also, for did he not come from London?” Hugh protested.
“With but twelve men, he is not like to do much harm at Harlowe. You are like old women—you fear too much.”
They fell silent and stared morosely at Giles of Moray. Hugh shifted his weight uneasily in his saddle, then sighed. He’d have done better to have followed Lord Richard into battle—at least then he’d have known what to expect.
As Elizabeth watched him, the Scot removed his helm yet again and let the wind whip his black hair. From the back he looked much like Richard, save that instead of fur-lined velvet, rough brown wool covered his broad, strong shoulders. Aye, he had the look of a fighting man, the build of one skilled in war.
Idly, she wondered how it was that one like that had not risen further. Had he served her father he’d have led more than eleven men by now, for Guy valued those who wielded axe and sword well. Aye, more than one had risen in favor simply by virtue of bravery, prowess, and loyalty. And the man before her possessed at least two of the three.
Jesu, but she’d not forget how he had stood over her, his broadsword supported by both hands. And it was a good, well-kept weapon, which showed that he knew his business well. Rather than the thong-wrapped hilt common amongst men-at-arms, his had been covered with circling gold wire. And the pommel was pewter banded in gold. It was a weapon worthy of one far better than he. She had not a doubt he’d taken it from someone else, probably in a border raid.
Had he not been a Scot, probably one attached to a lesser lord, she would have considered offering him service at Harlowe, that he might rise in her father’s favor. But from all she’d ever heard the Scots were a savage, despised lot, overgiven to violence and pillage, who lived more on booty than barter.
But he was of Moray, and she’d heard of that. Had not a Scottish king been earl there? And was the family not of Norman descent, from the de Maurais? Or was it the de Moravias? But he was not of them, he’d said. He’d merely chanced to be born there. Or had he? He carried himself with far more arrogance than the man-at-arms he was. Mayhap he was bastard-born and had been left to rise on his own. Mayhap ’twas the source of his bitterness.
Sweet Mary, but how could he stand to ride bareheaded on such a day? The sun had withdrawn behind clouds, and the wind that flapped their cloaks was sharp and full of unshed rain, suddenly making it seem quite cold. She shivered beneath her habit and plain mantle, thinking that were she a nun she’d complain of what they were given.
Suddenly the Scot called a halt, stopping to confer with the giant he kept at his side. Then he wheeled his horse, riding back down the column toward them.
“I like not the looks of the road ahead,” he explained tersely. “We wait until Willie returns.”
Elizabeth rose in her stirrups, straining to look into the damp, misty air. “I see nothing, my lord,” she protested impatiently. “Nay, I’d ride on.”
A grim smile twisted his mouth as his black eyes met hers. “But you have not the ordering of us, Sister Elizabeth, and I’d not fight my way back to Dunashie else I must.”
As she watched curiously the huge man dismounted and, armed only with his short bow, slipped into the bare forest. “ ’Tis like sending a belled bear,” she said sourly. “You need someone smaller and darker.”
Moray’s gaze followed hers. “Nay, you mistake the matter—they’ll not see him. Despite his size, he moves like a cat after prey.”
Hugh snorted derisively, and one of the borderers edged his horse close, favoring him with a gaping, toothless grin. “I’d nae laugh at Wee Willie—else yer lights’ll be in yer lap. Willie,” he added significantly, “is skilled wi’ his dagger.”
“Wee Willie! God’s bones, but you jest,” Hugh retorted.
Elizabeth rubbed her arms beneath her cloak, prompting Moray to turn his attention back to her.
“With but twelve men, he is not like to do much harm at Harlowe. You are like old women—you fear too much.”
They fell silent and stared morosely at Giles of Moray. Hugh shifted his weight uneasily in his saddle, then sighed. He’d have done better to have followed Lord Richard into battle—at least then he’d have known what to expect.
As Elizabeth watched him, the Scot removed his helm yet again and let the wind whip his black hair. From the back he looked much like Richard, save that instead of fur-lined velvet, rough brown wool covered his broad, strong shoulders. Aye, he had the look of a fighting man, the build of one skilled in war.
Idly, she wondered how it was that one like that had not risen further. Had he served her father he’d have led more than eleven men by now, for Guy valued those who wielded axe and sword well. Aye, more than one had risen in favor simply by virtue of bravery, prowess, and loyalty. And the man before her possessed at least two of the three.
Jesu, but she’d not forget how he had stood over her, his broadsword supported by both hands. And it was a good, well-kept weapon, which showed that he knew his business well. Rather than the thong-wrapped hilt common amongst men-at-arms, his had been covered with circling gold wire. And the pommel was pewter banded in gold. It was a weapon worthy of one far better than he. She had not a doubt he’d taken it from someone else, probably in a border raid.
Had he not been a Scot, probably one attached to a lesser lord, she would have considered offering him service at Harlowe, that he might rise in her father’s favor. But from all she’d ever heard the Scots were a savage, despised lot, overgiven to violence and pillage, who lived more on booty than barter.
But he was of Moray, and she’d heard of that. Had not a Scottish king been earl there? And was the family not of Norman descent, from the de Maurais? Or was it the de Moravias? But he was not of them, he’d said. He’d merely chanced to be born there. Or had he? He carried himself with far more arrogance than the man-at-arms he was. Mayhap he was bastard-born and had been left to rise on his own. Mayhap ’twas the source of his bitterness.
Sweet Mary, but how could he stand to ride bareheaded on such a day? The sun had withdrawn behind clouds, and the wind that flapped their cloaks was sharp and full of unshed rain, suddenly making it seem quite cold. She shivered beneath her habit and plain mantle, thinking that were she a nun she’d complain of what they were given.
Suddenly the Scot called a halt, stopping to confer with the giant he kept at his side. Then he wheeled his horse, riding back down the column toward them.
“I like not the looks of the road ahead,” he explained tersely. “We wait until Willie returns.”
Elizabeth rose in her stirrups, straining to look into the damp, misty air. “I see nothing, my lord,” she protested impatiently. “Nay, I’d ride on.”
A grim smile twisted his mouth as his black eyes met hers. “But you have not the ordering of us, Sister Elizabeth, and I’d not fight my way back to Dunashie else I must.”
As she watched curiously the huge man dismounted and, armed only with his short bow, slipped into the bare forest. “ ’Tis like sending a belled bear,” she said sourly. “You need someone smaller and darker.”
Moray’s gaze followed hers. “Nay, you mistake the matter—they’ll not see him. Despite his size, he moves like a cat after prey.”
Hugh snorted derisively, and one of the borderers edged his horse close, favoring him with a gaping, toothless grin. “I’d nae laugh at Wee Willie—else yer lights’ll be in yer lap. Willie,” he added significantly, “is skilled wi’ his dagger.”
“Wee Willie! God’s bones, but you jest,” Hugh retorted.
Elizabeth rubbed her arms beneath her cloak, prompting Moray to turn his attention back to her.
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