Knights of Valor

by Denise Domning

  "It feels good to grip your neck, to know I can snuff the life from you."

  He leaned forward, his onion scented tongue slithering out, and he licked from her chin to the corner of her eye.

  "I can taste your fear."

  She gulped, and suppressed a repulsed shudder.

  "You should leave. Leave before you do more harm. You will not likely escape from here with what you are doing."

  "Are you threatening me, you little whore?"

  She did not respond. Only scraped at his fingers more.

  "You can't threaten me. I am untouchable." He laughed then, and bit her earlobe, not hard, but enough to sting. "I am going to enjoy this."

  She kicked out, the toe of her slipper connected with his bandaged leg right below the knee. He let out a howl, but his grip on her neck loosened. She shoved against his chest, and he wobbled backward, seeming to lose his balance.

  "You bitch!"

  Elena didn't wait to see if he regained his balance. She skirted around him, running toward the door, then pitched forward, her knees hitting the wood floors hard. Her hands slapped down and saved her chin from jutting against the floorboards by a couple inches. The wind was knocked from her, but she didn't care about breathing, just escaping.

  Jon yanked his crutch from beneath her legs, which he'd stuck out to trip her.

  "You cannot escape!" he shouted.

  She scrambled to her knees, crawling as he grappled with her ankles, her calves, her hips. Jon shoved her face-down, and then he was on top of her, his hot, fetid breath in her ear.

  "Be a good girl and lie still, this will hurt a little."

  Panic seized her. Her throat constricted even as bile rose to burn the back of her mouth. She gagged, but forced herself to gain control. This man, whom she thought was a loyal vassal to Michael, a friend to her even, had turned out to be quite the contrary. An evil, vile man.

  Her gaze fell on her maid, Beth. Blood oozed from a gash in the side of her head, and she lay so still. Her eyes were closed, her mouth only partially opened as if she slept, but Elena knew better. Her chest rose not at all.

  She would not let him do this. She was a lady. She was a fighter. She'd allowed herself to be abused too many times at the hands of her husband.

  With conviction warming her blood, she jerked her head backward, wincing and crying out from the sting of her skull connected with Jon's face. But she was rewarded with his howl of agony.

  "You will pay for that in pain!" He hit her hard then on the temple with his fist. Her head bounced forward knocking against the rough wooden planks of the floor.

  She tasted blood on her lips, one of her teeth having jabbed into the soft flesh. She didn't cry out this time, only squeezed her eyes shut.

  Warm stickiness dripped on her bare shoulder where her dress had torn sometime during her struggle. But she was glad to feel it. It was blood, which could only mean he was bleeding. Good, she'd done him some damage too with her head-butt. She hoped to have broken his nose. Jon sat up, awkwardly with his broken leg and straddled her hips. He tucked one arm tight against her side, and the other he yanked behind the small of her back, pinning it there with his thigh. She was stuck. Elena struggled, but he only squeezed harder making her fingertips go numb. "I told you to lie still. Will you make me tie your limbs? Truss you up like a pig?"

  She refused to answer. Pressed her lips hard together. She waited for another chance to strike, which would be difficult considering he held her pinned.

  He shifted behind her, rustling with her skirts, but not lifting up over her hips as she had expected him too. No, it was then she heard the tearing of cloth. He was ripping at her chemise. Her arms were roughly yanked behind and she fought, desperately tugged from his grasp, but he was stronger, so much stronger.

  He tied her taut at the wrists. Too tight. Her fingers, which had already begun to prickle from him pinning her, now tingled fiercely, going numb one by one. He stroked down her legs with his fingers sending shivers of revulsion careening through her body. Again she gagged, and again she forced herself to remain strong. She would not let him win. She could not let him get the better of her. She would no longer be victim. She struggled, kicking her feet, yanking her arms and bucking her hips, but he only laughed and then sat heavily on the back of her legs, making her want to scream with pain. He was so heavy, and his weight nearly crushed her small bones. But she kept silent, and tried with no waning vigor to kick her feet and cause damage.

  He cursed as she connected with something, she guessed a finger for it felt slight, and before she could kick again he had her ankles tied tight.

  "Try to kick or hit me now, wench." His voice was full of disdain and mockery. He was enjoying this too much. When she was free she'd make certain he suffered for all he put her through and then some for having betrayed Michael's trust.

  "Still have nothing to stay. Oh, well, then. I've been waiting a really long time for this."

  He slid his hands up over her thighs, under her skirts and gripped her bare buttocks. Cold air hit her naked flesh. She jerked her hips to the right to get away from his disgusting touch.

  "I do like my women to fight me, so aye, by all means fight, madam."

  Jon's words made her dizzy with nausea. He liked it. He collapsed on top of her again, his member hard through his breeches as he ground it against her buttocks. Elena squeezed her eyes closed. As much as she'd wanted to fight him, she was at a loss for what to do. He'd won. He would rape her, probably repeatedly. She could forge through it. There was no other choice. She was strong. She repeated the words to herself again and again, just as she did when Kent had his brutal way with her.

  Elena took steadying breaths and forced herself into a secret place deep within her mind so that she did not have to be present for what would happen next. It was inevitably going to take place. He was already fumbling with his breeches behind her.

  A waft of air flowed over her face as the door burst open. An outraged roar filled the room. Jon somehow managed to push off of her to standing; a feat she hoped brought his broken leg much pain.

  Elena blinked open her eyes, trying to see who it was that had found her, and at the same time futilely trying to cover her bare buttocks with her tied hands. There was something vaguely familiar about the bearded warrior, but she could not place him. She instead thanked God for his presence, and rolled from side to side, shimming her gown back over her hips until the warmth of the fabric covered her. Using sheer force of will, she inched her way to her knees, and then onto her buttocks, she scooted into a corner.

  "Who the hell are you?" Jon barked.

  The tall, broad man assessed her assailant with eyes filled with disgust as the hall thundered with a thousand footsteps behind him. "I am Lord Richard."

  "The wench is mine, Richard, you'll have to find another."

  A cruel smile covered Richard's face, and relief flooded Elena with such acute wonder that she felt euphoric from it. Her brother had come. He was here to save her. But even knowing that, her hands shook. How many people had she trusted that would turn on her? What if Colin and Fletch were also Michael's enemies? He was with them now in France. Was he still alive?

  "Well, mongrel, unfortunately, that is not going to happen. You see, Elena is my sister, and I am not in the habit of letting bastards take advantage of my blood."

  Elena watched with pleasure as the color drained from Jon's face.

  "Yo-yo-your sister?" Jon stammered.

  Richard's smile widened showing white teeth and incisors that reminded her of a wolf. He pulled his sword from his scabbard with deliberate slowness, letting the scrape of the metal fill the air and send chills down his opponent's spine. "Aye, and I've come to claim her."

  With that, Richard swung his sword in an arch, cutting through Jon like he was a slab of butter. The squire fell to the ground in a heap. Elena refused to look at him, kept her eyes on her brother.

  "Richard," she breathed, her bloodied lips trembling.
r />   He rushed forward, kneeling in front of her and cut through the ties at her ankles and wrists.

  "Hush, love. I've come to take you home."

  A mixture of hope and pain filled her chest. "To Ireland?"

  "Aye, to Ireland."

  "Sir! Captain Devereux!"

  Michael slowed his mount and twisted in the saddle to see a knight barreling toward him on horseback, arms waving as he shouted out for Michael's attention.

  He narrowed his eyes, taking in his surroundings. It was quiet, slightly overcast. There was no one else on the road, and he didn't see any metal glinting from the trees to indicate an army waited. Were they just well hidden? Was it an ambush?

  He shook his head, narrowing his eyes on the rider. No ambush. 'Twas not possible. He wouldn't allow it. He was on his way back to England. They'd won, and now they were leaving. His retainers slowed, some of them drawing their swords, the metal scraping against their scabbards.

  "Halt!" Michael shouted, holding up his hand, when the man was a short distance away.

  The knight pulled tight on his reins and stopped, taking in the men with swords drawn with a weary glance.

  "Captain, I come with news."

  On closer inspection, Michael noted the man wore Alexander, Lord Hardwyck's colors. He could be trusted.

  "What news?" Michael sliced the air with his hand, indicating for his men to sheath their swords. The messenger swallowed visibly in relief.

  "My lord has sent me with a message." The knight cleared his throat. "He overheard your overlord boasting of leaving France early, to return home and reunite with his wife."

  "What more was said?" Michael tried to act as though this news did not affect him, even though fear and revulsion warred within him.

  "He's gone to collect her from the convent, and then apparently to dole out a punishment for having left him."

  He refused to let the news affect him. Little good it would do to lose confidence now. "How long ago did he depart?"

  "A fortnight, sir."

  Damn! Kent's men were already two weeks ahead. The bastard was probably on a ship already, maybe even having already landed in England. Kent took his time while traveling. Leaving early would make him feel confident that Michael couldn't stand in his way.

  Michael and his retainers would have to hurry. There would probably be no catching up to Kent, but at least they could be right on his heels.

  "We might want to break camp here, sir," Colin said, giving Michael a weary look.

  They'd ridden hard through the French countryside, barely stopping to rest the horses or even to take necessary breaks to relieve themselves. But he didn't want to stop. Michael wanted to go. He wanted to ride his horse hard until he reached the coast and then harder when they landed in England. But that was impossible, and he'd end up killing his mighty stead if he didn't slow down.

  He slowed Black, who snorted through his frothy lips. God, what if he didn't get there in time, and Kent did something to hurt Elena? At least he'd left Jon there. Even with a broken leg his man would fight to the death to protect Elena. He took solace in that. She at least had some measure of protection.

  "Sir?"

  He'd have to be happy with that thought. And pray she was all right.

  "Aye, we'll make camp for the night."

  The men sighed audibly, and the horses too. Everyone was pleased to slow the pace he'd set. Men walked stiffly around the camp, building up fires as the sun set, and tossing blankets on the ground. No one bothered to set up tents knowing Michael would want to break camp down at dawn. No one hunted, instead they ate what provisions they'd packed.

  Michael shoved a tasteless, stale oatcake into his mouth and washed it down with bitter ale from a skin Colin handed him.

  "She will be all right. She will be protected in the abbey. They have orders not to let the Earl inside." Colin sat down beside him, wincing at his own bite of oatcake.

  Michael looked up at the sky, surprisingly clear and innocent for all the bloodshed they'd just heaped on the French and the twisted situation he was returning to.

  "They may have orders, but he is the Earl. They won't stand for long if he orders them to open the gates." He sighed and shook his head. "Besides, Elena would rather offer up herself then see anyone harmed, and you know Kent's approach. He'll attack the abbey to get what he wants, no matter that it is a house of God."

  "We will be there before it gets to that point."

  Michael nodded, not knowing what else to say. Colin was only trying to console him, and he wasn't sure that was possible. Not with the horrors he imagined Kent would play out on fair Elena.

  Colin lay down on his woolen blanket and turned away from Michael. His loyal companion was snoring within seconds.

  Michael lay back on his own blanket, tucking his aching arms behind his head. He wasn't tired mentally. Physically his body shouted for slumber, but inside his head, his thoughts raced. He was too worried to sleep.

  What would they do once they did reach England? He couldn't very well protect her and return to Kent's service. The best thing would be to take her to Ireland just as he'd said he wished to do from the beginning. But he had no title, no lands, he wasn't wealthy, and neither of their families would welcome them with open arms. Could their love withstand being poor, perhaps working the land for sustenance and a roof over their heads? Surely he could find a small bit of land to purchase, even offer up his skills as a knight to a local overlord—if the man had no idea who they were.

  Unlikely. It appeared their future would be bleak.

  But anything was better than leaving her where she was. He simply could not do that. He wouldn't.

  They'd just have to find a way. Then it hit him. He had a solid ally in both Thomas and Alexander—both earls. Either of them would be happy to offer him a place in service, and then Elena could also be around another lady—she wouldn't have to suffer. She could live the life she deserved. Then again…she was another man's wife.

  The king would be unhappy. But with recommendations from Thomas and Alexander, mayhap the king would agree it was best to annul Elena's marriage and let her cleave to Michael. They could even petition the annulment on the basis of their hand-fasting. He loved her; he would not let her suffer any longer. He couldn't stand to watch her with Kent. Couldn't stand the thought of her bearing anymore pain.

  Feeling somewhat like he'd come to a good conclusion, Michael allowed himself to drift off.

  Shouts and the stomping of feet and hooves startled Michael from a deep sleep. He sat straight up on his makeshift bed, and blinked his eyes rapidly to adjust to his surroundings. What was happening? Why were there men running to and fro? Horses! He rolled to the right in just enough time not to be trampled by a riderless horse.

  Utter chaos. Someone had kicked a log from the fire, and smoke mixed with fog making the air swirl thick. Fire leapt from dead leaves and dry grass, spreading quickly. Men shouted, and threw their blankets over the flames. Horses screamed, their feet dancing in a myriad of directions to get away from the fire and running men. The animals nipped and bucked until they broke free of the chaos, leaving the men in the churn of smoky air.

  "Sir!" Colin grasped his arm. "An ambush—I think."

  Michael stared at him. This was no ambush. No one was fighting, they were all running mad. Running away—but from what?

  Dawn had barely broken. The silvery full moon still shone above, with orange fingers of light from the rising sun reaching out to grasp the pearl of the night, sinking her into glorious daylight. But this was no glorious day. Something was horribly wrong.

  "Settle the men, make sure everyone is well," Michael ordered. Colin rushed off shouting at the men to assemble.

  Michael grasped the reins of a horse as it blew by, pulling the animal to a stop. Feral eyes glared at him, but Michael stood firm, daring the animal to kick at him or bite him. Soon the horse calmed, even nuzzled Michael's arm. He soothed the horse with whispered words.

  "Whe
re is your rider?"

  A young man sped past, his barefoot feet singeing on the burning grass and he hopped from foot to foot howling.

  With his free hand, Michael grasped the boy, turning him to face him. He couldn't have been more than fifteen summers. And he was not from Michael's camp. "Where did you come from?"

  The boy opened his mouth and gasped for breath, but no words came out. Michael shook him gently.

  "I asked you a question."

  He held out a shaky arm and pointed westward. The direction they would have been headed come morning.

  "From where? Who is your master?"

  "Lo—Lo—Lord Kent, sir."

  Michael's eyes widened. "Where is he?"

  The boy's face paled, his lips trembled. He shook his head. "I know not. 'Tis believed he escaped, but not the rest of us."

  "Escaped what? What has happened?"

  "We held camp just beyond here. We'd been there awhile, a sennight mayhap. The earl was carrying on with the locals. Taking their ale, eating their meat, and he—he—he was with…their women."

  "Raping and pillaging?"

  The boy nodded. Michael could have murdered Kent if he were in front of him. The bastard had broken the rules of chivalry! Not that he'd ever followed them to begin with. But the men Kent had taken with him were loyal to the bastard—and lechers. They would all have reveled in a week of rape and mayhem.

  Some men could not be turned to Michael's side, and that was evident now.

  "Who attacked your camp?"

  "Someone from the village must have gone off to tell the French soldiers what was happening. They attacked just an hour or so ago." The boy had stopped shaking by now, to Michael's relief.

  "Have they followed?"

  "I don't know, sir, but you and your men won't be safe if they did. One Englishman is just as bad as the next to the French."

  Michael nodded and let the boy go. He quickly vanished into the smoky fog as if he'd never really existed. Michael put his fingers to his lips and blew a loud whistle. His men quickly gathered before him, not looking worse for wear. By now most of the people running from the massacre of Kent's entourage had either settled or disappeared.