“I know.” He dragged his fingers through his hair. “ ’Tis the only reason I let her go. I could not deny her the chance to collect things that might ease that trying time. Aye, and which might make it safer for her.” He drummed his fingers on the table as he stared at the heavy doors to the great hall. “I just cannot shake the feeling that she is not safe out there.”
“No man has seen hide nor hair of Cecil or the Scots.”
“That does not mean they are not near at hand, and well you know it.”
“You fret so because she carries your child.”
“Mayhap. Howbeit, I will give her but two more hours and then I shall ride out after her.”
Saxan straightened up, tossed the lump of moss into her sack, and rubbed her lower back. She had not found everything she wanted, but that did not surprise her. It was too early.
She looked over her shoulder, then cursed. She had been doing that the whole time she had been there. A strange foreboding had settled into her heart, and she could not shake it. Yet every time she looked around, she saw nothing. Sighing over her own skittishness, she looked at Thylda as her sister walked up to her.
“Are these what you seek?” Thylda asked, holding a tiny grouping of newly budding plants in her hands.
“Aye. They may be too young and tender, but toss them into the sack.” She shivered and stared hard at the trees just behind Thylda. “This place unsettles me,” she murmured.
Thylda looked behind her, shrugged, and looked back at Saxan. “Mayhap being so far gone with child makes you fretful. There is nothing in those trees. I just came from there.”
“I know, but I have not been able to shake my unease since just after we stopped here. There is no more worth gathering; I believe we had better leave.” She took her sister’s hand, signaled to John, who had stayed close by her side, and started back to where the horses stood. “I want to get away from those trees.”
“Did you see someone, m’lady?” John asked, scowling as he looked around.
“Nay. I saw nothing. Mayhap I am just tired.”
“Do you feel something?” Thylda whispered.
“I told you—I feel uneasy,” Saxan replied, her voice low. “I have not had some vision if that is what you are asking. I just want to leave here.” She stopped suddenly and cursed. “And I do not believe I will.”
John screamed as an arrow thrust itself through his shoulder. Even as he fought to pull his sword with his uninjured left arm, several men raced out of the wood. Saxan knew at a glance that they were Scots. She looked to where the other five men from Regenford stood and saw that they were overwhelmed by the enemy. Saxan looked for an opening. A clear run to the old mare opened up, and she took it.
“Thylda, hurry to the mare,” she ordered her sister, pushing the younger girl ahead of her as it became painfully clear that she could not run too far or too fast.
“I cannot leave you,” Thylda protested.
“There is no sense in the both of us being captured. Try to get to the mare.”
As Thylda started to run ahead of Saxan, she complained, “That old horse will never help me escape.”
“Not if you never reach her because you are too busy complaining.”
Saxan clutched at her side as she watched Thylda bolt ahead of her. She dreaded being captured by the Scots, but her pregnancy stole the speed she needed to get away. It made no sense to hold Thylda back as well. The men from Regenford would soon be defeated, and Thylda had to grab what could well be her only chance to escape.
Since she knew she could not run fast enough, Saxan slowed her pace. She did not want to hurt herself or the child she carried. Just as she began to regain her breath, the cramp in her side unknotting, she saw Thylda reach the mare. Saxan felt the first sharp sting of joy, thinking that her sister would slip free, only to cry out in denial and frustration when three burly Scots reached the girl and dragged her out of the saddle.
The Scots threw a cursing, thrashing Thylda onto the ground. Horror and fury gripped Saxan as she watched two of the men pin her sister down while a third fought to yank up her skirts. Those feelings gave Saxan the strength to run again, drawing her knife even as she gained speed. She knew she ought to keep trying to escape, that she should not try to help Thylda but should think only of saving herself and the child weighting her down. Saxan also knew that she could not run away and leave Thylda to be raped.
A cry of pure rage escaped her when she reached the men. She struck at the man who had wedged his way between Thylda’s legs and was readying himself to take her. He put up his arm to protect himself, and she slashed at him, cutting the length of his forearm. The man screamed, clutching his bleeding arm as he tumbled off Thylda.
To Saxan’s astonishment and delight, the two men holding Thylda down released her. One of them tried to swing at her, but his companion stopped him, berating the cursing man for trying to strike a pregnant woman. Saxan found it puzzling that a man ready to rape a young girl would be so appalled over his friend’s attempt to hit her, but she did not take the time to try to understand his twisted morals. Thylda was already on her feet and, since the mare had run off, Saxan pushed her sister toward the wood. If they could reach the trees, they might be able to hide.
Yet again, Saxan fell behind as she and Thylda ran for the forest. The pain returned to her side, but she fought to ignore it. All she could think of was getting Thylda to a safe place before any other Scots tried to take their pleasure of the girl. She hissed a curse when she realized the men from Regenford had been killed or subdued, for there was a chilling hunter’s cry as the Scots turned all their attention on her and Thylda. Although they were already in the thick wood, Saxan did not think they would have time to find the secure hiding place they needed.
Thylda crouched behind some tangled bushes, the fat buds on the branches adding to her cover, and caught Saxan as she stumbled up to her. “We need to catch our breath,” she said between gasps for air. “Are you all right?”
“Nay, but I can go on.” Saxan heard the Scots thrashing through the wood looking for them. “We dare not rest for long.”
“I know, but we really need to rest or we shall just collapse at their feet.”
Saxan grasped Thylda’s hand, noticing that it trembled as badly as her own. “Are you all right?”
“Aye, although I suspect I shall have a nightmare or two about how nearly I was raped. That pig had not even realized that I was wearing braies, so I still had a few moments. I just pray that we are not captured.”
Saxan nodded and squeezed Thylda’s hand. She could hear the fear and lack of hope in Thylda’s voice. The chances of their eluding capture were slim, and now Thylda knew that capture meant rape. The Scots could have simply been caught up in the headiness of the attack, but there was no ignoring the fact that many soldiers considered women prisoners free for the taking. Saxan was terrified for her sister. Her fears for herself did not run as deep since she was the wife of a marcher lord and extremely pregnant.
“If we are captured, we must stress that we are Todds as well as our relationship to the Earl of Regenford,” Saxan said.
“Do you think that will help? These men must consider our kinsmen their worst enemies.”
“Aye, but they respect them and, most important, it will enhance our worth in ransom.”
“Ah, of course, and our worth could fall if we were, er, damaged.”
“Exactly. Now, we must move. We want to try and stay just beyond the area they are searching. If we are lucky, we may find an impenetrable hiding place or be able to slip back into one of the areas they have already searched and will not return to.”
Saxan secured the hood of her cloak over her hair, indicating that Thylda should do the same. She thanked God that they had both dressed in nearly unrelenting brown, for the hues would now aid them in hiding. Hand in hand, they kept low, scurrying from bush to tree, crouching behind fallen logs, and trying to stay one step ahead of the Scots.
As the d
angerous game continued, Saxan began to grow suspicious of the Scots’ determination to find them. The longer the Scots stayed in the area, the greater the risk they would be discovered by the English, and Saxan was sure that they did not want that. Although there had been enough of the Scots to overwhelm her guard, there was certainly not enough of a force to survive any larger battle.
The moment the opportunity came, she and Thylda slipped back into the area the Scots had already searched. Her hopes began to rise as they edged closer to where the horses had been left. Judging by the number of men thrashing through the wood, there would be a light guard by the horses and they might be able to steal one. The moment the horses were in sight, she crouched behind a gnarled barrier of thorn bushes and tugged Thylda down beside her. Two Scots stood guard over the disarmed, battered men of Regenford, and one lolled against a tree near the horses.
“Do you think we can get a horse?” asked Thylda.
“Aye, and, oddly, that makes me very suspicious.” She shrugged. “Mayhap these men simply cannot believe a woman would have the wit to slip back and try such a thing. I do not know what, but something about this whole attack begins to trouble me.”
“It did seem rather lucky on their part to just happen upon us.”
“Aye, very lucky. Mayhap too lucky.”
“How could they know we would come here?”
“I have not made it a secret that I wished to come this way to search for my herbs and mosses. Nay, or that I needed to do it soon. You must recall how I spoke to every woman in Regenford to see if any of them knew enough to perform the chore for me.”
“Do you think these men are after you? That this was all planned?”
“Aye, I begin to. They are risking a great deal by lingering here just to look for us. The Scots rarely dawdle. They rush in, do their cursed worst, and rush away, either home or further into England.”
“But who would go to such trouble? Oh, do you think there is still a spy for Cecil in Regenford?”
“I begin to think so. I but pray that I am being foolishly suspicious and not as clever as I think.”
“Cease praying, m’lady. Ye are verra clever indeed,” drawled a deep voice from behind them, the Scottish burr clear to detect.
Saxan slowly turned around and sat up. She put her arm around Thylda, who huddled closer to her, and stared up at the man standing before them, his sword pointed at them with a deceptive casualness. His black eyes held an odd expression of cold amusement. He wore a loose white shirt and his plaid, the swirl of the skirt just touching his bare knees. Rough deerhide boots were laced around his strong calves. Long, thick black hair hung past his shoulders, framing his lean, almost hawkish face. He looked dark and dangerous. Saxan briefly allowed the traitorous thought into her head that he was somewhat barbarously beautiful.
“My men thought me a madmon when I said ye might circle round us and try to reach the horses,” the man said, his mouth slanting ever so slightly into the ghost of a smile. “Ah, but I ken that the Todd lasses are a clever lot.”
“You know that we are Todds?” Saxan asked.
“Aye, as ye have guessed, I ken exactly who ye are. Iain, Fraser, help the lasses to their feet,” he ordered the two men with him. “I am Sir Bretton Graeme.” He made a small bow.
“I am Lady Saxan Lavington,” Saxan said. “This is my sister Mistress Thylda Todd.”
“He said ye were with child,” Bretton murmured, frowning at her stomach. “I dinnae think he kens how big ye are.” He shrugged. “ ’Tis further proof that ye are the one he seeks.”
“Why would a Graeme work for an Englishman?” Saxan demanded, certain that the man was in Cecil’s hire.
“M’lady, ye were born and bred here. Surely ye ken that a Graeme will do most anything for a few coins.” Once his men had a firm grip on the women, he sheathed his sword. “Delivering one English lord’s pregnant wife to a brother seeking to usurp him is but a petty crime. Who am I to question the right or wrong of Cecil and Botolf Lavington’s quarrels?”
There was the hint of bitterness in his voice, and Saxan wondered if it were bred of a reluctance to do what Cecil wanted. If the man had any distaste for what he did or had somehow been forced to do Cecil’s bidding, she might find that a weakness to be exploited in her favor. Sir Graeme might not even know what Cecil intended to do to her. It might prove a crime the man wanted no part of.
“And what of the murder of a woman with child?” she asked.
“There has been no talk of that,” he replied.
“Then why does he want me?”
“He doesnae confide in me, m’lady.”
“Cecil wants Botolf dead. He wants me dead. He wants my child dead. Do you wish all that blood on your hands? If you take me to Cecil, it is the same as cutting my throat.”
“Be quiet, woman.” He pushed her toward the horses. “Ye will go to Cecil, and your sister and your men will be sold back to Regenford.”
“You cannot give me to Cecil.”
“Be quiet. I have heard all the English lies I can stomach for now.”
Saxan fought back tears of hopelessness as she walked to the horses. She knew she was walking to her death; but worse, she knew she would be used to lead Botolf to his.
Seventeen
Saxan winced as one of Bretton’s men helped her dismount. She studied the towerhouse they led her into. It was battered, but still strong enough to withstand an attack, at least long enough to cost the enemy dearly. She was sure her kinsmen and Botolf had closely inspected every property within a few days ride of Regenford, yet somehow Cecil had eluded them. The man’s ability to do that made him chillingly dangerous.
Cecil waited in the great hall. Saxan needed a moment to adjust to the darkness of the room. The multitude of tallow candles could not push all the gloom away. She tried to stand straight and act brave when she was brought to stand before Cecil. His look of gleeful triumph made her shiver with cold. When his gaze fell to her stomach, the hatred which twisted his features caused her to take a step back and she came up hard against Sir Bretton’s long frame.
As she wrestled her own fears into submission, she became aware of the tension in Bretton body. Cecil and Sir Graeme were not allies, she was sure of it. Sir Graeme was caught in Cecil’s trap as surely as she was, except that he had a chance to leave the trap alive.
“I have what ye sought,” Bretton said to Cecil. “Now, return what ye hold.”
“So impatient,” Cecil murmured and lazily turned to one of the dozen armed men he had close at hand. “Martin, fetch our prisoners. We have no more need of them.”
Saxan glanced up at Sir Graeme. His lean face was taut and white with fury. He wanted Cecil dead as badly as she did. She waited to see what Cecil held that would make Sir Graeme bow to his command no matter how distasteful he found it.
When Martin and another man returned with the prisoners, Saxan understood. They shoved two small boys and a girl who looked to be only a little younger than Thylda toward Bretton. The children hurried to him, got one brief hug, and then huddled behind him. That and their looks made her think that they were either his children or very close kin. She had never had a chance of talking Bretton out of bringing her to Cecil.
“And there they are, Graeme. Alive, as I promised,” Cecil said.
“Aye, but ’tis clear from the bruises they carry that ye didnae make their stay an easy one,” Bretton said, his low voice little more than a snarl. “Has any mon touched the lass?”
“Nay, I told you she would be safe.”
Saxan looked at Bretton and said, “I hope you can offer the same assurances this cur gave you. You hold my youngest sister. You may also tell any man who eyes her with lust that, if he values his manhood, he will keep it away from my sister or there will be a veritable horde of my kinsmen seeking to cut it off.” To her astonishment, a grin lightened his dark face.
“Aye, and a veritable horde of her kinswomen as weel,” he drawled. “I ken the truth of that a
s weel as any mon. I was outside the walls of Wolfshead Hall with my father when your lady mother held us back until your father arrived to chase us away. She looked glorious upon those cursed walls. My father was much taken with her. Your wee sister will be safe.”
“At least I have that small comfort.”
“If you two are finished becoming the dearest of friends,” Cecil sneered, “you may leave now, Graeme.”
“I should watch my back as I leave,” warned Saxan, glaring at Cecil. “A man who has sunk so low as to kill his own brother will not hesitate to betray an ally.”
“I am weel aware of the mon I was forced to deal with,” replied Bretton.
“Get out,” snapped Cecil.
Saxan watched Bretton and his small group leave even as she kept an eye on Cecil. She wanted to hate the Scotsman for delivering her into the hands of her killer, but she could not. Watching him shepherd the three terrified children out of the great hall, she could understand why he had done what he had. She suspected that the one who allowed the children to fall into Cecil’s hands would pay dearly.
Slowly, she turned to face Cecil and shivered when he smiled at her. “You think you have won.”
“I have,” he said, briefly tilting his tankard toward her in a mock salute. “I have you, and Botolf will walk into my hands like a lamb in the vain hope that he can save you and that child he has bloated you With.”
“And so you will kill him and me and thus our child. What can you win with the blood of three people on your hands?”
“Everything—the lands, the titles, the wealth.”
“Mayhap for a little while. A day, a week, a month, at most a year. I doubt you will laud it over anyone for long. In truth, I doubt you will be able to enjoy your ill-gotten gains at all. There will be so many swords pointed at you that, if they all struck at once, you would resemble a hedgehog.”
“You are so certain your family will lust for my blood. I will be their liege lord.”
“You will never be anything more to them than the murderer of their rightful liege lord and their kinswoman.”
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