Rather than tremble at her arrogance, he merely stared back with an amused quirk of his upper lip.
Infuriated, but unwilling to show him how uncomfortable she was, she turned back to the tree and tried to cajole Aristotle from his perch, intent on ignoring the man who had taken her by surprise in more ways than one.
“Come, Cerberus.”
“His name is Flea.” Isabeau flung the correction over her shoulder.
She turned to see him dip his head, an amused grin evident about his expressive mouth. “My lady.”
Isabeau could feel her cheeks heat as she continued to stare at the rider. To her disbelief, and chagrin, the hound from hell sauntered to his side. Was it her imagination, or did the beast look like he was enjoying himself? She would deal with the traitorous brute later.
Dog and knight watched as she tried to entice Aristotle out of the tree. He wouldn’t oblige.
Finally, she gave up.
Turning to thank the man for his help she was taken aback by his blatant gaze. She instinctively touched her hair.
“Oh, Mary, Mother of God.” The indecency of her situation dawned on her. Never in all her life had she felt so humiliated. Her clothes were torn, her face covered in grime, and her hair! Oh, sweet Mary’s son.
In her haste to apprehend the dog, she had forgotten that her hair was unbound.
Trying for a demure tone, one that hopefully covered her mortification, she thanked the stranger. “I thank you, sir, for your assistance,” all the while refusing to look at him.
Then without waiting for a reply, and mustering all her dignity, she began walking back through the wood towards the abbey. Spine straight, she was fearful she would fall. Each step was more torturous than the last. Without bothering to turn her head she called to the two animals. “Are you coming?”
Not waiting for either to obey, she marched towards the garden gate, muttering curses under her breath. God in his heaven only knew what the handsome stranger thought. She wouldn’t think about why that disturbed her.
She had never really cared too much about what others thought of her; what was the point? Being abandoned was tantamount to being illegitimate. No amount of gossip could sting more than that.
But she was wrong. Never had she come face to face with anyone when her hair was unbound. It was unforgivable. What must he think? Ignoring the tightening in the pit of her stomach, she reasoned her day couldn’t get much more unpleasant.
Ranulf was a man who prided himself in assessing every situation with a calm, reasoned eye. Never in his life had he encountered such an extraordinary scene. The woman was obviously mad, parading around in the woods with her hair unbound. The sight of her long red tresses falling about her face, and billowing about her body, made him shift in his saddle.
And her face, although covered in filth, was exquisite. Under the muck her skin was translucent. The woman possessed an ethereal beauty that spoke of an otherworldly creature. She couldn’t be associated with the abbey. Even the poorest of women would never be seen in such a state of undress outside their chamber.
Perhaps she was a villein from the village; her clothing was of poor quality, and well used. A person’s clothing revealed their rank. He, in finest hauberk, riding a magnificent mount, declared to all that he was a man of consequence.
The dreadful condition of her clothing, he assumed, was due in part to her efforts to protect the scrawny cat. Aristotle indeed! It was an insult.
And what kind of name was Flea? Cerberus suited the dog much better. The brute looked like a demon; a giant beast covered in black, coarse hair like the bristles of a brush. What was such a creature doing with a peasant? He had been taken with the dog’s great yellow eyes as it watched the cat without blinking. He would be willing to pay a handsome price for such an animal.
Smiling to himself, he thought there might be an opportunity to acquire the dog. Its jaws could tear the flesh from a boar in minutes. Everything about the animal spoke of its ferocity. Yet it was as docile as a kitten when the wood nymph walked away.
The mystery was, she was not what she appeared. No poor, uneducated villein would connect Cerberus with the three-headed hellhound of Hades. What’s more, how could a poor peasant have the means to feed such a beast? There had to be an explanation. One that hopefully would benefit him.
He watched with some amusement as the wood sprite, for that was what she looked like, walked back towards a gate in the stone wall, dog and cat trailing behind. All evidence of their previous hostilities was gone.
Dismissing the mysterious woman from his thoughts he proceeded to walk his mount in the direction of the abbey.
He needed to persuade the abbess to relinquish her rights to Haythorpe and hand it back to him. He was sure he had the means to win her cooperation. Everything he’d worked for over the past year depended upon his ability to persuade the old woman to part with her land. Haythorpe was the key to his plans. God’s teeth, the woman had better oblige him.
Failure was not an option he would sanction.
Ranulf’s skin bristled under the cold appraisal of the woman’s eyes on his back as he moved to the window. She was more of a match than he had anticipated. He wouldn’t underestimate her again. It was with some relief that he had been able to ease himself out of the chair before the hearth and walk to the window. He needed a moment to consider his next move.
“I assume you will honor my wishes?”
His back tensed at the veiled insult. Hold your tongue or you will lose. Ranulf heeded his own advice and took a deep breath before he answered. “My honor is not in question.” Turning, he focused his gaze on the woman, who still sat by the hearth. He allowed the silence to mark his point.
She nodded her acquiescence.
Taking his seat once again, he met her eyes. “The king has tasked me with the responsibility of ensuring peace in the region.” He offered her his most charming smile. “I would hate to see you lose even more land.”
She surprised him then with a bark of laughter. “My lord, you misunderstand my meaning.” She offered him something akin to a smile, all the while watching him with open hostility.
“My niece will have Haythorpe, its manors and villages, on her marriage. If you are desirous of the honor FitzEmpress has awarded you, then I suggest you accept the inevitable.”
A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth; the old harridan refused to acknowledge Henry as her king. She was obviously not intimated by the young king. She needed to be careful, or she might find she’d lose more than her beloved abbey.
Still, he could see that marriage was perhaps the easiest solution, and one that wouldn’t require Henry’s involvement. That, in itself, was a major relief. Nevertheless, it rankled.
He’d been outmaneuvered. God’s teeth, she’s a wily old crone. He didn’t want to marry. Well actually, that wasn’t entirely true. He knew he would marry at some point. He just didn’t want to be pressured into it now. Some horse-faced, abbey-raised maid who would be as eager to welcome him to her bed as she would some wretch riddled with pox. He could see his future pass before him. It wasn’t something he was eager to embrace.
“Your niece is agreeable to the match?” He hoped his voice didn’t betray him. If he could crawl out of this without having to marry some harpy, all the better.
A sly smile slid across the old woman’s face. “She, like you, knows her duty.”