She spat derisively at his feet.
He replied with a cold steel dagger, sharp and immediate against her bosom. But Cambria refused to flinch.
The wretched old crone crossed herself and scurried from the room.
“If you don’t remember your name, wench,” Roger drawled, “I’ll be happy to carve a new one here for you where you won’t forget it.”
Myles took a tenuous step toward her, but Roger blocked the boy with his arm.
She glanced down at the threatening blade and, still struggling against Owen’s grasp, reluctantly complied. “Cambria.”
“Cambria? Cambria,” he tried the name. “It sings on the lips. But not as pretty as you do, I warrant. Shall I try, brother?”
Lucifer’s ballocks! Not this, she thought―a cuff, a kick, but not this. Would no one stop him? From the corner of her eye, she saw Myles shift nervously from foot to foot, but knew he couldn’t possibly lend her assistance, not with the brothers cheering their drunken encouragements to each other.
Roger sheathed his dagger, nodding at Owen for her release. Then, before she could twist free, he brought her up roughly against him, placed a meaty hand upon her face, and pressed his lips hard against hers. She battled to escape and tried to bite his lip, to no avail. He opened her mouth with his, his beard scratching her skin like a whetstone, and she fought off the nausea of his sour breath and probing tongue.
When he released her to Owen’s applause, she scrubbed at her mouth with the back of her hand. “You bastard!” she choked out. Her stomach was roiling again.
“Ah!” Roger swooned playfully. “Now there’s a song for your liking, lively and spirited! I think I’m going to enjoy learning to play this instrument.”
Myles had evidently seen enough. He took a step forward in her defense. But a sharp command from Roger set the hound of the still-slumbering knight upon Myles, growling and snapping at her young champion every time he moved a muscle. With rising desperation, Cambria cast about the room for an escape.
“Don’t move, wench!” Roger roared. “You’re mine!”
“Never!” she cried, racing to the stairs.
The hulking knight followed at her heels and caught her about the legs. She stumbled and fell heavily on the stair, wincing as she bruised her knee and rent her kirtle. She clawed at the steps, kicking him as hard as she could, dragging herself slowly upward. But escape eluded her. He coiled his fist around her damp braid and lifted her up by the waist with one thick-muscled arm.
“So anxious for my bed?” he laughed. “We’ll be there soon enough!”
She felt like a jester’s flopping puppet as he carried her ungracefully up the stairs and kicked open the bedchamber door. She beat at him with her fists, her voice shaking as she threatened him. “Lay one hand on me, you motherless cur, and I’ll kill you! I swear it!”
She cursed him, mostly to hide her very tangible fear. This was one battle she’d never been trained to fight. She didn’t even know what weapon to use against a man’s lust.
Roger slammed the door shut with his body, shoving the bolt home. Then he heaved her onto the crude pallet in the midst of the chamber. She scrambled to her knees, wishing to God she had her dagger.
“Don’t touch me!” she commanded, trying to regain some dignity by smoothing her garments.
He giggled and winked drunkenly at her.
She bit her lip. Her demands were not working. Perhaps she could shame him. “Is this the chivalry of an English knight?”
He ignored her and began to undress, humming to himself.
“Look, you bastard,” she hissed, “I’m not some harlot. I’m a virgin.” Surely he would leave her alone now.
“Are you?” he snorted carelessly. “Well, then...luck-, lucky you,” he said with a hiccough. “Ye’ll have the best teacher. Ye will. Ye’ll see.” With that, he pulled off his gambeson to bare a wide, hairy chest.
She searched wildly for a weapon, anything. There was a clay chamberpot beside the bed. It was heavy. It was hard. She reached for it, flung it with all her might. But as soon as it left her hands, she knew it was going to miss the target.
It shattered against the far wall.
Instantly, the massive knight was upon her. “Woman!” he shouted, pressing her against the plaster wall and spitting in his rage. “Don’t anger me!” He slurred his words. “I can make you suf-, suffer much in the losing of your virg-, your virg-, your maidenhead.”
She blanched.
He released his hold and pulled off the rest of his garments, leaving his huge body naked in the shadowy room. His golden face was fierce and his size frightening. She swallowed hard. He couldn’t mean to...
He weaved toward her. She clambered across the bed, heaving a bolster at him. He laughed and tossed it away. She picked up an empty wooden candle sconce and hurled it. It struck him on the shoulder.
“Son of a...!” he bellowed. In one lunge, he flattened her, crushing the very breath from her. She tried to worm away from him as he covered her face with sloppy, ale-soaked kisses. His body was clammy and so impossibly heavy that her ribs could barely expand to allow her air. When he finally eased his weight off of her, it was only to yank her kirtle all the way up under her arms. He pressed his wet lips to her bared breast, and she fought to wake from the nightmare of his touch.
“You whoreson!” she spat.
He bit her, and she shrieked.
“Holdjer tongue, wench―I’m warnin’ ye,” he said, slurring badly now.
She shuddered as his knee forcefully spread her legs. In a final effort, she brought her knee up hard against him, but it had no effect upon him in his drunken state. He mumbled something as his weight fell upon her again, as heavy as a dozen mail hauberks. She couldn’t move. Closing her eyes, she braced herself for the worst.
Within a few moments, she realized the worst had already happened. The lummox had passed out and was snoring loudly in her ear. She fought the desire to giggle with relief.
Struggling out from under the dozing hulk, she pulled her kirtle back down and ran shaky fingers through her tousled hair. Casting a wary eye toward her attacker, she crept to the door and lifted the bolt. She peered out.
Owen was still drinking and carrying on downstairs. She would never escape unnoticed.
Resignedly, she closed the door. She glanced at the huge golden knight and shuddered. She’d sleep sounder closeted with a bear. But she couldn’t leave just yet, not until the other men retired. Afraid to move him for fear he’d awaken, she left Roger where he was, taking a dark corner of the room for herself. She huddled against the cracked plaster and wrapped her arms around her knees. She had to think.
The windows were sealed shut. The men below were still sober enough to be vigilant. The innkeeper’s wife wasn’t going to help her. And yet, she sighed, what did it matter? Even if she could escape, what would prevent the knights from finding her again? Lord Holden didn’t strike her as the sort of man who’d give up easily. In fact, she thought with a shiver, he seemed the sort of man who’d search the ends of the earth for what he wanted. It would do no good to flee.
Still, she couldn’t bear the thought of facing the Wolf once more. The man was too dangerous, too powerful. His storm-green eyes seemed to invade the fabric of her thoughts and wreak havoc there. Nay, she’d no desire to see him in the flesh again. She shuddered, pulling her kirtle tighter about her legs. She supposed she’d just have to flee to the ends of the earth.
She never intended to fall asleep, propped against the sooty wall. She only meant to rest her eyes for a moment. But exhaustion overtook her, and she dozed off, mumbling a prayer that Roger wouldn’t awaken in the night.
~*~
Sir Roger didn’t awaken―that night, nor any other night.
Cambria roused with a start an hour before dawn, dismayed that she’d slept so long. The knight yet lay where she’d left him. But when she saw his condition, the breath was ripped from her in a rough gasp.
A jagged blade protruded
from Roger’s chest. His blood, drying in rivulets on his pale skin, spattered the furs and white walls and flecked his golden beard with scarlet-brown.
All her senses told her to run, but she stood frozen in morbid fascination. Somehow, while she lay sleeping, soundlessly and in the space of a heartbeat, Roger had been murdered. It was as if some silent spirit had done the deed.
Finally she broke free of her paralysis. Crossing herself superstitiously, she took a faltering step backward and slipped quietly out the door. Fortunately, the knights and the hound below slept heavily after their evening of carousing. She carefully descended the complaining wooden stairs and inched to the front door of the inn, picking her way in the dark through the dozing bodies.
Suddenly the candled shadow of the innkeeper’s wife fell across her. The woman was carrying a huge pot of water. Both froze for only an instant, but the look they exchanged spoke volumes. The woman nodded knowingly and continued about her labors as if she hadn’t seen Cambria.
Had the old woman murdered Sir Roger? Had she had a change of heart and helped Cambria after all? It didn’t seem possible, yet there was no other explanation.
Cambria sighed gratefully, then opened the door with painful stealth and edged through the crack. Shivering with the morning frost, she clutched the kirtle tightly about her and stole into the shadowy forest. The moss was still damp beneath her bare feet, and her breath came out in moist plumes.
She’d traveled only fifty paces from the inn when a twig snapped behind her. She spun in time to see a dark figure looming up. Wasting no time as the follower’s footfalls closed the distance in the leaves behind her, she turned and fled through the mist-shrouded trees. The cold air sliced through her lungs, but she ran desperately into the thickening gorse, cursing the fact she had no weapon.
All at once, her luck and the narrowing path ran out. She was trapped in dense underbrush, like a boar cornered for the kill. She wheeled to find a dark knight brandishing a sword, her father’s sword.
Owen.
As he came grimly forward to claim his prey, she searched the thicket for any way out. He swept his blade up to touch her throat. She gasped and began to retreat. He followed her with the cold blade and colder eyes until she was pressed against the brambles and there was nowhere for her to go.
“You won’t escape this time, you murdering bitch,” he growled.
The point of the sword nicked her chin, threatening to spill her life’s blood at any moment.
“I didn’t murder him,” she said, gulping. “You have to believe me. Someone else―“
The hard heel of his hand came around to catch her temple, knocking her sideways. Branches clawed at her face like the bony fingers of ghouls, and black flecks danced before her eyes.
“Spare me your lying tongue!” he cried. “My brother lies dead, murdered in his sleep.”
He snagged her arm then, pinioning her roughly before him. She staggered, and he shoved her forward, back toward the inn.
“Stupid wench,” he growled. “Roger was the son of a king. You’ll swing from the gallows for this.”
Was it true? Would she be blamed for Roger’s murder? The devil take her temper, she had threatened to slay the man only last night. But she’d never have done it. Didn’t they know that? How could anyone believe the laird of Gavin would stab a man as he slept?
Still, she couldn’t tell them the innkeeper’s wife was responsible for Roger’s death. The old woman had done Cambria a favor. She couldn’t betray that kindness.
Yet, if she didn’t, she was doomed. Owen was one of de Ware’s knights. And Cambria was only a Scotswoman who’d already attempted to kill their lord. Bloody hell, she would go to the gallows.
Or maybe, she dared to hope, Lord Holden couldn’t afford to execute her. Maybe he needed her alive for the sake of the new alliance. Maybe he wouldn’t hang her immediately. Maybe time was on her side. Still she gulped in spite of herself, imagining a noose around her neck.
By the time they returned to the inn, it was nearly dawn. Her arm ached from being gripped so cruelly. Sir Owen roused the entire inn with his bellowing until, groggy and only half-dressed, the de Ware knights came out to hear him.
“She’s a murderer!” he shouted, his voice breaking in lament. “My brother lies dead in his chamber! This witch slew him while he slept, then tried to escape!”
A cry of pain was wrung from her as Owen viciously twisted her arm.
The knights looked amazed. The black-haired giant seethed with outrage. He bolted forward and seized her by the throat with one large hand. Already towering over her, he moved just inches from her face, so close that she could see the two gray hairs in his black beard. He spoke as if he chewed upon tough meat, clenching his fist before him and branding her with his coal black eyes.
“You cursed wench, it’s a pity my cousin wishes you alive, or I’d slay you with my own hand! Be watchful once you are safely returned, for I won’t be far away.”
He closed his hand tightly about her throat. Black spots swam before her, and she felt her heart struggling to pump blood through her veins. Her fingers clawed frantically at his. Then he released her abruptly, and she fell to the ground, coughing.
When she dared to look up, Myles was staring down at her, his gray eyes filled with disappointment and pity.
“She’s dangerous! She must be bound!” Owen snapped, slicking his fingers back through his greasy hair.
She was still quaking when the black-bearded ogre wrapped cords around her wrists and ankles, carried her out, and draped her, belly down, over Roger’s horse, in the custom of a dishonored knight. She swallowed back rising bile as the knights placed Roger’s cloaked dead body beside her on the steed.
In disgrace, Cambria returned to Castle Bowden.
~*~
Holden was already in a foul temper. He tossed his helm to the ground and jabbed the toe of his boot into the dust of the tiltyard. His efforts at training these Scots to fight were futile. They stubbornly resisted any attempts on his part to refine their wild technique and insisted on aimless hacking with their weapons rather than precise blows.
His frustration was compounded by the fact that he’d been outwitted by one of them, a mere child. Nay, a woman, he corrected, remembering vividly her soft curves. He was doubly incensed that she should have such an effect on him, and he’d spent long hours in the tiltyard the last few days, taking his anger out on his knights.
He pressed his weary eyes with the heels of his hands.
Damn Roger! The hound should have caught the girl’s scent by now. What was taking so long? Perhaps he should have hunted her down himself.
Thus far, none of the Gavin clan had come for their laird, but certainly they would. How would he explain to them that he’d...lost her?
Distracted by his thoughts and the artless display of combat taking place before him, Holden only stared blankly at the messenger who came to him until the words finally registered.
“What?” he exploded, bringing the farcical battle to a halt.
The messenger began to repeat the memorized words yet again. “Sir Owen, Sir Guy, and Sir Myles have returned. They have the Gavin girl, but Sir Roger is dead by her hand, and―“
Livid with rage, he interrupted the boy. “Have her brought to me at once in the hall!”
Within moments, Owen, dogged by Myles and Guy, dragged the captive before the dais of the great hall. Holden, still sweaty and disheveled from the practice field, stopped pacing when they entered. Owen threw the girl viciously to her knees. Holden saw her bite back a cry as she struck the stone floor, but he steeled his jaw against the mercy that came naturally to him. After all, the woman before him was now a full-fledged murderess. Not only that, but she’d murdered the king’s kin. It was just fortunate that King Edward had little affection for his grandsire’s bastard. Still, royal blood had been spilled.
“What happened?” he demanded.
They all began speaking at once. He held up his hand
for silence. “Owen?”
“The bitch slew my brother, my lord, as he slept.”
“That’s a lie!” the girl cried out. “I’d never―“
“Silence!” Holden was sure his face registered only half of the outrage he felt. “All of you would concur with this?”
He looked carefully from one to another. Owen thrust out his chin in challenge. Sir Guy scowled and nodded with the certainty of an executioner. Myles glanced down at the girl and opened his mouth as if to say something, then looked away quickly, nodding his assent.
Holden turned his back. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. Dear God, what was he going to do now? “My condolences, Sir Owen. You are welcome to send one of my servants to your mother with the news.”
Owen murmured an acknowledgment.
“Now go, all of you...except the girl.”
The knights vacated the hall, closing the heavy door with a hollow thud.
Holden paced for a long while before he could trust himself to speak civilly. Finally, he wheeled, looked down his nose at the bloodthirsty wench, and bit out, “You have slain one of my knights―a king’s son, no less.” His voice grew louder, harsher. “You have attempted to slay me, a lord.” His vehement words rang out in the hall. “And you return unharmed after escaping from my prison!” Now he was shouting in a voice he usually reserved for the most unruly of his men, a voice he’d never used on a woman before. “You are fortunate to be living! Tell me this. What revenge could be so sweet that it would cost you your life three times over?”
She said nothing, but her defiant glare wavered. Perhaps she realized at last how precarious her life was.
Frustrated beyond his limits, he wiped the dust from his brow with both hands and paced heatedly. If only she were a man, he thought in irritation, they could simply draw swords and be done with it.
“When I was a lad,” he muttered, “I was told my mother died giving birth to me. On that day, I made a solemn vow never to harm another woman as long as I lived. But you―you are trying that vow.” He cursed again and punched his fist into his hand. “Roger’s kin will want your blood. King Edward may even require it. Are you aware of that?” he pressed.
Five Unforgettable Knights (5 Medieval Romance Novels) Page 57