“Then I shall have to cull their numbers until they become more dutiful. Take her away, Martin.” He held out his dagger. “But first cut a lock of that hair and remove her wedding band.”
As calmly as she could, Saxan stood while Martin cut off one thick curl of her hair. She could not completely stop herself from struggling when he took the ring Botolf had given her. One hard glare at the burly man who took her by the arm was enough to make him ease his tight grip, but Saxan made no further attempt to fight his hold. With Cecil and all his men around and the awkwardness of her shape, any bolt for freedom would be utterly useless and would simply get her hurt. There was only one advantage to her weighty pregnancy and that was that none of the men looked at her with the glint of lust in their eyes. She wondered if she could use her condition to convince the men that she did not have to be watched closely either.
When they went up the tower stairs, instead of down into whatever dungeon Cecil had, Saxan breathed a hearty sigh of relief. She did not think she could have tolerated confinement in a dank, dark cell for long, and it would have seriously lessened any hope of escape, the chances of which were very small already.
Martin shoved her into a tiny room on the third floor and slammed the door behind her. Saxan heard the bar slide into place and fought down a sudden surge of fear. She was simply locked in a room, not dead or facing some horrible torture, she reminded herself sternly. Any chance of escape had been severely limited, but she was still alive and there was some hope to be found in that.
After assuring herself that the small rope-slung bed was not too filthy, she sat down on it and studied her tiny prison. She doubted that even she could lie lengthwise on the floor without banging into the thick, damp walls. There was one arrow-slit for a window, but since she was three floors up, she knew there would be no escape through there. She grimaced as she admitted that she could never squeeze her well-rounded shape through it anyway.
Saxan lay down, wrinkling her nose at the musty smell. She was tired, too tired to make any clever plans for an escape. Whatever agenda Cecil had would need time to be set in motion. She would rest and then study her precarious position with a mind not clouded by exhaustion. As she closed her eyes, she prayed for a miracle. No matter how hard she tried to boost her hopes, she feared only divine intervention could save her now.
“How could you hand my sister over to that murdering cur?” Thylda demanded when Bretton rode into the rough camp his men had established just inside the Scottish border.
Bretton stared at the infuriated young woman as he dismounted. “May I brush the dirt of travel from myself ere ye begin to berate me?”
“You can brush yourself all you wish, you can never brush away the filth you have splattered upon yourself by dealing with Cecil.”
Thylda resisted the urge to take a step back when he glared at her. The moment his men had made camp she had tended to the men of Regenford. It struck her as odd that none of Botolf’s men had been killed, although one was dangerously wounded. It was as if the Scots had tried to make the abduction as bloodless as possible. There was also no repeat of the attempt to rape her. She was being treated most courteously.
She began to wonder if Sir Bretton were not really Cecil’s hireling, but had in fact been acting under coercion. As the time slipped by, she began to grow anxious for his return. If he had any sense of shame or guilt over what he had done, she was eager to try and take advantage of it. When he arrived and she saw the children, she knew she had been right—he had been forced to act as he had. Now all she had to do was find out just how badly he felt about it or, she glanced at the bruised pale-faced children, how furious he was with Cecil.
“Ye have a verra sharp tongue, wench,” he said. “Considering the precarious position ye are in, ye might take better care of whom ye whet it on.” He nodded his thanks to one of his men who had brought him a wineskin and taken his horse away. “Has a messenger been sent to Regenford, Iain?” he asked his sergeant-at-arms, who was crouched near the campfire next to Thylda.
“Aye,” lain replied. “We set the ransom as ye asked, though I still think ’tis too low.”
“Nay. I have taken enough from the earl this day,” he murmured as he sat down on the other side of Thylda and helped himself to some of the rabbit Iain had cooked.
“Aye,” snapped Thylda. “You have murdered his wife and unborn child.” She leaned away when he spun around to glare at her.
“She was the price for my dead brother’s children. I had no choice.”
“There are always choices,” she said, but her tone was softer for she did understand.
Before Bretton could say anything, one of his men rushed up and hissed, “Ye were right. That bastard has sent some of his murderers slinking after us. And they have killed our messenger to Regenford, for one of them rides his horse.”
Thylda had no chance to ask what was happening. Bretton grabbed her by the arm, pulled her to her feet, and pushed her toward the Regenford men as he snapped out orders to his own men. She and the Regenford men were pushed and dragged a few yards from the camp and hidden amongst the trees and bushes. Two Scotsmen stood guard over them, but she got the feeling they were more for protection than restraint. When the men of Regenford encircled her, Thylda knew that they also sensed the approaching danger, one that threatened them and her as much as it did the Scots. As the first clash of swords echoed through the forest, she wondered where the children had gone.
She covered her ears to block out the sounds of men dying. It was chilling and frightening, for she could not see who was dying—enemy or protector. Thylda huddled closer inside the circle of men from Regenford and closed her eyes, praying that the fighting would end quickly.
“ ’Tis done, lass,” John said, gently tapping Thylda on the shoulder.
“Who won?” she asked as she opened her eyes.
“We did,” replied Bretton as he grasped her by the hand and pulled her to her feet.
“You should leave the child with us,” said John, eyeing Bretton with blatant distrust.
“There is no need to become so protective,” said Bretton. “I swore to Lady Saxan that naught would happen to her sister. The lass is safe with me.”
“ ’Twas Cecil who attacked you,” Thylda said as Bretton led her back to the campfire.
“Aye.”
She looked at the three children huddled by the fire. There was no sign of the battle just fought except for the newly wounded Scots and two blanket-shrouded bodies. Thylda sat down by the fire, smiled at the children, and listened to Bretton order half his men to return home with the children, the dead, and the wounded.
“And what are you going to do?” Thylda asked, ignoring his look of surprise at her impertinence.
“Do ye expect me to discuss my plans with some wee English lass?”
“Aye, as I believe those plans may have something to do with me.”
He cursed and combed his fingers through his hair. “I begin to understand why ye Todd women have such a reputation.”
“We have a reputation?” she asked, pleased yet not sure she ought to be.
“Oh, aye, on both sides of the border. I am nay sure ’tis something ye should look so pleased about. Most ladies wouldnae like to be thought of as being as strong as a mon or as clever as one.”
“True. We Todd women prefer to be thought of as stronger and cleverer.” She smiled in surprise when he laughed.
“Ye just may be at that, lass. Aye, either that or too stupid and naive to be let loose upon the world.” He met her angry scowl with a faint smile. “Aye, what I now plan does concern you and your men. I am taking ye all back to Regenford.”
“I know that. You mean to ransom us.”
“Nay, no longer. That cur Cecil thinks I am no longer a problem to him, that his murdering pack of dogs has cut me down. Ere he has time to realize that his betrayal has failed, he will be fighting for his life. If ye want any of that rabbit or a wee drink ere we ride for Regenford, ye ha
d best have it now.”
“ ’Tis nearly dark,” she protested even as she helped herself to the cooled rabbit and a long drink from the wineskin he held out to her.
“Now, lass, ye should ken as weel as anyone that the darkness has ne’er stopped a reiver.”
Saxan slowly opened her eyes and tensed when she saw Cecil standing by the bed staring down at her. She could not completely stop herself from glancing at his hand to see if he held a dagger. The cold look in his eyes frightened her, but she fought her fear, refusing to reveal it to him. As calmly as she could, she sat up.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded.
“Admiring my brother’s choice of woman. My only complaint is that this time he found one without a whore’s heart. It has made things most difficult for me.”
“Odella was not all the help you thought she would be?”
“Nay. She was never able to get close enough to Botolf. Merry, the kitchen maid, has been much more use. Of course, when she told me how I could get my hands on you, she became too helpful.”
“How can anyone be too helpful?” She leaned away when he reached out to touch her hair, but he still stroked his hand down the length of her braid.
“Her information was so valuable this time that I dared not risk the chance that she would be forced to reveal what she had told me.”
“You killed her.”
“Do you know of a surer way to silence someone?” he demanded. “I was hurried, however, and that troubles me. ’Twas not done as neatly as I wished it to be.” He shrugged. “It matters not. Even if they find the little whore’s body, it will gain them nothing. She cannot tell them who killed her or why, can she?”
He spoke of murder with such calm, Saxan could barely suppress a shudder. “I am surprised you have let Lady Odella and her father remain alive.”
“Have I?”
She could not fully hide her shock. “You have killed them, too?”
“Not by my own hand, of course. If they are not dead now, they soon will be. The man I sent after them is very good.”
“Your path is fairly choked with bodies. I do not understand how you can still believe you can go unpunished.”
“Those I cannot trust, I kill. ’Tis quite simple.”
“And you are quite mad.” She bit back a cry when he backhanded her across the face.
“I would be careful with my words, m’lady. I have not forgotten that it is your fault my mother has turned from me.” He clenched and unclenched his upraised fist, but did not strike her again.
“My fault? You have been trying to kill her son, your own brother. ’Tis only her great love for you that kept her from seeing the truth of that as soon as everyone else did. If you had not attacked me and threatened the life of her grandchild, she might still be denying it. Even a mother cannot forgive such a crime.”
“Do not deny your part in her change toward me,” he said, a hint of anger roughening his cold voice. “I know all about the things you said to her after our meeting in the wood.”
Saxan shook her head. She did not know how to deal with the man. He was unquestionably mad and saw everything in a twisted way. She knew she had no chance of talking him out of his plan to murder her and her child. He was not a man who could be reasoned with. She could not even begin to guess what words might prompt him to strike her again.
“And because Lady Mary cannon condone your killing her son, you blame me,” she said. “And what do you blame Botolf for?”
“Everything.” He gave her a cold smile. “ ’Tis simply enough that he was born.” He glanced toward her stomach, then met her eyes. “His child will not be.”
“This child shares a blood kinship with you and has done you no wrong.”
“That child can grow up to try and claim what is mine.”
“You murdering bastard,” she hissed, her fear and anger stealing her calm, and she was not surprised when he struck her again. She straightened up, glared at him, and wiped the blood from her lip.
“ ’Ware, m‘lady. I want you only to draw Botolf here. Your lifeless body will serve as bait nearly as well as your live one. True, I am eager to make Botolf watch as I end the life of his wife and the child he craves. Howbeit, I will forego that pleasure if you goad me. You may die sooner or later. ’Tis your choice.”
“What a choice,” she whispered and shuddered when he left.
His words made her want to weep, but she took several deep breaths to still the urge. Crying would gain her nothing and could even weaken her. Yet the images he had left in her mind chilled her to the bone. Her own death and that of her child was hard to face, but the thought of their murders being used to torture Botolf was horrifying. She covered her face with her hands and tried to calm herself enough to push those images away and think only of how to escape.
She walked to the narrow arrow-slit and leaned forward to look out. Even if she could squeeze her body through the opening, it was at least a thirty-foot drop down a sheer wall to rocky ground below. She circled the room, feeling the cool damp walls, but found no secreted door or hatch. As she sat back down on the bed, she stared morosely at the thick door. It was the only way out. She would either have to overpower someone and make a run for freedom, which was probably not possible in her condition, or pray that someone forgot to bar the door after leaving.
By the time she was brought some food and water, Saxan was despondent. She lay on her back on the tiny bed, staring up at the ceiling. It took her a moment to realize it was a young, timid maid who was setting down the tray of food on a battered table near the bed. Saxan could hardly believe her luck when she glanced out the open door and saw no guard. Either Cecil was so arrogant, so certain that he had won, he had grown lax, or his servants were witless fools.
Saxan leapt from the bed and raced for the open door. The maid cried out in alarm as Saxan slammed the door shut and barred it. She prayed no one had heard the maid call out. After a quick glance around to be sure there was no one else in the hall, Saxan began to creep toward the stairs. She knew that, if she failed to break free this time, she would never be given another chance.
She scrambled down the stone steps to the second floor and cursed. It was as devoid of hiding places as the floor she had just left. With her distinctive hair and shape, she could not walk about openly pretending to be one of the servants. The brief flare of heady anticipation that had invigorated her as she fled her room was slipping away fast She was easy to recognize out in the open, and it was still daylight. Somewhere between the second floor of the towerhouse and the gates she had to meet someone. It began to look as if her recapture were inevitable.
After taking a deep breath to steady herself again, she slipped down the next flight of stairs. Even as she reached the bottom step, she heard voices. A panicked look around revealed no one in the hall, and she bolted for the door.
Her heart pounding so fast it was painful, Saxan clutched her cape around herself, hoping to disguise herself just enough to get across the bailey and out the gates. It was hard to resist the urge to run, but she knew that would draw too much attention to her. The gates were just a few feet away when a cry went up, and her heart jerked down into her stomach. Saxan did not even look to see who or how many were after her, she just ran.
She felt hands clutch at her cloak as she bolted through the gates. Her speed was drastically cut by the added weight of her baby and the awkward shape of her body, however, so she was not surprised when someone finally grabbed her from behind. Although the man’s body buffeted her fall somewhat, she still hit the ground hard. Winded and aching, she could only squirm fruitlessly as he yanked her to her feet. Some of her composure had returned by the time she was dragged back to the towerhouse where Cecil waited by the door.
“That was very foolish of you,” he said in a calm voice which did not match the painful way he grabbed her arm and pulled her back inside.
Saxan was too weighted with disappointment to fight as he forcefully led her back
to her room. “ ’Tis just as foolish to sit and wait for you to kill me.”
“I should kill you now and save myself any further trouble.” He shoved her into her tiny room.
“And lose your chance to torment Botolf?” she asked as she walked to the bed and sat down. “This little annoyance is not enough to make you forego that opportunity.” She wanted to ask what had happened to the maid, but quickly decided it was probably better if she did not know.
“I have sent word to Botolf that I hold you. He will be here on the morrow.”
“Mayhap he will guess at your treachery and refuse to walk into your trap.”
“Nay, not the honorable Botolf. Even though he knows he will be walking to his death, he will come. A man like him can do nothing else, and that has always been his weakness. Good sleep.”
She spat at him, but the door was already shut. When the bar was dropped, locking her in, she sagged onto the bed. She fought the urge to cry again, for she knew she would weep herself senseless if she began. It was a hard knot in her throat That had been her one and only real chance. There was no doubt in her mind or heart. Yet again Cecil had made her feel helpless, and she detested him for that. All she could do now was wait and pray that Botolf would somehow thwart Cecil’s deadly plans for them all.
Botolf was preparing to go and look for Saxan when his oldest man-at-arms, Matthew, hurried into the great hall. It was not only the concerned look on the man’s craggy face that told Botolf he was not going to like the message the man brought; a chill of premonition settled in his veins, and he tensed.
“There is a messenger from Cecil, m’lord,” Matthew said. “He wishes to talk with you.”
Fear was like a hand tightly squeezing his heart. Botolf gripped the edge of the table so hard his hands hurt. He knew Cecil had Saxan. He also knew he would be the ransom his half-brother asked for her. Cecil would then kill him, Saxan, and their unborn child. What Botolf did not know was how, where, and when, and if there were going to be any way he and his newly begun family could escape the trap.
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