lineage there? Her gaze took in his worn tunic. “But you are not of the earl’s family, I think.”
“But distantly,” he answered brusquely, angered again by the expression in her eyes. “I am not claimed as kinsman there.”
“Your pardon—’twas not my meaning.”
“Aye, ’twas, but no matter. My fortunes depend not on your goodwill, Sister Elizabeth.”
He did not speak again to her until they were mounted and riding the ancient road. Lost in her own thoughts, she was jarred to hear him say, “ ’Tis a pity there was none to wed you, for you would have borne fierce sons for your lord.”
The last thing she would have of a tattered knight was his pity. “Nay, you mistake the matter,” she answered coldly. “If I have taken the veil, ’twas not for my temper nor for lack of a dowry. I was widowed.”
“And you eased your grief on your knees? Did you not discover that the veil does not warm cold bones?”
“It is enough that it saves me from another husband,” she retorted, spurring her horse ahead of his. “And I thank God for the deliverance.”
She was a proud, beautiful woman, unlike any he’d met before. He watched her thoughtfully, daring to admire her openly, and again it angered him that someone like her would rather wed Christ than man. He glanced down to where his scarred hands held the reins, seeing the flattened links of his hauberk where it met his wrists beneath the plain woolen overtunic. Well, she could not entirely be blamed for thinking he was of no worth, he supposed. She could not know he held thousands of hides of blood-soaked land on either side of the border. Then he wondered why she’d wanted him to know the choice to remain unwed was her own. And his anger faded to amusement. She was, underneath that coarse habit, yet a woman after all.
She sat with unwonted stiffness, her face set, angered with herself that she’d bothered to exchange words with a man such as Giles of Moray. It had been unworthy of her to justify herself to him. He was, she supposed, but a bastard born to a woman in the earl’s keep.
It was as though he knew her thoughts, for he spoke again behind her. “My patrimony is Dunashie, Elizabeth—all else I have, I have taken.”
“Not enough, ’twould seem,” she muttered.
“Aye, but I am not done. When the war comes, I mean to profit.”
Chapter Five
Chapter Five
Neither Giles of Moray nor his men spoke much as they rode, leaving Elizabeth to the company of Rannulf and Hugh, each of whom mistrusted their escort. The big Scot seemed, they whispered, little better than the mercenaries he’d routed, and they wondered if perhaps his willingness to accompany her to Harlowe was less a matter of piety than of opportunity. After all, no keep was invulnerable even to a small band once inside. And if he should discover he now had Guy of Rivaux’s daughter in his grasp … well, he might use that to gain entry.
“Nay, he suspects nothing,” she hissed back, her eyes intent on the borderer, who rode ahead of them.
“Still, I would he went not to Harlowe,” Rannulf muttered low. “ ’Twould have been better had we returned to St. Agnes. I mislike the man.”
“Aye,” Hugh agreed. “We are like to be murdered when we sleep. If King Henry’s peace meant little to the Scots, Stephen’s means naught at all.”
“The Scots are thieves all, my lady—’tis as a contest between them to see who can rob and pillage the most. Nay, but ‘twould have been better to have returned for the rest of your escort.”
“I have not the time to waste,” she snapped in exasperation, for ’twas at least the tenth time he’d said the same. “God’s bones, Sir Captain, but how long do you think Stephen will give us when ’tis known my father does not renew his oath? How long do you think ’twill be before he is at Harlowe’s gates?”
“And so you would lead these thieves there. Holy Jesu, but I cannot like it, lady—at best he is Stephen’s man
“But distantly,” he answered brusquely, angered again by the expression in her eyes. “I am not claimed as kinsman there.”
“Your pardon—’twas not my meaning.”
“Aye, ’twas, but no matter. My fortunes depend not on your goodwill, Sister Elizabeth.”
He did not speak again to her until they were mounted and riding the ancient road. Lost in her own thoughts, she was jarred to hear him say, “ ’Tis a pity there was none to wed you, for you would have borne fierce sons for your lord.”
The last thing she would have of a tattered knight was his pity. “Nay, you mistake the matter,” she answered coldly. “If I have taken the veil, ’twas not for my temper nor for lack of a dowry. I was widowed.”
“And you eased your grief on your knees? Did you not discover that the veil does not warm cold bones?”
“It is enough that it saves me from another husband,” she retorted, spurring her horse ahead of his. “And I thank God for the deliverance.”
She was a proud, beautiful woman, unlike any he’d met before. He watched her thoughtfully, daring to admire her openly, and again it angered him that someone like her would rather wed Christ than man. He glanced down to where his scarred hands held the reins, seeing the flattened links of his hauberk where it met his wrists beneath the plain woolen overtunic. Well, she could not entirely be blamed for thinking he was of no worth, he supposed. She could not know he held thousands of hides of blood-soaked land on either side of the border. Then he wondered why she’d wanted him to know the choice to remain unwed was her own. And his anger faded to amusement. She was, underneath that coarse habit, yet a woman after all.
She sat with unwonted stiffness, her face set, angered with herself that she’d bothered to exchange words with a man such as Giles of Moray. It had been unworthy of her to justify herself to him. He was, she supposed, but a bastard born to a woman in the earl’s keep.
It was as though he knew her thoughts, for he spoke again behind her. “My patrimony is Dunashie, Elizabeth—all else I have, I have taken.”
“Not enough, ’twould seem,” she muttered.
“Aye, but I am not done. When the war comes, I mean to profit.”
Chapter Five
Chapter Five
Neither Giles of Moray nor his men spoke much as they rode, leaving Elizabeth to the company of Rannulf and Hugh, each of whom mistrusted their escort. The big Scot seemed, they whispered, little better than the mercenaries he’d routed, and they wondered if perhaps his willingness to accompany her to Harlowe was less a matter of piety than of opportunity. After all, no keep was invulnerable even to a small band once inside. And if he should discover he now had Guy of Rivaux’s daughter in his grasp … well, he might use that to gain entry.
“Nay, he suspects nothing,” she hissed back, her eyes intent on the borderer, who rode ahead of them.
“Still, I would he went not to Harlowe,” Rannulf muttered low. “ ’Twould have been better had we returned to St. Agnes. I mislike the man.”
“Aye,” Hugh agreed. “We are like to be murdered when we sleep. If King Henry’s peace meant little to the Scots, Stephen’s means naught at all.”
“The Scots are thieves all, my lady—’tis as a contest between them to see who can rob and pillage the most. Nay, but ‘twould have been better to have returned for the rest of your escort.”
“I have not the time to waste,” she snapped in exasperation, for ’twas at least the tenth time he’d said the same. “God’s bones, Sir Captain, but how long do you think Stephen will give us when ’tis known my father does not renew his oath? How long do you think ’twill be before he is at Harlowe’s gates?”
“And so you would lead these thieves there. Holy Jesu, but I cannot like it, lady—at best he is Stephen’s man
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