before when he and his men had bathed here.
He frowned, remembering the prickly feeling of someone watching them as they bathed. He supposed, though, all manner of persons might find it interesting to watch formidable knights frolicking in the water like young boys. The dip had cooled and refreshed them all, and that was what mattered, and so he had let it drop. Then as they had approached the castle, still no more than half-dressed, he had seen the sprite-like Leonie fleeing across the meadow, long-legged and graceful as a leaping roe deer. Then he had known who was watching them. And now he laughed to himself. He hoped she liked what she had seen.
The weariness of the long ride had preyed on Philippe since early afternoon, but he had pressed onward, wanting to reach Brodin before nightfall. The king’s courier had caught up with him and his knights only yesterday with word that Malcolm was on the move back to Scotland, spurred by rage, where it was suspected he meant to gather his army and invade. And Rufus was coming north to head him off. Philippe had immediately dispersed his men to spread the news to castles nearby and ridden alone to take the word to Brodin.
Now, as he snapped the reins and urged Tonerre through the shallow waters of the ford, a new sense of urgency filled him. The castle was only on the far side of the woods that lay on the other side of the beck. He had been looking forward to reaching the castle and throwing off the mail that chafed through his tunic, to drinking deep of the castle’s fine ale. And a long night’s sleep. In the morning, he would have to rise and leave before the castle folk broke their fast. But he would rest and eat with his old friends this night.
And the audacious Leonie. He chuckled aloud. Though she vexed him deeply, he would rue the day she married, for something in him was aroused to life by her untrammeled spirit. What would happen to her? If only Rufus could find a gentle man like the uncle who had raised her and doted on her too much. But men like Geoffrey or Hugh were hard to find and usually of modest means, or too mild of manner to become a marcher lord.
He frowned. Perhaps when Rufus came, he would plead for the girl—as long as Rufus didn’t mistake his intentions.
The trail through the woods was narrow, meant only for walkers. But it was a shortcut, and he felt a longing to reach the castle that grew by the minute. He dismounted, leading Tonerre, but still had to dodge low-hanging branches. The path broadened and cleared as he reached a stand of ancient beeches. He walked easier, catching occasional glimpses of the meadow through the brush, but he was still too far to see the castle.
Across the path to his left, he spotted an odd patch of something about the color of hay, dappled by light sifting through the leaves. Odd, for a forest. It looked like someone had dropped a cloak of a dusky golden color. It reminded him of the impossible mane of curls on the little lioness’s head. He drew closer, not taking his eyes off the splash of color.
It could not be an animal. He knew of none that color.
Quickly, the pale golden mass came into view, spread out at the base of a huge old oak among the beeches, amid a mass of old, dry leaves.
The reins fell from his hands. His heart stopped.
Leonie!
He dashed to the tree and knelt beside her where she sprawled nearly facedown, her wild hair flung over her face.
“Leonie!” he shouted, brushing away her hair.
Her skin was chilled. Blood caked on her scalp and splattered her clothes. He turned her ashen face upward and saw dark bruises on her throat.
“Leonie, wake up,” he cried. He felt for a pulse at her neck but found none, nor at her wrist.
He leaned over her, his cheek to her face, and felt no hint of breath. It could not be! He’d warned Geoffrey something could happen to her. She was so vulnerable and didn’t know it.
Like Joceline.
God help him, he didn’t want any woman murdered like
He frowned, remembering the prickly feeling of someone watching them as they bathed. He supposed, though, all manner of persons might find it interesting to watch formidable knights frolicking in the water like young boys. The dip had cooled and refreshed them all, and that was what mattered, and so he had let it drop. Then as they had approached the castle, still no more than half-dressed, he had seen the sprite-like Leonie fleeing across the meadow, long-legged and graceful as a leaping roe deer. Then he had known who was watching them. And now he laughed to himself. He hoped she liked what she had seen.
The weariness of the long ride had preyed on Philippe since early afternoon, but he had pressed onward, wanting to reach Brodin before nightfall. The king’s courier had caught up with him and his knights only yesterday with word that Malcolm was on the move back to Scotland, spurred by rage, where it was suspected he meant to gather his army and invade. And Rufus was coming north to head him off. Philippe had immediately dispersed his men to spread the news to castles nearby and ridden alone to take the word to Brodin.
Now, as he snapped the reins and urged Tonerre through the shallow waters of the ford, a new sense of urgency filled him. The castle was only on the far side of the woods that lay on the other side of the beck. He had been looking forward to reaching the castle and throwing off the mail that chafed through his tunic, to drinking deep of the castle’s fine ale. And a long night’s sleep. In the morning, he would have to rise and leave before the castle folk broke their fast. But he would rest and eat with his old friends this night.
And the audacious Leonie. He chuckled aloud. Though she vexed him deeply, he would rue the day she married, for something in him was aroused to life by her untrammeled spirit. What would happen to her? If only Rufus could find a gentle man like the uncle who had raised her and doted on her too much. But men like Geoffrey or Hugh were hard to find and usually of modest means, or too mild of manner to become a marcher lord.
He frowned. Perhaps when Rufus came, he would plead for the girl—as long as Rufus didn’t mistake his intentions.
The trail through the woods was narrow, meant only for walkers. But it was a shortcut, and he felt a longing to reach the castle that grew by the minute. He dismounted, leading Tonerre, but still had to dodge low-hanging branches. The path broadened and cleared as he reached a stand of ancient beeches. He walked easier, catching occasional glimpses of the meadow through the brush, but he was still too far to see the castle.
Across the path to his left, he spotted an odd patch of something about the color of hay, dappled by light sifting through the leaves. Odd, for a forest. It looked like someone had dropped a cloak of a dusky golden color. It reminded him of the impossible mane of curls on the little lioness’s head. He drew closer, not taking his eyes off the splash of color.
It could not be an animal. He knew of none that color.
Quickly, the pale golden mass came into view, spread out at the base of a huge old oak among the beeches, amid a mass of old, dry leaves.
The reins fell from his hands. His heart stopped.
Leonie!
He dashed to the tree and knelt beside her where she sprawled nearly facedown, her wild hair flung over her face.
“Leonie!” he shouted, brushing away her hair.
Her skin was chilled. Blood caked on her scalp and splattered her clothes. He turned her ashen face upward and saw dark bruises on her throat.
“Leonie, wake up,” he cried. He felt for a pulse at her neck but found none, nor at her wrist.
He leaned over her, his cheek to her face, and felt no hint of breath. It could not be! He’d warned Geoffrey something could happen to her. She was so vulnerable and didn’t know it.
Like Joceline.
God help him, he didn’t want any woman murdered like
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