Although she had little patience with such things, she’d allowed her mother’s tiring woman to give her a purported relic for Eleanor, and there was no reason it should not be useful now. Opening the pouch, she gave him a glimpse of darkened bone.
“The Countess Eleanor gives an endowment to Saint Agnes for Earl Roger’s soul, and I am commanded to deliver a relic to her in return, that it may be placed above his tomb,” she explained. When he made no move to inspect it she added, “ ’Tis St. Catherine’s finger bone, blessed by the archbishop at Rouen.”
“Jesu!” he snorted derisively. “Another saintly marvel? Nay, but ’twould take a thousand hands to provide bones for the chapels that claim them in England alone.”
“God in His Wisdom and Mercy makes wondrous works,” she murmured, trying to sound very pious. “ ’Tis not for us to doubt.”
“The only greater fraud is the True Cross, sister,” he retorted cynically. “Aye, else Our Blessed Saviour must have carried a timber as long as Jerusalem itself.”
“ ’Tis blasphemy you utter, my lord! Your words imperil your very soul!”
“If would you ask, there are many to tell you I have none to imperil,” he countered. “But believe what you will. Willie,” he called out, “are we again ready to ride? We are for Harlowe!”
As a ripple of disbelief spread amongst his men, Elizabeth felt a sense of unease. Did he think to raid and burn the rich fields there? Or would he seek to use her to gain admittance to the keep itself? “My lord, there is no need,” she said hastily. “As the danger is past, we shall but go on ourselves. Rannulf and Hugh accompany me.”
“As they saw you here?” he countered sarcastically. “ ’Tis not safe for any on the roads, as well you have seen.”
“Sir, I cannot allow—”
“Nay?” This time, when the eyebrow lifted, the black eyes betrayed a hint of amusement. “We are twelve armed men and you are but two knights and one woman. I’d not tell me what you will or will not do, gentle sister.”
She did not fail to note the irony as he emphasized the word gentle. “Nay,” she maintained stubbornly, “the Countess Eleanor might mistake the matter and think we came not in peace.”
“How are you called, sister?” he asked suddenly.
“Elizabeth.” Then, knowing that ’twas not a common name, she added, “For the mother of John the Baptist.”
“It does not suit you.”
“Alas, but when one christens a babe, one cannot know that,” she answered sweetly. “My temper has little to do with the name.”
“Sister Elizabeth,” he continued with the pained patience usually reserved for a child, “I seldom am moved to do much good in this world. Were I you, I should merely accept my escort.” He smoothed his hair with his roughened palms, then bent to retrieve his helmet. “Did they never teach you in the convent that obedience serves best?”
For a moment, his arrogance left her speechless. Nay, but the sons of counts would not address her thus, and yet this lowly Scot spoke as her master. She would have liked to put him in his place, but dared not. As she watched, her face mirroring her chagrin, he jammed his helm on his head and walked away.
“Wait.”
He swung around impatiently. “God’s bones, madame, but I have not the time to tarry whilst you argue. ’Tis a long ride to Harlowe, and even longer beyond for me. Tell your men to mount.”
“Mine is not the only ill temper here,” she snapped. Then, as he took a step toward her, she decided conciliation was the better choice just then. “I’d know who you are ere I ride,” she finished lamely. “ ‘Butcher’ does not suffice.”
One corner of his mouth turned upward in a semblance of a smile. “I am christened Giles.”
“Sir Giles? Art a knight?”
“Aye.”
“From where?” she persisted.
“I was born at Moray.”
The place name was not unknown, even in Normandy, for had not Scotland’s king claimed
“The Countess Eleanor gives an endowment to Saint Agnes for Earl Roger’s soul, and I am commanded to deliver a relic to her in return, that it may be placed above his tomb,” she explained. When he made no move to inspect it she added, “ ’Tis St. Catherine’s finger bone, blessed by the archbishop at Rouen.”
“Jesu!” he snorted derisively. “Another saintly marvel? Nay, but ’twould take a thousand hands to provide bones for the chapels that claim them in England alone.”
“God in His Wisdom and Mercy makes wondrous works,” she murmured, trying to sound very pious. “ ’Tis not for us to doubt.”
“The only greater fraud is the True Cross, sister,” he retorted cynically. “Aye, else Our Blessed Saviour must have carried a timber as long as Jerusalem itself.”
“ ’Tis blasphemy you utter, my lord! Your words imperil your very soul!”
“If would you ask, there are many to tell you I have none to imperil,” he countered. “But believe what you will. Willie,” he called out, “are we again ready to ride? We are for Harlowe!”
As a ripple of disbelief spread amongst his men, Elizabeth felt a sense of unease. Did he think to raid and burn the rich fields there? Or would he seek to use her to gain admittance to the keep itself? “My lord, there is no need,” she said hastily. “As the danger is past, we shall but go on ourselves. Rannulf and Hugh accompany me.”
“As they saw you here?” he countered sarcastically. “ ’Tis not safe for any on the roads, as well you have seen.”
“Sir, I cannot allow—”
“Nay?” This time, when the eyebrow lifted, the black eyes betrayed a hint of amusement. “We are twelve armed men and you are but two knights and one woman. I’d not tell me what you will or will not do, gentle sister.”
She did not fail to note the irony as he emphasized the word gentle. “Nay,” she maintained stubbornly, “the Countess Eleanor might mistake the matter and think we came not in peace.”
“How are you called, sister?” he asked suddenly.
“Elizabeth.” Then, knowing that ’twas not a common name, she added, “For the mother of John the Baptist.”
“It does not suit you.”
“Alas, but when one christens a babe, one cannot know that,” she answered sweetly. “My temper has little to do with the name.”
“Sister Elizabeth,” he continued with the pained patience usually reserved for a child, “I seldom am moved to do much good in this world. Were I you, I should merely accept my escort.” He smoothed his hair with his roughened palms, then bent to retrieve his helmet. “Did they never teach you in the convent that obedience serves best?”
For a moment, his arrogance left her speechless. Nay, but the sons of counts would not address her thus, and yet this lowly Scot spoke as her master. She would have liked to put him in his place, but dared not. As she watched, her face mirroring her chagrin, he jammed his helm on his head and walked away.
“Wait.”
He swung around impatiently. “God’s bones, madame, but I have not the time to tarry whilst you argue. ’Tis a long ride to Harlowe, and even longer beyond for me. Tell your men to mount.”
“Mine is not the only ill temper here,” she snapped. Then, as he took a step toward her, she decided conciliation was the better choice just then. “I’d know who you are ere I ride,” she finished lamely. “ ‘Butcher’ does not suffice.”
One corner of his mouth turned upward in a semblance of a smile. “I am christened Giles.”
“Sir Giles? Art a knight?”
“Aye.”
“From where?” she persisted.
“I was born at Moray.”
The place name was not unknown, even in Normandy, for had not Scotland’s king claimed
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