Beyond Reason Page 8

  Bile rose in his throat as he probed for the pulse in her throat. Weak, but steady, it tapped a blessed rhythm against his fingertips.

  “Thank Christ,” he muttered. “Now breathe for me, Angel. God, please, let her live.”

  Robert's prayer was answered by the sudden recall of a distant memory, a tale he had heard as a young boy. A newborn child of Glendennan – a babe arrived prematurely to the world – had been pulled from its mother by Angmar's hands. Dead, they feared, for the child had lain limp and blue in her grasp. When all else had failed, Angmar had placed her mouth over his and breathed life into him.

  A miracle, some said. Witchcraft, others whispered. But the boy had lived.

  Would it work? Robert placed his thumb on Isobel's chin and applied gentle pressure, forcing her mouth open. Then he bent, placed his mouth over hers, and gave her his breath.

  Her chest rose and then fell. He waited, hoping to see it rise again. It did not. Again he pressed his lips to hers and gave her breath. Over and over he blew into her lungs, driven by some indefinable instinct and an absolute refusal to let her go.

  Robert's fingers still rested against the feeble beat of life in her throat as he gave her another breath.

  Isobel, please breathe. Please come back to me.

  “My lord.”

  He broke contact and looked up to see Lucas at his back, the expression on the boy's face solemn and steadfast.

  “I fear the lady is gone, my lord.”

  “Hold your tongue,” he said. “My lady's heart still beats. She is not gone.”

  He bent and kissed her again, watching again as her chest rose and fell. But it was only at his bidding. She had yet to take a breath of her own. “She is not gone,” he said again, even as hope drained from him. He lifted her into his arms and buried his face in the sweet, lavender scent of hair, tears burning his eyes. “Please, Angel, come back to me.”

  Then he felt it, delicate and hesitant – a hint of warm air against his neck. Had he imagined it? He lifted his head and watched. Nothing. Then, a small wisp of white slid from between her lips, followed a moment later by another, and another..

  “I told you,” he said, his voice breaking as he raised tear-filled eyes to Lucas, who crossed himself. “She is not gone.” He bent and dropped gentle kisses on her bruised forehead, dark eyelids and pale cheeks. “Not gone.” Thank God. Thank God and all His saints.

  “My lord.” Lucas's whisper held a hint of warning. “Someone approaches.”

  At that moment, Robert realized how far the night had crept in. Dark shadows seemed to flit through the trees and distant disembodied voices broke the eerie silence of the forest.

  Argyle's head lifted, his ears flicking back and forth as he shifted on his massive hooves. The beast sensed someone too. But was it friend or foe?

  Robert lowered Isobel to the ground and reached for his sword, ignoring the sluggish prickle of frozen limbs as he rose to his feet. Somewhere nearby, a twig snapped.

  “My lord.” Lucas's warning whisper received a raised hand in response.

  “I heard.” Robert ducked under Argyle's head and peered into the darkness. “Stay at my lady's side, lad.”

  Then a familiar voice drifted out of the shadows.

  “Lower your sword, Rob.”

  Robert blew out a sigh of relief. “Bernard. Did you find them?”

  He cleared his throat. “One only. The others escaped.”

  “Then by Christ's bones, I swear he'll give us their names before he dies. Was anyone else injured?”

  Bernard's large shape loomed out of the dusk. “Nay, my lord. Everyone is sound. Is Isobel badly hurt?”

  “I fear so. I need to get her back at Glendennan as soon as possible.” Robert sheathed his sword and swung into Argyle's saddle. “Give her to me, Bernard. Gently, now.”

  With care, Bernard scooped Isobel's unconscious body into his arms, frowning at the bruising on her face. “God have mercy. What a mess. Has she spoken?”

  “Nay.” Robert settled Isobel in his lap. Protectiveness burned through him, as did the desire for revenge. “Where's the man you caught?”

  “With the others. They're waiting farther down the trail.” He cleared his throat again. “But it's not a man, Rob. It's a child.”

  He frowned. “A child?”

  “Aye. A young lad. Terrified out of his wits.”

  “Good. Should be easy for me to find out who it is I am to kill.”

  Bernard raised a brow. “You would not harm a child, my lord.”

  Robert sighed and dropped his gaze to Isobel's face. “No,” he said. “Not bodily. But he'll not know that. I'll have the name of his sire, by threat and by fear.”

  A hefty shout from the ramparts rattled around Glendennan's grey walls as the riders approached. The portcullis groaned its ascent as the horses swept into a courtyard already well lit by flaming torches.

  With Lucas's help, Robert dismounted with Isobel still in his arms. He gathered her to him, eager to get her inside from the chill of the damp night air.

  “Go and fetch Angmar,” he told Lucas, who nodded and vanished into the night. Robert hurried into the castle and almost collided with Edith. The woman's hands flew to her face as she took in the scene. “God save us, my lord. What's happened?”

  Robert scowled at the servant's question, which he guessed was prompted by curiosity more than concern. “Fetch hot water and cloths to her room. And be quick about it.”

  He flew up the stairs and kicked open Isobel's door, only to part with a string of curses. The room felt cold and damp. In Mary's absence, no one had thought to light the fire. He turned and hurried to his chamber, where a fire burned with warm abandon in the large fireplace. Breathless from the exertion, he placed Isobel on his bed and tucked the covers around her.

  Guilt clawed at him as he picked leaves and other debris from her hair. She was, after all, under his protection, and he had failed to keep her safe.

  “Please forgive me,” he murmured, bending to kiss her lips. They remained unresponsive to his touch.

  A knock came to the door and Edith sailed in, carrying a pail of steaming water and an armful of cloths.

  “'Ere you are,” she said, wheezing from her ample chest, her cheeks flushed pink. “I went to the lady's chamber first, but you weren't there.” She scrutinized Isobel's face. “Ah, God save us. The poor wee lass!”

  “We weren't there because someone forgot to light the fire in the lady's room.” He straightened and glared at Edith. “Set those down, go and fetch a clean robe for my lady, and have someone light the damn fire. I want her chamber warmed thoroughly and the dampness gone. Be quick about it, woman.”

  Cheeks reddening even more, Edith set her burdens down, bobbed a curtsey, and scurried from the room.

  Robert dampened one of the cloths and blotted it across Isobel's bruised brow, whispering a prayer as he did so. Again he heard the door open behind him, but this time a familiar and welcome voice spoke.

  “Prayer is always helpful, my lord, but please step aside and let me take a look at this little lass.”

  Angmar drifted into the room, dragging in the same pungent odour he had smelled in her cottage. At the sight of her, the knot of anguish in Robert's chest loosened a little, even though the woman looked for all the world like a sorceress.

  Clad in black from head to toe, her dark form was softened only by the long silver braid that hung over her shoulder. Robert thought her pale eyes appeared sharper than the last time he'd seen her, although they had yet to meet his gaze. For now, they were focused entirely on Isobel. He stepped back as Angmar dropped a cloth bag onto the bed.

  “Ah, my poor dear child,” she muttered, bending over Isobel's motionless form. “May God bless you indeed.”

  “You must help her,” Robert said.

  “'Tis why I'm here,” Angmar replied, without shifting her gaze.

  Her gnarled hands wandered over Isobel's face, exploring the contours with obvious gentlenes
s. Her eyes narrowed as she prodded the bruised area on Isobel's forehead.

  As Robert opened his mouth to question Angmar's opinion, Edith came into the room clasping a clean robe to her breast. She dropped it onto the bed, her inquisitive eyes darting from the good witch to Robert. Angmar glanced at the maid over her shoulder. “You must leave us now,” she said. In response, Edith bobbed a small curtsey and turned to go.

  “Nay, not you!” Angmar's exclamation halted Edith in her tracks. “I'll need you to help me with this little one.” She turned her eyes to Robert. “I'm talking to you, my lord.” Her foot tapped against the pail of water on the floor. “This, I've no doubt, is of little use. I need water that has been boiled for a slow count of one hundred. I also need lye and a solid wooden bowl. Aye, and a small brush, if you have such a thing. If not, then a small knife.” Her hands pulled open the cloth bag, reached in and felt around for several moments before pulling something from it. “Tell the kitchen to make a tisane with this.” She held a small cloth pouch in her gnarled hand.

  Robert clenched his fists and drew himself upright. “Remember to whom you speak, old woman,” he said, barely controlling the tremor in his voice. “You go too far.”

  Angmar inclined her head. “Forgive my abruptness, my lord,” she replied. “'Tis a failing of mine. I meant no disrespect. My tone is tempered by my concern for this wee angel who lies so silent before us. She needs our help, and in this intent we are, surely, all equal.”

  Anger subsiding, Robert blew out a shaky breath. “I shall see to your needs...my lady's needs. Then I shall wait in my office. Edith, fetch me once the lady has been attended. Angmar, I would speak to you before you leave tonight.”

  Angmar shook her head. “I'll not leave Glendennan until this one opens her bonny eyes.” Her gnarled hand stroked Isobel's hair. “Or until such time as I know she never will again.”

  Chapter 11

  Angmar's ominous declaration haunted Robert as he stared at the blank parchment. How best to say it? He dipped the sharpened quill into the black ink, settling on voicing the simple truth of the situation. Candlelight cast small shadows that danced over the parchment as he wrote and then re-read his words. Satisfied, he signed his name, sealed the missive, and sat back in his chair.

  A while later, a solid knock came to the door. “Enter,” Robert responded, turning as the door swung open to see Bernard on the threshold, his face pale with fatigue.

  “My lord, we're returned safe. How is the lady?”

  “God willing, she will rally. Angmar is with her. Come in, Bernard. I would speak with you.”

  “I'm not alone, my lord.” Bernard guided a small, dirty figure into the room. “This is the child I spoke of.”

  A surge of pity flowed through him as Robert assessed the boy, who looked to be no more than seven or eight years of age. Ragged, filthy clothes hung from the child's thin limbs. More rags had been wrapped around his feet to serve as makeshift shoes. Spikes of unkempt straw-coloured hair stuck straight out from his head. The boy kept his gaze fixed to the floor, his small body shivering without pause.

  “So,” Robert said. “This is the young rogue, is it?”

  “Aye, but he refuses to speak.” Bernard sighed and scratched his head. “This entire incident is strange, Rob. The attackers were obviously not trained fighting men and I estimate they numbered less than half a dozen. After the first few shots they backed off. It makes no sense. I don't know what they were after, for they stood no chance of stealing the wagon.”

  A small frown settled on Robert's brow as a theory took root in his mind. “Hmm. Maybe the wagon was not the target.”

  “Then what?”

  “Not what, who.”

  “Who?” Bernard's eyes widened. “You?”

  “Aye.”

  “But why?”

  “I'm not certain yet.” Robert's gaze still lingered on the boy. “Look at me, lad. Lift your head and tell me your name.”

  The child fidgeted on his feet and wiped the back of a grubby hand across his nose. But his eyes remained focused on the floor.

  “It's never wise to disobey me.” Robert lifted his scabbard from the table and drew the sword. The boy's gaze lifted, his eyes widening at the sight of the blade. “That's better. Now, tell me your name.”

  The child sniffed. “John.”

  “Your full name. Who's your sire?.”

  Eyes still fixed on the blade, the boy shook his head.

  “No matter.” Robert slid the the sword back into the scabbard. “Bernard, take him to the dungeon. He can stay there until he's ready to speak.”

  “Nay!” The boy's eyes widened further. “Please don' put me in the dungeon.”

  Robert raised a brow. “Then answer me. Was your father in Settle woods today?”

  The child blinked. “Aye,” he whispered.

  “I'll have his name.”

  Again the boy shook his head.

  Robert blew an exasperated breath, his desire for the truth quelled by the tremble in the child's body. “Stubborn little bastard, isn't he?”

  Bernard gave a grim smile. “He likely fears his father more than he fears you, Rob”

  “No doubt. In truth, what kind of father takes a child on a raid?”

  The boy fidgeted and chewed on his lip.

  Robert frowned. “Unless, of course...”

  “Unless?”

  Robert crouched, placed a finger under the child's chin and brought the boy's gaze level with his own

  “Your father didn't know you were there, did he? Did you follow him?”

  After a moment's hesitation, the child nodded. “Please don' hurt me.”

  The plea stabbed Robert's conscience. “You'll not be harmed, but you're in a lot of trouble, my lad. Someone very dear to me was badly hurt today. I mean to find out who is responsible and make them pay.” He stood and took the child by the wrist. “Come with me.”

  Bernard frowned. “Where are you taking him?”

  “The lad's all bones. We'll feed him and then sort out where he'll sleep for the night.”

  “Not the dungeon, tho'?” the boy squeaked.

  “Nay, not the dungeon.” Robert cleared his throat. “But that's because I've remembered that today is Friday, and I only throw children in the dungeon on Saturdays. Unless, of course, they tell me what I need to know as soon as they wake up in the morning.”

  The child's eyes widened and Robert allowed himself a smile. His threat, however, had little effect on the child's appetite. Seated by the fire in Glendennan's kitchen, the boy devoured his plate of meat and bread with unabashed relish.

  “He probably thinks it's his last meal,” Bernard said, watching the food disappear.

  Robert shrugged. “I need answers, and if I have to threaten the lad to get them, so be it. He'll have tonight to think about his dilemma. Any suggestions where we might put him?”

  “Why not give him to Aggie? She's raised six bairns of her own. Tough old hen, she is, but gentle enough. She'll sort him out.”

  Robert almost felt sorry for the boy as he handed him over to Glendennan's cook, who regarded the grubby urchin with an expression of horror.

  “The dirty little beggar.” Aggie tut-tutted as she dragged the child away. “Eh, but tha'll not know the lad on the morrow, m' lord, I'll warrant yer that. A reet good scrub is what 'e'll get this night.”

  Bernard chuckled. “Maybe we should have used Aggie as a threat instead of the dungeon.”

  Robert grunted, his mind already elsewhere. “Come to my office, Bernard. I would speak with you in private on some matters.” Once there, he closed the door behind them and lifted a sealed letter from his desk. “You must return to Kirbie tomorrow,” he said. “I want you to go back to Highgate Tavern.”

  Bernard frowned. “For what purpose?”

  “I want the name of the sot who grabbed Isobel. I want his name and the names of his kin. And if you happen to discover they're missing one of their own, that would be even better.”<
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  Bernard gave a low whistle. “You think they're the ones responsible for the attack?”

  “Aye, I do.” Robert looked down at the letter resting in his hands and took a deep breath, which did little to steady the agitated beat of his heart. “This letter, however, is your more important task. It must be put in the hands of a swift courier, to be dispatched to Edward with all haste.”

  “Edward?”

  Robert met Bernard's puzzled stare. “Aye. The king himself.”

  “May I know what it contains, my lord?”

  “You may.” Robert paused and took another breath. “It is a request for an annulment of the betrothal agreement between myself and Joanna Willoughby.”

  The expression of puzzlement on Bernard's face changed to one of shock. “An annulment? For God's sake, why?”

  Robert held his gaze. “Because I wish to marry Isobel.”

  There came a slight pause, and then Bernard gave an incredulous laugh. “With respect, my lord, what you're proposing is unwise to say the least. The king has honoured you with this contract. Simply marry Joanna and keep Isobel as your leman. There's nary a married lord in Christendom who doesn't keep at least one wench on the side. Aye, even the king himself, so I've heard. To refuse his gift is an insult. You could lose everything.”

  Deep down, Robert acknowledged the truth in Bernard's words, yet he stayed his course. “I'll not keep Isobel as a mistress. She deserves better. Besides, she'd never accept it.”

  Bernard groaned. “Of course she'll accept it, Rob. Don't forget her position here. Glendennan is all she has. The woman will not refuse you, I guarantee it. Don't do this. It's nothing more than the folly of a besotted man.”

  “Watch your tongue.” Robert felt his anger rising. “Deliver it, Bernard. I am decided in this and will not be swayed.”

  “As you command.” Bernard snatched the letter from Robert's hand. “But I warrant you'll regret it. And what of Willoughby's reaction to this? You would make an enemy of a powerful baron who sits not more than a county away?”