‘There’s something else, sir...’ Renard’s voice faltered.
‘What?’ He frowned. Something about the look on their faces made him suddenly reluctant to hear the answer.
‘It’s Lady Aediva.’
He felt a painful thud in his chest. ‘What about her?’
‘We can’t find her anywhere, sir. It looks like...’
‘Like what?’ Svend fought the urge to grab his squire by the throat and shake the words out of him.
Renard gulped. ‘Like she went with them.’
‘The night watchman saw her leave the tower this morning.’ Bertrand interceded quickly. ‘She was alone and heading for the barn.’
‘That doesn’t prove anything.’
‘He saw her speak to the guards before she went inside.’
‘They let her in?’
‘That’s what he says. He thought it was strange at the time, but since they opened the door he assumed everything was in order and moved on.’
‘Where are the guards now?’
‘In the infirmary. They’re alive, but they won’t be able to tell us anything for a while. There are no other witnesses, but from all appearances...’
‘She helped them escape.’ Svend finished the sentence for him.
‘That’s what it looks like.’
He shook his head, snippets of conversation from the evening before coming back to him. She’d asked him to free the prisoners, but when he’d refused she’d seemed to understand what was at stake. She’d asked what would happen to them, had seemed upset by his answer, but that didn’t mean that she’d helped them escape...did it? But why else would she have gone to the barn?
Edmund.
She’d mentioned Edmund. His insides twisted with jealousy before the rational part of his brain took over. Why would she have told him about Edmund if she’d been planning an escape? Why risk arousing suspicion? Besides, she’d said that Edmund had scared her, that she only wanted to warn him...
Hell and damnation! He swung his legs off the bed and stood up determinedly. She was just as headstrong and reckless as ever—going to warn the rebels because she thought it was the right thing to do, simply assuming she was safe because they were Saxon. Damn it all, it wasn’t as if she’d ever followed his advice before. Why the hell had he expected her to start now?
‘Get my horse ready.’
‘Sir, you can’t!’
‘Now!’ He fixed Bertrand with a hard stare. ‘She didn’t do it. She’s not a rebel. Make sure the men understand that.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And tell them I’ll cut the hand off any man who touches her.’
He grasped hold of the wall, steadying himself as the others departed the chamber. Renard was right, he shouldn’t be out of bed, but he had to go after her. If she’d gone, she’d done so against her will. He refused to believe otherwise.
But that meant she was in danger too.
His heart stalled at the thought. If he lost her it would be the end of everything, all his hopes and plans for the future. He had to find her. He’d told her he trusted her and he’d meant it. He was going to keep on trusting her until she looked him in the eye and told him otherwise.
And if she did that he’d never trust the evidence of his own senses again.
* * *
Aediva twisted her neck, looking for any sign of pursuit, but there was nothing—not so much as a cloud of dust on the horizon. She had no idea how long they’d been riding, but the sun was already past its zenith and the weary horses had slowed to a walk. They must be miles away from Redbourn by now—so far that she didn’t even recognise their surroundings.
She heard her name and pricked up her ears to listen. One of the other rebels seemed to be arguing with Edmund about her.
‘She’s weighing you down. Better to leave her behind.’
She held her breath, hoping that Edmund would agree, but if anything his voice only grew harder.
‘It’s not far to the marshes.’
The marshes! She felt a jolt of panic. Once they entered the marshes the Normans would stand no chance of finding them. And she’d have no hope of escaping such a maze. If she was going to make a break she had to do it soon.
If...
At the moment her chances seemed slim to non-existent. Edmund’s hand was still pressing down hard on her back, and even if she somehow managed to jump free of the horse without breaking her neck there was nowhere to hide. In which case...
Suddenly the marshes didn’t seem such a bad idea. If she could get away from Edmund and hide amidst the reeds she’d stand a chance of escape.
Her only chance.
Tentatively she brought her knees up and braced her hands against the horse’s side, looking for purchase. There! Now, if Edmund released her for even a second, she could propel herself forward, dive off the side of the horse and hope that its hooves landed elsewhere. She was ready...she could do it...just as soon as he let go.
The ground grew boggier at last as they entered the morass of the marshes. Tall ferns brushed her face as the horses waded reluctantly into the reed beds, kicking up splatters of muddy water as they shied and whinnied in protest. Aediva held her breath, sensing Edmund’s distraction as his horse started to buck, feeling his hold on her back easing as he grappled with the reins.
Then he let go.
She didn’t hesitate, heaving herself over the side of the horse and headlong into the icy swamp below. For a few terrifying seconds she was lost in a swirl of muddy, frigid water before she found her feet and resurfaced, glad of the commotion around her as she half stumbled, half swam away through the reeds.
‘Get her!’
Edmund was bellowing furiously behind her, but she didn’t look back, dragging her sodden dress around her waist as she thrashed on through the reeds. If she could just find a place to hide she could wait them out. The Saxons hadn’t gone far enough into the marshes to be safe. If they wanted to be free from Norman pursuit they didn’t have time to waste looking for her. Their own need to escape would save her.
At last she found a thick clump of weeds and forced her way inside, crouching low in the water as a family of voles scurried past. She could still hear Edmund roaring in the distance, but the other voices were receding slowly, moving further away with every second.
She flung back her head, savouring her freedom as she laughed aloud with relief. She was free! Crouched down in a bog, up to her chin in filthy water, miles away from Redbourn and safety, but free!
Cautiously, she waited until the sound of Edmund’s ranting ceased completely, then waded out of the reeds towards the open countryside beyond. It was risky, emerging into the open so soon after her escape, but she couldn’t cower in the marshes all day. It was past noon already, and she’d catch her death unless she found shelter.
She moved slowly, keeping a wary lookout as she stepped back on to dry land, following the hoof prints back up the hill. It was near hopeless, she knew. There wasn’t the faintest hope of her reaching Redbourn on foot before dark, and they hadn’t passed any other villages. But she wasn’t going to give up. If there was any chance that the Normans were following their trail she had to head out to meet them.
Every footstep was taking her back towards Svend. That thought alone gave her strength. As long as she kept moving there was hope.
She stopped abruptly, staring at the ground in confusion as it started to vibrate and shudder beneath her feet. What was happening? She looked around, a horrified scream rising to her throat at the sight of Edmund behind her. He was riding at full tilt, bursting out of the marshes as if there were a wild beast on his tail, looking less like a man than an animal himself, snarling with rage. And there was something else—a look of such hate-filled intensity that for a moment she thought he might be going
to trample her into the ground.
Her heart stopped. He was going to trample her into the ground. Here in the open, with no weapon and nowhere to hide, she was going to be ridden down in cold blood by the man she’d once thought to marry.
If it weren’t so appalling she might have laughed. But now there was nothing to do but run.
No. She squeezed her hands into fists. There was no point in running. There was nowhere to run. And if she couldn’t run she could only fight. He wouldn’t expect it, and his horse was tired—wouldn’t be able to turn quickly. Its eyes were already rolling, its mouth flecked with gobbets of white foam. If she could confuse it, wear it out somehow, then Edmund would be forced to dismount. And then...
Then she’d think of something else.
She sprinted forward, trying to hold her nerve as Edmund hurtled towards her, giant clods of earth spinning out of the ground as he closed the distance between them, his horse’s hooves louder and heavier with each passing moment. She screamed—a war cry of defiance—waiting until the last possible moment before diving to one side, sprawling in the dirt as the beast swung madly towards her, one large hoof barely missing her chest.
Quickly she struggled to her feet, grabbing a branch from the ground and jabbing it up into Edmund’s face. As she’d hoped, he raised a hand to push it away and the horse shied, throwing him backwards through the air.
She felt a rush of triumph, and wielded the branch in front of her like a sword as Edmund staggered to his feet.
‘Bitch.’ He wiped a trickle of blood from his forehead. ‘I should have killed you when I had the chance.’
‘Why are you doing this, Edmund?’ She swung the branch between them. ‘You should be running away—not coming after me. Why won’t you let me go?’
‘Because you’re mine!’
‘I was never yours!’
‘You were supposed to be. Your father was going to give me half his land too. It was supposed to be mine! Now the Normans have taken everything. I won’t let them have you too!’
‘But you don’t want me!’
‘No, but he does. And if I can’t kill him I might as well kill you!’
He drew his sword and sliced downwards, cutting the branch in two as she staggered away.
‘You can’t win like this, Edmund.’ She could hear the desperation in her own voice.
‘Maybe not, but I can make sure that you lose.’
He lunged at her again and she swung the remainder of the branch upwards, blocking the blow instinctively, so hard that his sword embedded itself in the wood.
Quickly she seized the advantage, heaving the branch towards him before turning to run. His horse was now halfway up the slope. If she could just reach it before he did...
‘Aediva!’
She looked up, afraid that she was imagining things as she heard Svend’s shout. But it was him—really him—thundering down the hillside towards her, a band of Norman soldiers at his back.
‘Svend!’
Relief gave her a fresh burst of energy. She changed direction at once, running towards him with only a swift glance over her shoulder at Edmund. He’d managed to free his sword, but seemed frozen to the spot, staring at Svend with a look of pure hatred. Silently she willed him to run, to flee back into the marshes, to escape so that she’d never have to see him again. Surely he wouldn’t come after her now—not with the Normans so close. He couldn’t want to hurt her that badly...
Then he looked at her and her stomach plummeted.
The answer was clear on his face.
It was going to be her or him.
* * *
Svend surged ahead of his men. Talbot’s mane was a streak of pale grey as they flew over the ground, faster and fiercer than they’d ever ridden before.
He’d allowed the horses a few brief rests, but they were still flagging. Only Bertrand was managing to keep pace—though his attention seemed less on the pursuit than on keeping his commander alive. Svend set his jaw grimly. He’d no intention of expiring just yet—not until he found Aediva. He’d go back to Redbourn with her or not at all.
‘Their tracks are heading for the marshes.’ Bertrand’s tone was discouraging.
‘Then we go into the marshes.’
‘It’ll be dark in a few more hours.’
‘Then go back!’
Svend shot him a savage look and Bertrand stiffened at once.
‘I won’t leave you, sir.’
Good. Svend tightened his grasp on the reins, fighting to stay upright. He was relying on his men’s loyalty. He’d ride alone into the marshes if he had to, but if he was going to rescue his wife he’d need every fighting man he could get. He didn’t care about the rebels, but he was going to rescue her even if it took every last ounce of his strength.
If he didn’t...if anything happened to her...
He pushed the thought aside, refusing to consider the alternative.
They crested another hill and his blood froze at the sound of a woman’s scream. Quickly he looked around, trying to find the source. Then he saw her. She was halfway up the slope, wrestling a Saxon warrior with what appeared to be a stick.
He spurred onwards, charging down the hill just as she turned to run.
‘Aediva!’
He roared her name and she looked up at once, her eyes locking with his in a mixture of amazement and relief. The Saxon looked up too, and his expression of outrage turned to one of implacable resolve as he started to follow her, swinging his sword above his head as if preparing to strike.
Svend drew his dagger and took aim—felt something tear in his shoulder as he flung his arm back.
‘Move!’ he shouted, hoping she would understand, and she moved, dropping to the ground as the blade flew through the air, its sharp tip embedding itself in the Saxon’s shoulder.
The man bellowed and Svend leapt from his horse with a grim sense of satisfaction. There. That evened the odds. Now they both had only one arm to fight with. That ought to be more than enough.
‘Edmund.’ He pointed his sword at the Saxon’s throat menacingly. ‘I’ll give you one chance to yield. That’s more than you deserve.’
‘You can’t have her!’
Edmund wrenched the dagger out of his shoulder, thrusting forward as Svend stepped to one side, slapping the blade away with the flat of his sword before driving his point up towards the other man’s chest. Edmund reeled backwards, parrying wildly with his sword as Svend pursued him remorselessly, closing him down with a rain of powerful blows before pummelling the hilt hard into his face.
Edmund sank to the ground, his nose streaming with blood, and dropped his sword with a grunt of pain.
‘I yield!’
‘I said one chance. You didn’t take it.’
Svend towered over him, his knuckles white, resisting the urge to finish what the other man had started. But he couldn’t do it—not in front of Aediva. She’d said that Edmund was part of her past. He couldn’t kill the man in front of her—couldn’t taint their future with his blood. Better to let FitzOsbern see that justice was done.
‘I’ll spare you for her sake.’
He lowered his weapon with a grimace. In the heat of combat he hadn’t noticed the pain in his arm, but now even his sword felt too heavy.
‘Tie him up.’ He jerked his head at Bertrand.
‘Svend!’
He turned towards the sound of her voice. She was running towards him, arms outstretched, soaking wet and covered in mud, but she looked more beautiful than he’d ever seen her. Eagerly he started towards her—then stopped as her expression changed abruptly, her mouth opening in a silent scream.
He reacted instinctively, spinning around and thrusting his sword up just in time to see Edmund run chest-first onto its point, the dagger in his
hand grazing harmlessly against Svend’s chainmail.
For a moment nobody spoke. There was only an uncanny silence as Edmund’s body jerked and then stiffened. A red stain soaked through his tunic as he made a faint gurgling sound and then folded backwards, collapsing to the ground with a thud.
‘Aediva.’ Svend tossed the sword away, bridging the distance between them in two strides as she stared at Edmund in horror. ‘Don’t look.’
‘You killed him...’
He tensed. Was she angry with him? In spite of everything, would she hate him for killing a Saxon?
‘He killed himself.’
‘I know.’ She met his gaze finally. ‘It was all him. He wanted to kill me too. He hated me so much...’ Her voice caught on a sob. ‘I thought you would too. I thought you wouldn’t come.’
His chest tightened. ‘I told you before—I won’t let you go. I could never hate you.’
‘You trusted me.’ She gave him a look of wonder before her face crumpled. ‘Your shoulder...it’s bleeding!’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ He pulled her into a hard embrace, wrapping his arms around her like a vice, pain forgotten as he held her tight. ‘None of that matters now. Let’s go home.’
Chapter Nineteen
‘Ow!’ Aediva started awake as someone pressed a cold compress to her forehead, letting out a shriek as she saw the identity of her nurse. ‘Cille! You’re here!’
Her sister beamed. ‘We arrived last night—just in time as it turned out. Between you and your husband, the men had quite a struggle getting you back. You were both well-nigh unconscious.’
‘Svend!’ She jolted upright in panic. ‘Where is he? Is he all right?’
Cille raised a finger to her lips, gesturing towards a chair by the fireplace. ‘He tore his wound open, but he wouldn’t let anyone touch him until you were safely in bed. We had a hard enough time getting him into that chair.’
Aediva gazed at his sleeping face, her heart swelling with love. ‘He saved me.’
‘He loves you.’
‘I love him too. I was afraid I’d never get the chance to tell him. Even when Edmund was trying to kill me that was all I could think about.’
Married to Her Enemy Page 24