‘We should rest,’ Hassan said, glancing at his companion, who had endured his pain without complaint, but looked exhausted. ‘That wound needs to be dressed. It has bled again, my lord.’
Stefan scowled at him. A more faithful friend than Hassan was not to be found in all the kingdoms of Christendom, though he be a Saracen and an unbeliever. They had fought shoulder to shoulder as mercenaries for ten years or more, bound by blood and friendship since Stefan had rescued Hassan from the slaver who had beaten and tortured him.
‘I have known worse,’ he growled, cursing the foolish moment that had led him to trust a lying woman. Undoubtedly, he owed his life to Hassan’s timely intervention. ‘Women are the devil incarnate, Hassan. Remind me of that next time I am minded to answer a woman’s plea for help.’
Hassan grinned, his teeth white against the walnut tones of his skin. Looking at the top half of his face, none could guess at the fearful scars to the lower part… scars inflicted by Sir Hugh many years ago when he had for a short time been the man’s slave.
‘Devils in truth, my friend,’ Hassan agreed. ‘But sweeter than honey amongst the silken cushions of thy couch.’
Stefan’s eyes narrowed as he thought of the beautiful woman who had enticed him to her chamber with tales of a cruel uncle. He had not known then that the man she spoke of as holding her to ransom was Sir Hugh and that she had conspired with him to capture a man it seemed they both hated. He knew there were reasons enough for Sir Hugh’s hatred, but could not guess at the reason for Madeline’s need to wreak revenge on him. It was doubtful if he would ever discover it now since she lay dead on the floor of her chamber, slain by the man who had enlisted her help. Yet he had played a part in her death, for he had thrown her towards Sir Hugh as he sought to escape the man who meant to kill him. He thought that he would never forget her scream as Sir Hugh’s sword sliced into her stomach. Even though she had tried to trap him, he would never intentionally harm a woman, and her violent death would lay heavy on his conscience.
‘Sweeter than honey, sharper than a serpent’s tooth,’ Stefan agreed. ‘Thanks to you, Sir Hugh will not trouble us again, but he has a cousin.’ Hassan nodded—they both knew that it was probably Lord Cowper who had ordered Stefan’s death. ‘Sir Hugh’s death will add one more reason to the list he has for wanting me dead.’
‘It is a pity that the English King would not grant you a hearing, my lord,’ Hassan said as Stefan dismounted. ‘Had he done so, you might have revealed Cowper for the murdering devil he has become.’
‘When my father disowned me, I swore I would never return to England’s shores,’ Stefan said. ‘I left vowing never to forgive him for believing Cowper’s lies. My father trusted him and now Cowper has all that was my father’s and he lies rotting in the churchyard. I have his title, for none can take that from me, but his lands are lost, stolen by trickery and deceit. Had I returned years ago, I might have saved my father from the evil trick that was played on him in his declining years. As his mind descended into blackness they took everything he had, though they have deeds and letters to prove the land was sold and the money lost in foolish ventures. Answer me this—whose was the hand that guided an old man’s as he squandered his birthright?’
‘Lord Cowper gained too much influence over your father,’ Hassan said. ‘We have the testimony of Lord de Montfort’s steward, who was later dismissed for some wrongdoing and left to starve.’
‘Edmund would never have stolen even half a loaf from my father,’ Stefan said. ‘But Cowper is a clever man. He found it easy to convince my father that I had murdered my brother in cold blood. I found Gervase lying in the forest with his hands bound and his throat cut. I know it was either Sir Hugh or Cowper himself who murdered my brother, but because Gervase and I had quarrelled violently that very morning, my father chose to believe I was guilty. He disowned me, told me to leave England or he would hand me over to the King for justice. If he would believe that of his eldest son, how much easier was it to convince him that his steward had been robbing him for years?’
A nerve was flicking at Stefan’s temple. The injustice that had been done him when he was a young man still rankled deep inside him. He had taken his sword and a horse when he rode away from his home at the edge of the great forest of Sherwood, finding a ship bound for France. From there he had travelled to many lands, hiring his sword to any merchant or prince that would take him. He had grown rich on the spoils of war, and it was not for money that he had returned to England. His hope of reconciliation with his father had ended with the news of his death, and the discovery that Lord Cowper now owned everything that ought by rights to have been Stefan’s.
His request for an audience with King Henry had been denied. His reputation as a mercenary had gone before him and his claims were dismissed without due hearing. His father had disowned him and Cowper had the deeds to the land and house, signed and witnessed by a man of impeccable character—Sir Hugh Grantham. How King Henry would have felt if he had learnt that during his years on a so-called pilgrimage to the Holy Land, Sir Hugh had murdered, raped and lived as a slaver, growing rich on his ill-gotten goods, would never be known for the words would never now be heard. Even more damning might be the suspicion that Sir Hugh was in the pay of Spain and therefore an enemy of England. Since the death of Queen Isabella, relations between England and Spain were not as warm as they had once been.
Stefan knew that his accusations of murder and trickery would fall on deaf ears once he was refused a private audience with Henry of England. Indeed, the English estate meant little to him, for he now owned a beautiful chateau and extensive lands in Normandy, much of which had been granted to him by the French king in return for a large payment of gold and silver. It was the bitterness of knowing that his father had died neglected and mistreated, and the way he had been driven from his birthright by wicked lies that gnawed at Stefan’s guts and made him thirst for revenge.
Stefan was thoughtful as he dismounted. One of his enemies was now dead, but the other remained, as vicious as a poison adder and twice as dangerous. It would not be so easy to get to Lord Cowper, for he stayed within the confines of his manor house, protected by an army of servants and armed men, afraid of the vengeance that threatened while Stefan lived and breathed. His attempts to have his enemy murdered would only become more determined now that Sir Hugh was dead.
Stefan squatted down on the earth, his back to a tree as Hassan examined the wound, applying salves that had been made by skilled men of Arabia. A fierce fight had ensued during their escape from the house, during which Stefan had received a wound to his side, which pained him far more than the scratch to his thigh inflicted by Sir Hugh.
‘You will do for a few hours,’ Hassan said as he bound him tightly, ‘but the wound should be tended by a physician.’
‘I would trust none in this country; the physicians here are ignorant and hidebound by conventions,’ Stefan muttered, gritting his teeth against the pain. ‘We must go home to France, Hassan. I cannot fight in this condition. We need more men and we must be careful. The law here protects Cowper. I want him to pay for his crimes, but I have to find a way to prove his guilt. I must have incontrovertible proof and I must find someone who stands high in the King’s favour to present it—or at least to help me gain a hearing at court.’
‘Aye, but first we must make our way to the coast and find a ship,’ Hassan said. ‘You will rest better at home in Normandy. Once you are healed, we can find a way to take revenge for what has been done here.’
‘I want justice for my father’s shade,’ Stefan said. ‘Otherwise his face will haunt my dreams. Sir Hugh is dead, and I believe it was he who murdered my brother, but it is Cowper that has my father’s lands.’ His eyes were as cold as the North Sea. ‘I swear by all I hold dear that he shall pay with his life one day…’
Anne heard her father’s voice as she paused outside his chambers. She knew that Harry was with him and they had been talking for a long time. Lord Melford would be delighted with the news that his son had decided to marry, but would he be as pleased with the revelation that the bride was French?
Anne