Boadicea's Legacy Page 7

  Ela. She had the power to make him lose his concentration.

  It had been her, God’s bones, that eve in the clearing. Naked and calling down the heavens’ magical thunder-filled power until he’d accidentally stopped her from completing her spell. What had she wanted? Thomas’s declaration of love and marriage?

  Os gritted his teeth, smacking the reins. Faster.

  Humiliated at being booted so forcibly from the manor, Os had raced Bartholomew to Norwich, fighting the desire for revenge. By the third day of his journey, he’d calmed down enough to admit where he’d gone wrong.

  If he had a daughter and someone foolishly said they were going to take her forcibly from home, he would not have been as kind as Robert Montehue.

  The problem wasn’t just being ousted—he could understand and appreciate Lord Robert’s reasoning. It was Ela who had him tied in knots. He would swear on the Holy Bible that something had passed between them—it had felt like love … nay. He wouldn’t even think the word. It was impossible. But intriguing.

  It defied logic. With his own eyes, he’d watched Ela, darling, sweet-faced Ela, call down thunder, lightning, and rain.

  “Faster, Bartholomew. Go!”

  Just then he saw what looked like a rolled rug fall from the back of the rear horseman. He felt a thud in his bones and knew that Ela had somehow gotten loose from her captors.

  De Havel’s men reached the forest trees before realizing they’d lost their treasure. He sensed the men deciding to either come back the distance they’d gone to pick her up where she lay—so still—and chance being killed by his drawn sword as he raced forward, or escape certain death by taking the woods.

  They chose freedom. Mercenaries, Os spat with disgust. By the time he reached Ela, she was beginning to stir.

  “Ela.” He dismounted and knelt by her side. Her head poked out from a hole in a burlap bag that trapped her shoulders, with her arms behind her back. Her legs were tied too, and she squirmed to get free. Anger at how close she’d come to being hurt caught his tongue, and he closed his eyes for a moment to gain control.

  “Osbert Edyvean. Nice army you brought today. Help me up,” she said with a wink. “What took you so long to rescue me?”

  He could yell or laugh at her stupid joke. “I came as soon as I received your message, my lady.” He attempted to lift his lips.

  “Don’t do that, it’s terrifying. Heroes are not supposed to grimace. Do you mind cutting through the ties? I can’t reach my knife—either of them.”

  He’d never met a woman who would willingly drop to the ground from a moving horse. He remembered her father saying that she was skilled at sword fighting too, that fateful afternoon in the hall. “You have your own knives?” He scratched his chin. “You chewed your way through a burlap sack.” She was an enigma. She intrigued him, calling him to her without words, yet she was everything he couldn’t have. He was a lowly knight—and she was a lady, mayhap a witch, who was quite capable of saving herself.

  “Aye, I did need you. Well, mayhap not the first time. ‘Tis nice to be saved, anyway. It was the first time anybody offered.” She bounced up and down. “Knife. Slice. Give it to me, and I’ll do it myself, for pity’s sake.”

  He reached out and slid the blade down the center of the burlap bag. She obligingly hopped around to show him her back, and he slit the ropes binding her wrists, and lastly the ones on her ankles. He glared at the edge of the forest where the men had disappeared. Perhaps it was just as well that they’d gone, for he would like to kill them and let God sort it out.

  “Free,” she sighed and slumped to the ground. Rubbing her wrists and hands, she bit her lip. “This stings.”

  “‘Tis the rush of blood returning.” He kneeled on the ground in front of her and took her hands in his. Hers were small and lightly chapped. Nothing to be ashamed of, nothing that made her less of a lady. He rubbed the slight callous over her knuckle, his body humming with recognition of her. The feeling took him by surprise, for he’d never been swept by desire so fast, nor so keenly.

  “Knife throwing. I’m rather good,” she said shyly before pulling her hand free.

  “I don’t doubt it,” Os mumbled, wondering if she could hear the thunder of his heart.

  She stared at him, her green eyes as pure as the spring grass and as clear of evil as anything he’d ever seen. How could she be a witch?

  Yet he’d watched her from the top of the hill.

  The desire to protect her, to keep her safe despite any harm that would come to him, felt inbred, as if it were a part of his body. His mind. His heart.

  It was more than the pledge he’d given her father. More, he thought, than what he could explain with mere words. He had to touch her. Honorably, of course.

  He leaned forward, just, he told himself, to brush a harmless kiss across her forehead. She’d lost the customary wimple women wore, but her hair was still covered in a golden veil. Her lips parted slightly, and her breath echoed his.

  He kissed her smooth forehead. She blinked in surprise.

  Just a taste of her lips.

  They met, crashing mouth to mouth, and Os groaned at her generous warmth. She didn’t back away from his kiss but welcomed it by throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him back with enthusiasm.

  Sweet Christ.

  After a few moments, she broke away. He pulled her back, not done tasting the sweetest mouth he’d ever sampled. She struggled in his arms. “Os! Will your horse carry two?”

  “Aye.” He kissed her eyebrows, the tip of her nose.

  She kissed his mouth, then shook his shoulders. “Let’s get on him, then, afore we’re killed. Here come Thomas’s men.” She pushed against his chest and ran to Bartholomew, hitched up her dress to her bare knees and jumped, pulling herself up by the saddle and tossing one leg over to sit astride.

  My God.

  “Os! Hurry, man, before we’re dead. How is my father? My mother? Let’s circle back and fight. I will show you a shortcut, and we can get swords and axes. Aye, axes,” she said with a bloodthirsty cry of rage and terror.

  Os looked back and saw the reason that a knight was supposed to keep his focus in order to stay alive. Thomas de Havel carried the white and green Montehue flag and was racing for them, followed by at least twenty men. “We can’t stay and fight, Ela. Not this time. Which way to the village—nay, we can’t lead Thomas through there. Which way to a back road?”

  She struggled to jump off Bartholomew’s back, but he held her tight. “I’ll not leave my family to die, coward!”

  “Nay.” Osbert turned and quelled her with a fierce look that would have had mere men shaking in their boots. “You will retreat and live to fight another day.”

  Ela’s green eyes widened with understanding, and she settled down, her gaze focused on the carnage behind her. “My family home. Thomas is setting fire to the fields. Did you see my father?”

  He grunted and pretended not to hear. Os understood her pain, but he’d made a promise to Lord Robert that he’d not forget. Ela would be safe, or he would die protecting her. There would be no more kisses.

  Ela wiped the tears from her eyes. She hated to cry, but how could she stop? Her parents might be dead, though she didn’t feel the loss in her heart, not as she’d done with her grandmother.

  What could she do? Her grief billowed just as each cloud of dark smoke puffed into the air. Would the villagers stop the blaze before the manor caught fire? The horses, the cows, the gardens, the new crops—all threatened because of Thomas de Havel.

  She vowed vengeance.

  “Why?” She leaned her forehead against Os’s back. “Why did he come to battle? Not because I wouldn’t agree to marry him … that would be stupid. A waste of men.”

  Os was quiet for a while. “He wanted you, if I had to guess, at any cost. Some people will not accept no for an answer.”

  “He didn’t want me.”

  “Until you said nay.” Os slowed Bartholomew to a walk. “Rest, boy
. Where is the next village?”

  Ela looked at her surroundings and shifted uncomfortably. She hadn’t realized they’d come so far. “Abberton, I think. Where will your men go? Back to Norwich?”

  “Aye. Albric will lead any survivors home.”

  She shivered. “You don’t think they are all dead, do you?”

  He paused, as if considering. She appreciated that he didn’t just lie. “Nay. The Earl of Norfolk has trained us all well. We fight for him, and he doesn’t hire incompetent knights. Despite the rumors about him, he’s been a fair lord to me. He’s much different than his father.”

  “How did Thomas get so many men?” Her eyes itched from tears and worry. Osbert’s warmth as he sat in front of her made her feel safe.

  “Mercenaries. Going into battle against an army of paid knights is both good and bad. If they see they are losing, they tend to disappear—but they can be brutal in winning, since part of their knight price is a share of the gold from the slain.”

  “I thought as much. I would want to fight for a man I believed in, if I were able to go to war.”

  He scoffed. “You sound like a boy instead of a young lady of means.”

  “I long to be free and to race my horse bareback across the fields, and yet I also like being pretty and having my hair brushed with perfume. I can toss a knife dead center of a target and juggle four apples at once. I can also read and add simple accounts. My parents think me a prize, and yet I am twenty and unwed.” Her sigh was heartfelt.

  He burst out laughing, chuckling so hard that her head shook where it rested against his back.

  “It would be difficult to be you.” He switched the reins to his left hand. “You could try being me, but you’d be bored, methinks.”

  “What is it like, to be a knight of God?” She tickled his side and was glad when he laughed. She didn’t think he laughed as much as he should.

  “I spend a lot of time praying, and fighting, and being grateful for my many blessings.”

  “What blessings are those? The only wealth you have is your horse.”

  “Not so, my lady, not so. I have my own sword, I have a lord who provides food and shelter for me and Bartholomew, and I travel the world saving pretty ladies from trouble.”

  Ela smiled against the fabric of his tunic. “What do you really do?”

  “Live.” He exhaled with exaggeration. “In between things the earl asks me to do, I joust.”

  “In tournaments? Oh. I wouldn’t be bored being you. I long for adventure. Why is it that only men get to fight for honor and prizes?”

  “Women are the fairer sex. Don’t be angry with me—I heard that intake of breath. In hand-to-hand combat, women do not have the muscle-power that men do.”

  “‘Tis unfair.”

  “Not so. Women have the strength to bear children.”

  “We are not given a choice,” Ela said, recalling a few of the babies she’d helped deliver. “What of your mother? Is she a strong woman?”

  He stiffened, and she wondered at his response. “She died.”

  “I’m sorry. Do you have any brothers and sisters? Is your father still alive?”

  “They all died.” His voice roughened.

  “Osbert. What happened?” Reacting to the pain she heard, she unselfconsciously wrapped her arms around his waist to give him a hug.

  “It was a sickness passing through our village. I couldn’t save them.” His voice broke and he coughed. “I didn’t.”

  She leaned her forehead against his solid back, silently offering comfort.

  He cleared his throat. “Women have a strength in them that is just as powerful as a man’s sword arm. Just different.”

  “You are different from any other man I’ve ever met.” She resisted the temptation to place a kiss on his shoulder, but she left her arms loosely around his waist. She told herself that she was worried she might fall off.

  “You don’t know many men, eh?”

  “Not to flirt with.” What difference did it make if she told him some of the truth? “I’m the youngest of two brothers and three sisters, so I am not naïve, nor sheltered. I’ve delivered babies—I usually get called in to assist when there is a problem with the birth. As you heard, Boadicea’s kin has a gift for healing. I inherited that gift, along with my hair and eyes.”

  “You are telling me that you believe that you have a power handed down from generation to generation and that it comes from being descended from Boadicea.”

  “It’s true.” Ela’s pulse pounded in her throat.

  “For certes, the villagers certainly believed that your Aunt Nan was some sort of miracle worker. They couldn’t wait to tell me a bunch of stories that couldn’t possibly be true. A cross between a witch and a saint.”

  “Ah.” Ela said a silent prayer for her Aunt Nan’s soul and prayed as well that her parents were safe from harm. “You search for answers and then mock them. That is not very good of you, sir.”

  “Sh.” Os picked up the reins and slapped them down, urging Bartholomew into a trot. “We have company. And until I’m sure what colors they wear, we should hide.”

  Ela swallowed her disappointment in Os’s answer. She turned back to see who was behind them. “The road is clear.”

  “It won’t stay that way.” They came around a bend, and Os guided Bartholomew off the road, across a ditch, and behind a cluster of trees, where they dismounted.

  Ela thought it was a terrible waste of time—until she heard the pounding of hooves racing down the road toward Abberton.

  How had he known they were being followed? Ela warned herself to be wary of Os, who was not just a simple knight of God, nor a coolheaded minion of the Earl of Norfolk. Not a witch-hunter, but more a gallant knight. He believed in women’s strength. Osbert Edyvean was a dangerous, complex man, and Boadicea help her, she felt a spark.

  Chapter

  Six

  The men rode bent over their horses. The heavy breathing of the stallions as they barreled down the road synchronized with the thud of hooves as they slammed against the packed dirt. The knights were dressed in black with de Havel’s red crest.

  Ela felt their evil intent as if it were a slap to the cheek. She couldn’t read individual auras as they sped past, but she intuitively sensed that these men wouldn’t stop until Osbert was killed and she was caught. She knew it, and she didn’t question how. Unlike her mother, her intuition had a high accuracy rate.

  “We’ll need to cut back behind them to get to Norwich without them picking up our trail. I can’t remember now if we spoke of where we were headed in front of Thomas—can you?”

  Os spoke in a low whisper, even though there was no chance that the knights going by could hear them.

  She whispered too. “He knows. You made no secret you worked for the earl. I wish I knew these woods better— this side of Montehue Manor I am of no help, sir. I can take you to Cornwall, but I’ve not gone toward the North Sea.”

  “No matter. I’ve pledged to keep you safe and I will. I am turned around as well.” He appeared confident for a man confused. “We need to find a main road. We’ll travel faster.”

  “The odds are twenty armed men to two—you and I. And as you pointed out earlier, I am a mere female lacking in strength.” She kept her tone sarcastic as she showed him the short sword she’d taken from her garter. “I say we ambush them from behind.”

  “Ela. My lady. Heed my words of caution. I would like nothing more than to storm into the fray, but that is not the way to win a battle. Cool heads and plans of strategy, that is how to seize the day.”

  “I’m sorry.” Her eyes welled. “My parents may be dead, and we are hiding like children behind a haystack instead of doing something.” She sighed. “I will listen to you, Osbert, because I trust your instincts.”

  “Instinct?” He turned and stared at her with deepening slate eyes. “Lady, ‘tis my experience at living you should be trusting. Not some superstitious tightening of the gut.”

&nbs
p; Ela shrugged, watching the last of the stallions disappear around the bend. “Does it matter so much what you call it? I trust in you, Os.” She straightened, stretching her back and gesturing to the darkening sky. “We’ll need to find shelter soon. I suppose Abberton is no longer safe. That leaves the open field or mayhap a farmhouse along the road.”

  Os grunted, searching the horizon.

  She poked him in the shoulder. “The forest is probably the safest place for us to spend the night.”

  He stared up at the sky. “And how am I to explain that to your father? The two of us alone in the woods?”

  “That we were running and hiding from certain death? I am sure he will understand.”

  He scratched his chin, and Ela watched as he wrestled with himself. At last he said, “I promise not to touch you. I will treasure your virtue.”

  Laughing, Ela punched him in the arm. “No man will steal my virtue. I will give it or nay.” She noticed his flushing cheeks, and she stopped teasing. “You are most noble, Osbert, and I don’t fear you—or your advances.”

  She reached out and touched his firm mouth. His hadn’t been her first kiss, but it had been her best kiss.

  He backed away, leading Bartholomew toward the road. “We must hurry, if we are going to find a place to hole up before it gets too dark.”

  Ela nodded, then stared over the fields in the direction of her home. She bent her head and sent her family her love.

  Osbert gripped the reins so hard that his knuckles cracked. He was a warrior, by God, a knight proven in battle—both real and tournaments. He was the Earl of Norfolk’s man of business—he’d even protected a caravan of aging ladies as they crossed through Jerusalem. No woman had ever made him tremble, for Christ’s sake. Not even in the after-throes of spent passion.

  He didn’t understand why she let her expressions flit over her face. She made no effort to keep her hugs to herself. She teased, laughed, and cried like an emotional whirlwind. Yet she would wield a sword—a short sword, by St. Mary Magdalene—against the enemy to save her family.

  What kind of female was she?