by Jen Black
***
Hands to her mouth to suppress her cries of horror, Alina backed towards the altar, unable at first to tear her gaze from the sight of Harry fighting John Errington. When she did seize a moment to glance to one side, Grandfather shook his head over the struggling men and her father laughed.
The sight shocked Alina. Instead of protecting his daughter or helping his prospective son-in-law, her father sat there and laughed. A spurt of rage overrode her wariness. She stalked over and stood in front of him, her hands clenched.
“Father!” She flung a pointing finger in Harry’s direction. “That is the man I love before all others! Do you want to see me a bride or a widow before the day is out? Help him!”
He regarded her without moving, but the smile slowly died on his face. Something must have touched him, for a moment later he rose to his feet and muttered to Sir William. Both men moved forward, arms outstretched and chivvied the two struggling figures down the short aisle to the back of the church.
Alina watched their jerky progress. At some point her mother rushed to her side and gripped her daughter’s hand, but Alina could not tear her gaze from the two young men who traded punches before the church door.
The priest called “Gentlemen, gentlemen—”
Sir William’s voice echoed hollowly from the back of the church. “Now, lads, let’s stop all this hoo-ha and sort this out like gentlemen.”
“Errington, you must give this up,” Carnaby roared. “Everything is null and void.”
Harry landed a blow to Errington’s chin. John stumbled back against the wooden font, surged back to his feet and rubbed his jaw where Harry’s blow had landed. He lips drew back his from his teeth. Alina had seen dogs do the same thing just before they attacked.
His hand dropped to his sword hilt.
“No!” Alina’s shriek soared over the sudden jostle of benches pushed back and the stampede of men to the door. Women clapped a hand against their mouths and three or four stumbled to their feet to follow the menfolk outside.
“Remain inside ladies, where it is safe.” The priest scuttled forward. Alina gripped her skirt and ran.
The priest caught her arm as she went by. “Stay, my dear.”
Alina glared and shrugged him off without a word.
“Fine how-de-ye-do and no mistake.” The strident voice rang in Alina’s ears as she ran the length of the church and turned towards the door. “The family’s too hoity-toity by far. I always said it and now, Constance Carnaby, maybe ye’ll believe me!”
With her hand on the door Alina shot a glance at the speaker. Aunt Agnes, of course; recently widowed, who had always thought herself superior by virtue of being a daughter of the Shaftoes of Bavington. Alina threw back the church door, ran across the gravel path and onto the grass of the churchyard.
Surprisingly, she found herself alone. Frowning, she spun round, uncaring that the blue silk of her gown swirled against the ancient gravestones as she searched for Harry and John. A burst of laughter drew her glance to the west. They’d gone through the churchyard and into the Halton grounds rather than towards the village green as she’d expected.
Hands clenched, she watched the men form some sort of square in the open space before Halton Tower. If the bursts of merriment were any clue, they were enjoying themselves hugely. Why were men always so anxious to spar and fight or watch someone else do it? Somebody would be killed.
Her lips thinned and her chin came down. Not on her wedding day, and not with her bridegroom. Alina lifted her blue silk skirt in both fists and plunged towards the gate intent on giving the protagonists a piece of her mind.
A hand grasped her arm and a gruff chuckle sounded in her ear.
“Nah, nah, had up, me beauty. Ye’re wi us!”
***
Harry had no time to look to his bride. Trapped within a horde of jostling Carnaby and Errington men and swept at great speed out of the churchyard and into the Halton lands, Harry’s blood ran hot. He caught no more than a swift glimpse of sunshine on the honey coloured stones of Halton Tower and the outbuildings that formed a natural square behind it. The men slowed and formed a circle, with himself and Errington in the middle of it.
The sun sparkled on Errington’s blade as it slid from the scabbard.
Harry’s muscles tightened. To interrupt a wedding and demand that the bride honour a previous commitment was outrageous, and Errington’s taut, frowning face worried him. For the space of a heartbeat Harry rued the day he met Alina Carnaby in Corbridge market square, then his blade leapt to his hand with a chilling, ringing hiss. He was not going to lose her now.
A sigh of expectation whispered around the watching circle.
Harry flicked the hair out of his eyes. Would his children, assuming he lived to have any, ever believe him when he recounted the tale of a swordfight to win his bride?
Errington attacked with a leap forward, but his second step stabilised him. He had been well taught. Harry allowed himself to be driven back, looked beyond the blades for an instant, saw his opponent’s narrowed his eyes, and a chill ran through him. His opponent intended to make this a killing game.
Harry flexed his fingers on the hilt, skipped away from the attacking blade, backed around the edge of the barrier of warm male flesh. He breathed the mixed odours of sweat, musk and civet, heard the tap of meeting blades with extreme clarity and learned the weight and reach of his enemy.
Errington favoured the high line, and offered more than one invitation. He wanted Harry to attack him, and that gave Harry pause. He parried continuously, using the edge of his blade to block and deflect Errington’s blade. First one and then another jocular insult rang out from the crowd.
One of Halton’s terriers rushed into the ring and barked around their feet. Men laughed, someone grabbed the dog by the scruff of the neck and dragged it out of harm’s way. Harry’s sense of foreboding faded. No one but Errington expected this to be a fight to the death.
Errington’s pride was undoubtedly hurt, and perhaps he loved Alina. Harry could understand that. The man needed to make some sort of grand gesture to clear his feelings, and he’d gone too far to back down without some sort of token, some final flourish. Hopefully his pride hurt more than his heart.
On that thought, Harry treated the battle as a weird kind of tournament and prayed he was correct as the silver blades cleaved the sunny air. The spectators roared, swords slid and whined against each other. Sweat slid from his temples and more than once Errington’s blade came perilously close to a hit.
The man was good.
Harry looked for a weakness and found none.
The comments, good, bad and happily sarcastic, were aimed at Errington and he thought it strange until he realised the Errington clan did not deem him worthy of insult. No one knew him. He was naught but some jumped-up popinjay who had stolen Errington’s bride and must be taught a lesson before he was sent packing – minus the lady.
Not caring for that assessment, Harry gritted his teeth, glared at his opponent and redoubled his efforts. Air sawed in and out of his lungs. Their blades caught, clung and brought him close to Errington, so close he felt the man’s warmth, smelled his sweat. They glared at each other. Harry thrust Errington away from him.
“Come on Errington! Finish him!”
Harry glared in the direction of the voice. He was tired of the barracking, tired of the whole thing. He should have been married by now except for this man’s stupid pride. He fixed his attention on Errington and feinted, got the reaction he anticipated, and moved forward on the different line.
The spurt of irritation gave an edge to his swordplay. The watchers noticed. Calls were directed at Harry. One got carried away, and offered advice.
“Keep that arm up, Wharton. Don’t let him go low—argh!”
Harry grinned. His feint had fooled the watchers as well as Errington. Stepping forward once, and again, he forced his opponent back, his blade whipping against Errington’s in a blaze of light.
Harry lunged, his sharp blade caught the skin of Errington’s forearm and a spurt of blood flew into the air.
Harry drew back, chest heaving. Satisfied with his performance, he watched his opponent. Would Errington’s honour be satisfied?
“A lucky blow, I think.” He offered a public salve to his opponent’s pride but he knew deep down that he had taught young Errington not to trifle with the Lord Warden’s son. They could both retire with dignity intact if only Errington had the sense to see it.
Errington shook his head, dropped his sword point and allowed a cousin to bind a handkerchief about his arm. Breathing hard, he glanced over at Harry with an odd look in his eye. “More good play than luck, sir.”
Some of the tension left Harry. He dipped his head. “Thank you.”
The ring of men remained quiet in the sunshine. A wood pigeon fluttered heavily across their heads. Errington patted the makeshift bandage, looked up and seemed surprised to see Harry still at his side. “Still here, Wharton? I thought you came to get married?”
Harry grinned. “I was. I shall, if my bride has not disowned me.”
A faint smile changed Errington’s lean face. “The sooner we get the ceremony over, the sooner we can repair to Aydon and enjoy the feast good Mistress Carnaby will have waiting.” He looked around the encircling crowd. “Off to the church, lads. There’s to be a wedding.” With a roar of approval the whole group broke away in the direction of the church, leaving them to follow as and when they would.
Errington’s smile faded when he thought himself unobserved. He rubbed his bandaged arm. Lines of discontent marred his face. Harry could see he was unhappy with the outcome, had expected to win the bout and claim his bride. Honour demanded he maintain a brave face in public.
Some women had drifted out onto the green. Harry looked for Alina, hoping to see admiration in her eyes. She was not there. His gaze slid back to Errington. On impulse, he offered his hand. “I’d be glad to have you as a friend, if you will.”
Errington’s hazel eyes flickered in surprise. He hesitated a moment, gauging Harry, then flung out his undamaged hand. “I’m not such a fool as to hold grudges. And if I’m any judge, I’d be the one to suffer for it if I did.”
A faint cry rang out. Still clasping hands, they both looked towards the church. Harry groaned. “Now what?”
Faint cries came to them. “Here, where’s my horse gone? Hey! They’ve all gone!”
“What!”
Men ran to the horse lines beneath the yew tree at the church wall and more cries erupted. “They’ve gone, every bloody one!”
Harry and Errington exchanged glances and hastened towards the church, where frustration and rage laced the cries that tore the air.
“Where the hell’s that little bugger I left to look after them?”
“There! Look, is that him?” The man pointed to a small figure racing back down the gentle green slope from the old Roman Wall.
“Aye, that’s him right enough.” He cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed. “Where’s my horse, young Will?”
Less than a minute later, poor Will staggered to halt, palm pressed to his side, very nearly spent. He pointed west. No more than eight years old, scarlet cheeked and hardly able to breathe, he gasped words rather than sentences. “Reivers…that way…took horses…” He looked at Harry. “Alina as well!”
“What?” Harry sprang forward, knelt and grasped the boy’s shoulders. “Will, is it not? Well, Will, nod your head until you can talk properly. You saw Miss Alina ride off with the men who stole the horses?”
Will nodded.
“You are certain it was Alina?”
Will nodded. “Blue dress,” he gasped. “Bride.”
A chill hand settled around Harry’s innards. He glanced up at Errington. “Any idea where they’ll have gone?”
Sir William appeared at their side. “Bewcastle’s where they take horses stolen hereabouts. Noted for it. Bewcastle’s west of here.” He glared at them. “If the two of you’d not started footling about with swords my granddaughter would be safe…”
Harry’s answer was sharp. “She is my bride, sir. Believe me, I will find her.”
“She’s not your bride yet, Harry!”
Harry heard the jubilation in Errington’s voice. If the man was going to propose a race with Alina as the prize, he would kill him. He got to his feet and hesitated long enough to send a swift wink to Young Will before he turned and ran.
Footsteps pounded after him. “Do you have a horse? We have to save her!” It was Errington.
Harry gestured ahead to the Halton stables. “I’m family now. What about you?”
They reached the stable door together. A wry grin crossed Errington’s heated face. “I came late, remember? My horse went with the rest. You go on. I’ll gather men and mounts and follow you as soon as I can.”
“Do that. But don’t think you’re going to steal her from under my nose, Errington.” Harry disappeared into the gloom.
Thinking to add to the romance of the knight and his new lady, someone had caparisoned his mare fit for a royal tourney. Swearing, Harry tore flowers from the brow band and reins, ripped the gaudy fabric from Bessie’s rump and tossed it over a straw bale.
“She wouldn’t come anyway, I can see that now.” Errington’s voice came from the doorway. “Will you be able to track them?”
Harry ground his teeth together. Jesu, did the man think he was incapable of following the trail a dozen horses would leave in soft ground? “Childs’ play,” he snapped.
Harry led Bessie out and mounted in one fluid movement. Errington headed back toward the church. Gathering up the reins, Harry saw Alina’s father striding toward him across the cobbles.
Carnaby put a hand on Bessie’s neck. “Will tells of half a dozen raiders and nearly twenty horses. It should be a plain trail.” His tone suggested that even an imbecile like Harry could not miss it.
Harry restricted himself to a sharp nod of the head.
Carnaby moved to one side and gestured for Harry to ride on.
“Fetch her home, lad.”
Harry heard the soft comment, and glanced back, frowning. He urged his horse towards the open hillside and wondered if he had imagined Carnaby’s gruff words.
Chapter Twenty Two
Twenty horses on soft ground made a trail as plain as day.
Harry drew a deep breath, urged his mare up the slope and let his gaze follow the hoof prints that pocked the meadow on and up to the bare landscape beyond. His blood ran hot and anger warred with fear for Alina.
He knew how reivers infiltrated the local populace seemingly at will. No doubt they’d heard of the wedding by listening to gossip in the village, rode this way and couldn’t resist stealing the horses while everyone was occupied in church.
Horse theft was one thing but taking Alina was quite another. He wished he’d told Errington to alert the Lord Warden. Her life might be in danger, though more than likely there would be a ransom demand. Sickening fears stole into his mind. Some of the ruffians wouldn’t be able to keep their hands off a pretty girl.
On the other hand, she would be terrified, he’d no doubt, but she had a temper and it was her wedding day. High emotion might lead to angry words and Alina wasn’t known for holding her tongue. He growled low in his throat. If one of them so much as laid a finger on her, he’d kill him.
“Come on, Bessie!”
The mare snorted, flicked her ears and thundered on up the slope, shedding a rose from her brow band as she went. The reivers and their ponies had disappeared over the crest of the hill, but all he needed were the hoof prints, and a glimpse of the group now and then.
Carnaby’s wistful expression and soulful words had been a surprise. Harry had been allowed a fleeting glimpse of a worried father who obviously had feelings for his daughter.
The slope levelled out as he neared the
crest, and he let the mare pick her own gait while he searched the land ahead and to either side of the dark, muddied line of hoof prints. They rounded a rocky outcrop, followed the outer rim of a copse, then disappeared into a dip in the land and carried on up the rising green slope beyond.
The reivers covered the ground fast. Harry squinted ahead and in the far distance saw the horses travelling west at a steady pace across a bare ridge. With a crow of delight he settled down to ride as unobtrusively as possible yet still keep them in sight.
Sweat dampened his spine and anxiety tightened his muscles. Bessie responded by speeding up. Controlling the tension that gripped him was difficult. He reasoned that they couldn’t do anything to Alina while they moved at speed across country. The danger would come when they stopped. Gritting his teeth, Harry intended to be right there with them when they reached their destination.
***
Alina prayed her captor would stop soon. He rode a shaggy pony over rough ground and, held face down before his thighs, the smell of horse, grass, and bog clogged her nose. Because the pony was short-legged, knee high clumps of wiry grass whipped her face and dollops of icy black water drenched her.
The pony broke from a canter to swift, bone-shaking trot.
If only she had not been so intent on reaching Harry she might have heard the reiver’s unshod pony pattering up through the churchyard behind her. His evil smelling hand had both gagged and dragged her across his pony as if she weighed no more than a child. Then, with her as the bull’s eye in a round ring of stolen horse flesh, the reivers pounded across the hillside.
The pony gathered itself and lunged forward across a trickle of muddy water. Her chaplet of flowers had long since fallen into the mire, and now her long hair swung down into her eyes, and the precious amber pendant smacked against her nose. Bracing one hand against the pony’s shoulder she gripped the rider’s ankle with the other, and swore when the pendant struck again. Joggled and dizzy, she shut her eyes, but that made the dizziness worse. She forced her head up and focussed on a distance clump of grass.