castle.

      “I can appreciate that you don’t want anyone to think you’re afraid,” he said as he caught up to her. “But my old teacher, Sir Leonard, used to say there’s bravery and then there’s bravado, and bravado can get you killed. I would rather you be safe, my lady.”

      She bowed her head. “Forgive me,” she said, her voice much more like her sister’s dulcet tones than her usual confident declarations. “Once again, I have let my feelings get the better of me. I should not have gotten so upset when you sought only to offer well-meaning advice.”

      Henry himself hated being offered advice, well-meaning or otherwise, and he had to admit he had been rather domineering—an attitude he usually never took with women. But then, Lady Mathilde more often seemed his equal than a mere woman. Not now, though. Now he was forcibly reminded she was a member of the weaker sex, and a young one, at that. “No, my lady, forgive me. I shouldn’t have let my temper get the better of me. It must be the heat, or perhaps the fight with Cerdic momentarily addled my wits.”

      That brought a smile to her face. It wasn’t the most joyous he had ever seen, but he was pleased nonetheless. “When we return to the castle, my lady,” he said, offering her his arm, “I shall regale you with the story of my impressive defeat of your brawny friend. It’s very exciting, I assure you.”

      She lightly laid her hand on his arm, and he considered that something of a triumph, too. “I will ask Cerdic for his version of the tale, as well,” she said, sliding him a wry, sidelong glance that implied friendship between them was a distinct possibility, if not yet a certainty. “I suspect the truth will lie somewhere in the middle.”

      He laughed, happy that they had made peace. “You wound me, my lady—but you’re probably right.”

      CHAPTER FOUR

      SINGING SNATCHES of a dirty little ditty, Sir Roald de Sayres staggered down a street poorly lit by flickering flambeaux. Fortunately, the moon was full and bright to light his way, and this was Westminster, home of the king and court, not the slums. A man like himself, well dressed, well armed and obviously noble, need not fear being set upon and robbed.

      “Say what you like, I’ll like what you say,” he sang, his voice wavering and off-key.

      Not that he cared what he sounded like. He was happily thinking about the brothel he’d just left. If only he could have stayed longer. If only he’d brought more money. There had been that one glorious creature with the full breasts and long legs ready to pleasure any of them. And the dark-haired lovely who would do anything if you paid enough. God’s blood, if only he were richer, he’d spend every night he could there.

      Then, with a sigh of satisfaction, he remembered that he was rich. Well, almost. All he had to do was claim Ecclesford. He should go there soon. It had been, what—five…six days since he’d killed Martin? Maybe he had enough in his purse for one more night before…

      Suddenly a man shrouded in a long cloak, with the hood pulled over his head, stepped out of the shadows to block Roald’s way. He seemed huge in the darkness, like an ogre or other supernatural creature.

      “Sir Roald de Sayres?” a low, rough voice rasped.

      Not an ogre or devil, Roald told himself as he felt for the hilt of his sword. Just a man. A very big man, but a mortal man nonetheless, and men could be killed or captured and imprisoned by the watch.

      The fellow laughed, a sound more ugly than his voice. “Don’t bother calling for the watch. They can’t help you. I’d be gone before they get here.”

      As he spoke, the blade of a broadsword flashed out of the man’s cloak, the tip pressing against Roald’s chest.

      “My purse is empty!”

      “All the worse for you, then.”

      Nudging him with his sword, the man backed Roald against the nearest wall, then threw back his hood, revealing his face—and a horrible face it was, heavy and brutish, and scarred from several wounds. His nose had been broken at least twice, and he was missing most of one ear. A jagged scar ran down his cheek in a puckered, red line. “You owe a lot of money to some of the Goldsmiths’ Guild.”

      “This is about a debt?”

      The sword moved close to Roald’s heart. “A big one, or so they say. Big enough they’re willing to pay me to make you honor it.”

      Those stinking, money-grubbing merchants. “I will repay them,” Roald said haughtily, now certain this blackguard wouldn’t kill him. “They have my word.”

      Still the sword remained where it was. “They don’t seem to think your word counts for much. That’s why they sent me.”

      “Haven’t they heard my uncle’s died?” Roald retorted, sounding only a little desperate. “I’ve got an estate in Kent now, so of course I can pay.”

      The tip of the sword flicked upward, touching Roald’s chin. “That news reached their ears, but if the estate’s yours, why haven’t you gone there, eh?”

      “Because I saw no need,” Roald replied with all the dignity he could muster, very aware of the blade so close to his face.

      Suddenly, the man’s powerful left hand wrapped around Roald’s throat and he shoved him hard against the wall. “You’ve got a fortnight to come up with the money, or I’ll be taking a finger. Then a hand.” His sword moved lower, pressing against Roald’s groin. “Then something else, until your debt’s paid. Understand, my lord?”

      “Yes!” Roald hissed, fighting the urge to cup himself protectively.

      “Good.”

      The man let go and, gasping, Roald fell to the ground on his hands and knees, the cold cobblestones cutting his palms, his knees bruising. He looked up at the figure looming over him. “Who the devil are you?”

      “Can’t you guess?” the man said with a snort of a laugh. “I’m Sir Charles De Mallemaison.”

      Roald felt the blood drain from his face. Charles De Mallemaison was the most notorious, vicious mercenary in England, possibly even Europe. He’d appeared in the service of a lord in Shropshire, claiming to be a knight from Anjou. The one man who’d questioned De Mallemaison’s nobility had been found hacked to small pieces on the side of the road; no one had questioned it since.

      “A fortnight,” De Mallemaison repeated as he disappeared into the shadows, his cloak swirling about him. “The whole amount. Or you start losing bits.”

      AS ROALD was staggering back to his lodgings, no longer drunk but shaking with the aftermath of fear, Giselle slumbered peacefully in the large bed she shared with her sister. Mathilde, however, dressed in a shift and bedrobe and, with soft leather slippers on her feet, paced anxiously by the window.

      No terrible dreams troubled Giselle’s sleep, Mathilde reflected. No remorse kept her awake. No shame disturbed her rest. No lustful yearnings robbed her of peace. Giselle was good and honorable and free of sin, whereas she….

      What else could she be feeling for Sir Henry but lust? That day by the river, simply seeing him with his damp hair and loose shirt unlaced to reveal his chest, had been enough for her to recall, with vivid clarity, the sight of him in that tavern bed—his back, his taut buttocks and long, muscular legs. Thinking of him swimming, gliding through the water like an otter, had kept her awake for hours.

      When he’d described his mock combat with Cerdic, she’d laughed harder than she had in months. He’d been both entertaining and self-deprecating, claiming that he’d managed to defeat the other warrior only by luck and the skin of his teeth.

      She’d read another reason for his victory in his animated