horse reared. De Searcy, de Valence, and the others chosen to accompany him scrambled for their own mounts, only to find themselves already left behind.
"I've a mind to let him ride unattended all the way to Fontainebleau with naught but that curst temper for company," Sir Hugh told all who could hear him even as he eased his aching bones into his own saddle.
"Nay, Hugh—'tis little enough he directs at us, my lord. 'Tis himself he pushes the hardest of all." Jean Merville pushed back his thick rust-colored hair and jammed his conical helmet on his head, pausing to adjust the nasal over his nose. "And if he pushes us, he must have his reasons. I for one follow him whither he goes—I am so sworn." Using a stirrup for leverage, he swung his thick-set mail-clad body onto his horse. "Nine hundred and ninety-nine times out of a thousand, he's the best lord a man could have"
Roger rode on, seemingly oblivious of the fact that his entire retinue was falling farther behind him. In the two days since Henry had arrived at the Condes with the news that Robert of Belesme had demanded and been promised Eleanor of Nantes in marriage, Roger had thought of naught else. With scarce a thank-you for the prince's effort, he'd ridden out, leaving Henry to entertain himself out of the Condes' larder. And in the space of those two days, the shock and horror had not abated. He still could not think of Eleanor and Belesme together without becoming violently, physically ill. Lea—she haunted his dreams and gave him no peace, anyway. Lea—beautiful Lea—so small, so delicate, so finely made. His free hand gripped the pommel of his saddle as he fought another wave of nausea. Nay, she could not go to the Devil when she belonged to Roger. He closed his eyes as the very world seemed to sway with revulsion.
He'd had no sleep. That first night, he and Henry had sat up until even the rushlights were gutted. They'd argued and they'd schemed until they'd convinced themselves it was yet possible to save Eleanor. And now it was up to him to convince her that all was not lost. He goaded his horse to yet a faster pace. Through pain and exhaustion, he could only focus on the fact that this night he would see Lea and renew his pledge to her. Her face seemed to float before him. "Nay, Lea," he spoke aloud, "I am still your man even to the end of my life."
"My lord! My lord!" Aubery's spurs dug unmercifully into his own mount as he sought to catch his master. "My lord! If you care not for us, have a care for that beast you ride!" The squire was breathless from yelling as he caught up to Roger. "By all the saints, my lord, but he'll not carry you much further." Aubery was gulping for air even as Roger became aware of him.
"I would reach Fontainebleau before sunset."
"Which day?" Young Aubery reached over and caught at the reins. "If we are reduced to riding double, I doubt we can make it before the morrow."
Roger looked down and saw the wet stains seeping through the embroidered trappings. Heavy lather glossed the powerful flanks and shoulders of his prized horse and flecks of foam spotted his own surcoat. He nodded. "Aye. We will slow to a walk, but we do not stop."
"My lord—" Aubery spoke with the ease of one whose relationship with his lord was secure—"is there aught you would have me know? Is your sister gravely ill?"
"She is well enough for now."
"Then what ails you?"
"I am afraid."
Aubery's eyes widened at the words. In the years since Roger had been taken into the Old Conqueror's service, his reputation for bravery and fighting skill was nearly unsurpassed. Nay, there was none better—save maybe Belesme. "Afraid, my lord?"
"Aye. I am afraid to see all of my dreams crumble when I do not know if I have the power to save them."
Aubery stared at Roger. It was obvious that the man had passed the point of exhaustion and suffered confusion. Roger's usually well-tanned face seemed pale and drawn and his brilliant blue eyes were ringed with
"I've a mind to let him ride unattended all the way to Fontainebleau with naught but that curst temper for company," Sir Hugh told all who could hear him even as he eased his aching bones into his own saddle.
"Nay, Hugh—'tis little enough he directs at us, my lord. 'Tis himself he pushes the hardest of all." Jean Merville pushed back his thick rust-colored hair and jammed his conical helmet on his head, pausing to adjust the nasal over his nose. "And if he pushes us, he must have his reasons. I for one follow him whither he goes—I am so sworn." Using a stirrup for leverage, he swung his thick-set mail-clad body onto his horse. "Nine hundred and ninety-nine times out of a thousand, he's the best lord a man could have"
Roger rode on, seemingly oblivious of the fact that his entire retinue was falling farther behind him. In the two days since Henry had arrived at the Condes with the news that Robert of Belesme had demanded and been promised Eleanor of Nantes in marriage, Roger had thought of naught else. With scarce a thank-you for the prince's effort, he'd ridden out, leaving Henry to entertain himself out of the Condes' larder. And in the space of those two days, the shock and horror had not abated. He still could not think of Eleanor and Belesme together without becoming violently, physically ill. Lea—she haunted his dreams and gave him no peace, anyway. Lea—beautiful Lea—so small, so delicate, so finely made. His free hand gripped the pommel of his saddle as he fought another wave of nausea. Nay, she could not go to the Devil when she belonged to Roger. He closed his eyes as the very world seemed to sway with revulsion.
He'd had no sleep. That first night, he and Henry had sat up until even the rushlights were gutted. They'd argued and they'd schemed until they'd convinced themselves it was yet possible to save Eleanor. And now it was up to him to convince her that all was not lost. He goaded his horse to yet a faster pace. Through pain and exhaustion, he could only focus on the fact that this night he would see Lea and renew his pledge to her. Her face seemed to float before him. "Nay, Lea," he spoke aloud, "I am still your man even to the end of my life."
"My lord! My lord!" Aubery's spurs dug unmercifully into his own mount as he sought to catch his master. "My lord! If you care not for us, have a care for that beast you ride!" The squire was breathless from yelling as he caught up to Roger. "By all the saints, my lord, but he'll not carry you much further." Aubery was gulping for air even as Roger became aware of him.
"I would reach Fontainebleau before sunset."
"Which day?" Young Aubery reached over and caught at the reins. "If we are reduced to riding double, I doubt we can make it before the morrow."
Roger looked down and saw the wet stains seeping through the embroidered trappings. Heavy lather glossed the powerful flanks and shoulders of his prized horse and flecks of foam spotted his own surcoat. He nodded. "Aye. We will slow to a walk, but we do not stop."
"My lord—" Aubery spoke with the ease of one whose relationship with his lord was secure—"is there aught you would have me know? Is your sister gravely ill?"
"She is well enough for now."
"Then what ails you?"
"I am afraid."
Aubery's eyes widened at the words. In the years since Roger had been taken into the Old Conqueror's service, his reputation for bravery and fighting skill was nearly unsurpassed. Nay, there was none better—save maybe Belesme. "Afraid, my lord?"
"Aye. I am afraid to see all of my dreams crumble when I do not know if I have the power to save them."
Aubery stared at Roger. It was obvious that the man had passed the point of exhaustion and suffered confusion. Roger's usually well-tanned face seemed pale and drawn and his brilliant blue eyes were ringed with
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