THE AWAKENING_A Medieval Romance

by Tamara Leigh

  Sucking air through a throat threatening to close the space between mouth and lungs, she ventured a look around the tree.

  “’Twill have to wait,” said one who appeared to be of middling years. “If we are to see the rest of our coin, there is a task that needs doing.”

  “It will not take long.” This from a younger man. “Come out, girl! Ye have but to be nice and we be nice to you. That is how it works, don’ it?”

  “My husband comes!” she called in a voice that barely carried.

  “Did ye hear what she said?” the third man asked.

  Another laugh. “Aye, that she is happy to oblige us.”

  Gripping her chemise closed at the neck, Laura forced more breath down her throat and called, “My husband comes. Leave ere he puts you through.”

  “If ’tis true,” the younger said, “there are three of us to one of him.”

  “One of us,” the dissenter once more spoke. “We got business to tend. Ye want somethin’ for free when ye could fill your purse full enough to have a woman every night for a week, stay. We are goin’ on.”

  Listen to him, Laura silently entreated. Pray, go!

  Another laugh. “When the lass and I be done, I shall catch up with ye.”

  “Then make haste. We will not wait, and yer share be ours if’n ye are late.”

  The two turned their mounts and spurred around the side of the lake from which Laura had come.

  “Show yourself,” the man called above the beat of hooves. “I got no time for games, girl.”

  Laura slipped out of sight. As she searched the ground for something with which to defend herself, she wished she had snatched up her girdle with its meat dagger.

  Below her was a hand-sized stone, to the right a fallen branch as long as her arm and as thick around as her wrist.

  She snatched up the latter, and as she pried the stone from the earth, peered around the trunk. And nearly cried out. The sound of his companions’ retreat having masked his movements, the man guided his horse beneath the tree’s skirt.

  “I see ye!” He grinned.

  Laura slammed back against the trunk and dropped the branch to scrabble at the stone with both hands. She freed it, snatched up the branch, and careened around the opposite side of the tree.

  “Where did ye go, girl?”

  She drew a shuddering breath, jumped forward, and spun to face him as he urged his horse around.

  His eyes moved from the branch to the stone. “I said I got no time for games, girl. And now I see ye better—that ye are a woman in full—I be less tolerant.” He tugged the reins and clumsily dismounted as if much drink coursed his blood.

  “I vow my husband comes.” She backed away. “Do you touch me, he will kill you.”

  In a less than straight line, he advanced on her.

  “Pray, rejoin your friends and live. You need not die.”

  “Neither need ye, but I am becomin’ annoyed.”

  She thrust the branch forward. “Go!”

  He sprang so suddenly she had no time to swing before he slammed a hand around the branch and wrenched it from her. “Now then, how much harder do ye think ’twill be for me to take the stone?” He tossed the branch aside. “Yer too pretty to mess up, so give over.”

  Laura raised the stone higher, drew her hand back past her ear to more forcefully strike him if he lunged.

  He did. And she brought the stone down on his temple, causing him to yelp and stumble sideways.

  Still gripping her weapon, praying his companions did not hear his cry above their pounding hooves, she turned to run. But swung back around to consider her assailant’s horse. Were she to leave it to its master, she would soon be overtaken.

  God willing, the beast would allow her to mount.

  Heavenly Father, she silently beseeched as she lunged past the one who stood wide, head lowered and gripped between his hands, let not your arms be too full. I cannot hold myself much longer.

  Chapter 30

  Two riders as the man from Shepsdale told. Not the three thought possible, a sweep of the lake revealing no others.

  Lothaire knew they had sighted him and his knights against the falling dark, for as the miscreants rode around the side of the lake that presented the better road to Thistle Cross, they bent low over their horses and shouted between themselves.

  They hoped to reach the wood, but they would not gain it ahead of their pursuers. Certain there could not have been adequate time for them to harm Laura who must have hidden, he determined he would himself have the satisfaction of taking the villains to ground.

  The mounts of the two men no match for a destrier, Lothaire’s prey was soon within reach.

  Sword drawn, he swung his horse to the left, urged it to greater speed, and drew alongside the one in the lead. Though the slice of his blade would be satisfying, not only did he want these men alive to spill who had hired them—if any—but were Lady Raisa behind their mischief, their crimes might not warrant death. For a few coins, they but stirred trouble.

  Thus, he slammed his sword’s pommel into the miscreant’s head, causing him to slump and tip out of the saddle. But as Lothaire swerved to avoid trampling his prey, the man’s companion ducked the blade of a pursuing knight, swung his sword, and caught Lothaire’s man in the upper arm.

  “He is mine!” Lothaire shouted and spurred after him.

  The man surprised, shifting his sword from the right to the left hand and swinging it hard against Lothaire’s blade.

  For this, the eldest Wulfrith brother had spent days with the Baron of Lexeter, stressing the life-and-death importance of not only battling in the saddle but doing it as well as when one’s own legs were beneath him. His pupil had not yet achieved the skill demanded of him but had learned better how to move, balance, and leverage his body to deliver effective blows and fend off another’s blade.

  Engaging those skills now, guiding his horse with thighs and calves, Lothaire put his shoulder into his sword arm and forced the man’s blade off his. His opponent recovered, and over and again their swords met until the miscreant turned his horse into the wood.

  The arrangement of the trees, undergrowth, and ground were too unpredictable for Lothaire to soon regain the man’s side, but he must. The deeper they penetrated the wood, the darker the shadows and the more likely his prey would escape.

  Lothaire bent low, and finding a sizable gap between trees, made it through and once more drew alongside the miscreant.

  Teeth bared, the man met him at blades, and something about his face was familiar. But before Lothaire could place him, his destrier lurched over the rock-strewn ground.

  Lothaire’s mount recovered just in time for his rider to swing a blade up and keep the other man’s from slicing him open. And here was the anger Baron Wulfrith had told Lothaire to make good use of. His retaliatory blow nearly sending the miscreant off the other side of the saddle, the Baron of Lexeter prepared to finish him.

  Like the dogs of the shepherd who moved the sheep when they were not of a mind to be moved, Lothaire turned his horse in front of the other’s and struck with the pommel again—this time to the nose.

  The man howled and lost the saddle. As the riderless horse surged forward, Lothaire reined around and saw his opponent lay on his back, a hand over his face. A moment later, he was scrambling for his sword. And thundering toward the miscreant were two knights who had followed their lord.

  Lothaire shouted and held up a hand, signaling them to rein in.

  Willing to accommodate the one who thought to shift the fighting from atop a horse to the ground, Lothaire loosed a foot from a stirrup, but before he swung his leg over, he caught a sound that would have gone unheard beneath the pound of hooves.

  Laura’s scream speared his heart. Still, he forced himself to remain aware of the position of the man who had regained his sword, just as Abel Wulfrith had drilled into him while setting numerous opponents at his pupil.

  “Kill him if you must!” Lothaire shoute
d to his knights and put heels to his horse.

  As he emerged from the wood, he saw one of the knights who had fallen back to secure the first unhorsed miscreant had regained his mount and spurred toward the lake where there had been no evidence of anyone a short while ago.

  Now a horse could be seen standing beneath the drooping branches of the tree where Lothaire was to have met his wife. Atop it, bent over as if resisting being dragged off, was a figure clothed in white.

  He would wager it was Laura, and if not for the pound of hooves and that of his heart, he would surely hear more of her screams. As he rounded the lake and drew near his knight, the rest of her was wrenched from atop the horse.

  “Protect her, Almighty," Lothaire rasped. Then so she might know he came for her, he shouted, “Laura!”

  Still she had the stone. And her assailant yet suffered the effects of the first blow, as evidenced by how effortlessly her struggle had dropped him onto his back when he pulled her from his horse.

  She had followed him down and landed atop and well above his head, her splayed arms preventing her chin from striking the ground.

  Pressing on the stone in one hand, her palm of the other, she raised her chest and tried to roll off, but his arm that had hooked her waist slid lower and clamped around the backs of her thighs. He might yet reel from her blow, but in that arm was strength greater than her own. And anger. Simon had also been stronger. And angry.

  But young Laura had not been able to bring a weapon to hand, and despite the horror of what Simon had done—his body where it was forbidden to go—then she had not ten years of memories to lend her greater resolve.

  She thrust her chest higher, exposing her attacker’s face that had been buried against her belly, shifted her weight onto her left arm, and once more brought the stone down on his skull.

  As he bellowed and loosened her to wrap his arms around his head, she might have heard her name called, but she could not know for certain above the anger pounding through her and someone nearby chanting, “Not again. Not ever again.” And there was no time to search out whoever might have called to her—not if she was to beat the man bloody ere he could do worse to her.

  Legs freed, she lurched back, drew her knees up to straddle him, and raised the stone a third time.

  With his arms protecting his head, it would have to be his face.

  That made her hesitate. And provided him the opportunity to shift from defensive to offensive.

  Opportunity only, she silently vowed as one of his arms shot up, fingers wide. Though she evaded his grasp, her blow glanced off his cheek and only made him grunt.

  She aimed again. Missed again.

  And once more his hand closed around her wrist.

  “Not again! Not ever again!” Over and over Laura screamed those words as Lothaire dragged his mount to a halt, flung himself out of the saddle, and sword in hand took two running strides to where his wife sat atop her attacker.

  Sweeping his free arm around her waist as he moved the point of his blade to the miscreant’s neck, he saw it all—her left hand scratching and slapping at the bloodied face, right hand clenching a stone rendered useless by the hand around her wrist. And as he lifted her up and back, still the man held to her and she continued to chant, though now it was her husband she fought, writhing and reaching behind to do to him what she had done to the one on the ground.

  “’Tis Lothaire!” he shouted, and with a flick of his blade sliced her assailant’s arm, causing the man to yelp and release his prey-turned-predator.

  “Not again! Not ever again!” Laura cried as Lothaire struggled to retain his hold on her whilst setting his sword to the man’s chest.

  Blessedly, with her back pressed to her husband’s chest, her aim was off when she flung her hand over her shoulder and tried to slam the stone into his head.

  “’Tis me, Laura—Lothaire!”

  Still she seemed not to hear him above the words she spilled.

  Then the knight he had overtaken was off his horse, sword trained on the miscreant.

  Knowing Laura would soon make good on one of her aims, Lothaire lurched back, released his sword, and captured her forearm. “I am here! You are safe.”

  She convulsed, stilled, then resumed her struggle. Though she no longer expended breath on words, she panted.

  He turned her away from his knight who was dragging her attacker upright. Facing the lake across which moonlight surfaced, he entreated, “Laura love, no one can hurt you now.”

  She tossed her head back against his shoulder and turned her pale face up to his, but though she ceased struggling when their eyes met, it was like embracing a statue, her every muscle bunched as if awaiting the command to return to battle.

  He longed for her to fold into him and wrap her arms around him, but she said, “Release me.”

  “It is me, Lothaire.”

  “I cannot bear it. Pray, release me.”

  Her plea hurt, though when he recalled the frantic words she had spoken he began to understand. And did not wish to.

  “I shall let you go.” He eased her down his body. “Get your feet beneath you, hmm?”

  She jerked her chin, and some of the stiff went out of her when he lowered her.

  “There. Can you stand on your own?”

  “Release me.”

  He did, and made ready to catch her should she crumple. But she sprang away and swung around as if she thought herself vulnerable in giving him her back. And she was. Neither did he—or any warrior—care to expose that vulnerability to an enemy. But he certainly was not that to her.

  Though it had darkened considerably, he saw her gaze go past him to the one who had made himself her enemy.

  Not again. Not ever again, she had said whilst sitting astride the man and beating at him.

  Lothaire held up his hands. “Truly, you are safe,” he said and noted a stain on the front of her chemise. Blood? If so, surely her attacker’s. He peered over his shoulder. His knight had bound the man and was putting him over the back of his horse.

  “Take him to Thistle Cross and hold him with the others,” Lothaire called. “I want them in chains.”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  Lothaire looked back at his wife who continued to stare past him. Seeing she quaked, he took a step toward her.

  Her eyes shot to his, and she clapped a hand to her chest and retreated again, halting only when her heels touched the water rippling over the shore. A moment later, she drew her hand away and considered her palm. “His blood, not mine,” she said. “This time I fought harder.”

  Better understanding the meaning of her words—Not again. Not ever again—beginning to hate himself, Lothaire tried to draw near. But she further distanced herself, the water now covering her feet up to her ankles.

  Lothaire settled into his legs, gripped his hands at his sides, and waited for his knight to depart. At last, the man was astride and leading the horse burdened by the man it would not be difficult to put to death.

  “Laura.”

  She moved her gaze to him.

  “I am coming to you.”

  She backed away.

  He spread his arms. “I will not touch you unless you wish it. You have my word.”

  “I know. I just…” She touched her bodice above the stain, plucked at the material as if to pull it off her skin. “I want this gone, but I would be unclothed.”

  “I shall collect your gown and bring it to you.”

  “Would you?” She nodded. “Aye, bring it to me.”

  He strode beneath the tree to where she had spread the garment as if to make a bed for them. But as he swept it up, he heard her gasp and swung around to see the white puddle of her chemise on the shore, and just beyond it her bared back as she waded into the cool night-darkened lake.

  “Laura!” He ran, dropped the gown, and plunged into the water.

  He was nearly at her side when she slipped beneath the surface, nearly caught hold of her hair whilst it floated atop. But then
she was somewhere beneath and beyond him.

  He dove under, reached wide, but only laid hands on water. Dark, hungry water.

  Surfacing to replenish his breath, he cast his gaze around. No sign of her, but as he started to dive under again, she came up in front of him.

  “Laura,” he groaned. “What do you?”

  She did not resist when he drew her to him. Gripping his tunic, she raised her streaming face to his. “Am I clean, Lothaire?”

  Emotion flooding him, he choked, “You have ever been clean. It was not you who betrayed me, was it my brave love?”

  Her spiked lashes swept down, then up. “I did not mean to. I was only trying to get away. But I should have known—should have yielded naught.”

  He did not care what she had yielded. She was not at fault, and it made him sick that her silence and evidence of her pregnancy had caused him to condemn her.

  “Laura love, let me take you back to the shore. We shall sit and talk for as long as you wish. And you will tell me only what you are able to.”

  “You do not want to know. You said—”

  “I did, but you need to tell me, and I need to listen. Come back?”

  “I am cold.”

  “I will warm you.”

  They were so near the shore it was only moments before his sodden boots found purchase. Then he lifted his wife, and she slid a hand around his neck and pressed her bare breasts to his clothed chest as he waded ashore.

  He carried her to where he had tossed aside her gown, lowered to sitting, and drew the garment over her. As he waited for her to speak, he held her close and watched the moon’s languid movement across the sky and thought it like his mantle of blackest blue except someone was busily poking holes in the one above, but not as if to cause ruination. Rather, to give hope that on the other side of this dark could be found light.

  Laura stopped shivering, but it was some minutes before she said, “It happened in the cellar at Owen.”

  He ought not be surprised, here the reason she would not venture into the one at High Castle.