by Gayle Eden
He pulled her to him, kissing her passionately though both their lips were tender from doing much of it all night. When he parted, he said gruffly, “Go, and write your account.”
Sefare went and took the implements from her trunk to sat down to write the long account. Including the abuse, which she was sure, would be refuted. However, the truth would be on record. Sefare wrote of her father, her brother, and of how her husband died. She sanded and sealed it, and knocked on Ronan’s door.
When it opened, she paused abrupt. Ronan was in black and crimson. His hair already a deep pitch was smoothed back, braided down his back. A crimson mask with studs and swirls, black breeches, and boots, blouse and heavy crimson velvet tunic, stitched richly and with the silver wolf. A mantle of crimson, black, and silver, hung back from his broad shoulders.
He looked fierce, large, and as intimidating as ever...
Save for his eyes, for they were on her and the secrets of the night before, their intimacy, was there.
She handed him the scroll and even as Ualtar entered and stood watching them, waiting as Daykin was, with his trunk and armor, she said clearly, “I feel purged, healed in some way. Moreover ‘twas hard to feel the old pains when I wrote them. All that I could think of was our night of pleasure.”
His lips curved slightly and she thought were he not masked he may have flushed. He said gruffly, “Should you get yourself in danger whilst I am gone, I may beat you yet.”
She laughed and wrinkled her nose before turning, “You must return for that, My Lord.”
* * * *
When she had gone, Ronan glanced at a smugly grinning Ualtar and then away. He said, “Let us go.” And picked up his sword, buckling it on. However, in the yard, where he mounted, and two more guards were with him, the Celt nudged him.
“Up there.”
Ronan looked to the top most of the castle and spied that white blond hair. He raised his decorated gauntlet.
She blew a kiss. Most the men chuckled.
They turned in unison and rode out, Ronan privately amazed and reluctant to chance what he had found with Sefare through the night’s intimacy. “This best work. I hated lying to her,” he voiced to Ualtar.
“Particularly after the night you just had, eh?”
Ronan growled, “If she is harmed, you are first on my death list.
The Celt smiled but shrugged, “‘Tis the only way to lure out the spy among us. Asides, the king wants something out of it, and feels you owe him. He can gain much from this if it works. In addition, Prince Edward has a personal grudge against Guardi di Matteo. Fitzwilliam did your arguing to Henry for you. There is this plan—or you lose more than simply your precarious peace.”
Ronan grunted. “I trust Fitzwilliam. I do not trust this plan will keep Sefare safe.”
“If something runs afoul, I will be the first to charge in with you. Let’s get it over with.”
Ronan rode at speed with the Celt, and it was a day and many miles before they arrived at the meeting point.
Spread across the hill were armored knights, and in the center a cowl covered figure in long pitch black robes, black gauntlets and boots, nothing visible save the black mount he rode on, and a blood red bow and quiver on his back.
The knight beside him was also in black armor, unmarked and having only eye slits in the helm.
Ronan got off his horse and went to one knee in front of the black armored one, his fist over his heart. “My liege.”
His knights and the Celt followed one by one.
Chapter Six
The burials were seen to swiftly because of the heat and circling fowl over the inner bailey. The child, called Alid, was recovering. She swiftly became somewhat adopted by Sir Osburn, who came to see her and sit with her often. Sefare knew he had lost his own wife and children in death when he was but in his twenties.
It would be good for the both of them, and the girl was obviously fascinated by the knight and drawn to him in a trusting manner. His fatherly and protective instincts would see that the girl had the best of life, and all the strength needed in these times, to hold onto it.
Sefare was surprised on the third day of Ronan’s absence when a knight called Fulco, one of her trusted men, offered to escort her for the morning ride she usually took with Ronan.
“Is that wise? Did my husband not forbid it?”
“Forbid it, no,” the strong, bull neck’d man replied. “I myself have led scouts through the village and between, to assure ‘tis safe. I am sure your husband did not mean for you to stay prisoner here. He, like we, who came with you, know that you are more than able to defend yourself. Not that such a thing is likely. It seems the Count has decided to use the king to do his dirty work.” He shook his head in disgust.
“I shall think upon it.” Sefare looked at the walls, truthfully, she too thought it safe, but… “I think ‘tis too soon after the attack on the village. Let us wait a few days and if the scouts see no threat, I will ride a short ways.”
“I am at your service, as I was always, My Lady.” The knight bowed and smiled at her. “It is a great privilege to serve Lord Ronan. And we are all glad to have come with you.”
As he left, she went to find Isola, and put the suggestion of picking up the daily rides to her. The woman was polishing a shield vigorously, and sat back, pushing her wine hair from her face. “I think whomever helped us, killed them all. Those in the woods…Moreover, as Fulco said, ‘tis likely the Count is going to use these lies to the king. Aye, give it a few days. I will go with you.”
Sefare nodded and went back to the keep, spending an hour with the child, who now had clothing and a mantle sewn by the servants, and supple boots on her feet. The face wound was healing but scarred, her leg was still covered with a bandage, though aired often so t’was healing fine.
Sefare went through the daily chores with the servants. It seemed eerily normal, as if none of the events had happened, save for the amount of graves in the valley below—and that one lone child now remained from a village of people who did not deserve to die.
For the next two days, she practiced with Isola. Even Sir Osburn went with the scouts and saw no fresh tracks. It was warm, in the midst of summer, and after seeing to entire castle, save the dungeon—she had nothing to take her mind off Ronan and his meeting with the king. As well as nothing but anxiety for her brother to think upon. She had never underestimated that family, but she had, for a brief moment, hoped that life, at last, may offer some peace, some time to have the “normal” things that had been dreams indeed when she’d wed the first time.
Unable to be still and sleeping only fitfully, Sefare spent too many evenings gazing out the castle windows into the distance. She despised the unkowns. Hated—not knowing if the King too was going to use this incident to get something from Ronan, or if he would be sympathetic to them. They were newly wed after all. Ronan had been proved a loyal Knight. She hoped, prayed, he would read her account, and feel the truth in it. God’s teeth, but she was tired of having her life written by others, her most basic needs, love, home, perhaps some laughter some reason to be light of heart, robbed by others who wanted to use herself or Ronan.
There were times she would imagine her night with Ronan and his passion for her flushed her body with an inward ache, as much as her response to him, the very feel of his rounded muscle and hot skin stayed vivid in her memory. Other times, her childhood came to mind and it would end abrupt—so she wished for the thousandth time she had never wed, that she had been less romantic and more knowing. However, such thinking always brought her the darker thoughts of her marriage. Sefare she wished Ronan there, to turn to, to touch, just to remind herself that she was free of that, and she belonged to Ronan now. Even if he was grunting, grumbling, she felt a certain tenderness touch her heart at it.
It was the anger finally, that gave her a frustration with the current events. That the family could still control, intimidate, still make her a prisoner….make her weep at their cruelty,
made Sefare seething mad.
She was indeed the Crimson Knight’s bride. She was more the old Sefare, and she could be as brave as her husband. She wanted to be. She would stand before the king, before anyone, and defend not only herself but her brother too.
After a span of time without incident Sefare alerted Fulco that both she and Isola would ride one morning providing there was a guard. She did not intend to go far, but would be armed for added measure.
As large as the castle was, she still would not be able to stay behind the thick walls week after week, day after day. The hunters were going out, and the scouts seemed confident enough to assure her no threat remained. Thus on the morning assigned, she donned her breeches, boots a tunic of leather, and her sword. Isola was likewise garbed, save she also had a dagger in her boot.
Fulco made up the guard of six, who surrounded the females, giving the area around them their attention, until Sefare soon relaxed. She and Isola spoke of the terribleness of the attack and the grace of God that young Alid lived.
They dismounted after passing through the beauty of the forests. Only broken limbs, a few dead torches left, to mark the attackers were there, or that they died there.
Walking their horses to the river to drink before crossing over, “I wonder if he is still here,” murmured Isola.
“As have I.” Sefare saw the guards watering their mounts and then mounting again, each surveying the areas on all sides.
It was a peaceful morning, birds singing and the grasses green. They rode to the gravesite, crosses marking them, and knelt by each, praying and laying wildflowers they had picked on the smallest ones.
More solemn, they mounted, each in their own thoughts, and thus were not attending when Fulco’s mount suddenly reared and seemed to be beyond his control.
Isola and the guards all tried to assist the knight, who was struggling but laughing, so they did not grow overly alarmed by the animal’s strange behavior. Sefare too, having a way with horses, tried to help, and when they were just nearing the woods, the mount, galloping between herself and Isola, seemed calmer, if spooked.
“Perhaps it was the graves…” Isola yelled.
Sefare opened her mouth to call for the Knight to rein in, so that the saddle could be checked, or something prodding the animal, but the stallion suddenly turned across, causing her own mount to turn, and before she realized that the knight had grabbed the reins from her hands, they were thundering away from the castle.
“What are you doing? Turn back! Fulco!”
He snarled, suddenly raising his cross bow across his thighs so that the bolt was aimed at her, “Struggle and I will kill you. Just hold on and perhaps you will live through the day.”
She could hear Iola’s yell, the other knights screaming and yelling, But Fulco had the horse’s full speed, jumping stiles and plunging over the hills toward the village. Sefare tamped down her fear, remembering that she was still armed and waiting for an opportune moment to draw her sword.
“Is this Guardi’s work or—”
“‘Tis delivery for a reward, My Lady. And dead or alive, ye are worth the same in gold to me.”
She wanted to scream at him, to call him betrayer, but staying on the mount was foremost. Trying to jump would break her neck as they swerved and passed obstacles through the charred village. The thunder of hooves behind them did provoke her to say, “They will seize and kill you.”
He laughed and yanked the reins, suddenly steering them around the old chapel and up through a copse, leaving the road far behind. He led her down another hill. “Never think I am alone, My Lady. We will meet a party soon enough that outnumber them, and will drive them back. All has been planned for months.”
“Months…” She swallowed, grasping the pommel as the horse stumbled on a steep decline. “You… ”
“Cease your prattle!” He suddenly growled and yanked her mount closer, using the end of the bow to bruise her thigh. “Your Crimson Knight played right into my hands. “
She did not know what he meant. Sefare thought that Ronan trusted Fitzwilliam and thus would not imagine that he had been lured falsely away. However, her captor was making speed over dangerous terrain, and staying on the horse, staying alive, was her first concern.
She chanced a look over her shoulder before they plunged through a stream and toward a thick forest. Suddenly Fulco’s arm shot out and knocked her off her horse.
Grunting, she rolled, pain searing in her lungs and shoulder. However, just as swiftly several masked men emerged from the trees. One grabbed her up, and flung her onto his horse.
Sefare struggled. She drew her sword as he slammed her across his thighs. He smashed his fist against her wrist, knocking it from her hands. Her last sight before a sack was shoved over her head—were the other riders circling—coming behind Isola and the guards, effectively capturing them too.
From then onward, it was a hard and rough ride, with her body chaffed against the studded leather garb of her captor, and his carelessness if passing briers and limbs that smacked at her body. She had to hold on, but Sefare kept hope—because she was as yet not tied.
That ended as soon as the party stopped abruptly and she was thrown again to the ground. Grunting, setting her teeth against the pain, rolling to get her feet under her, a male grabbed her from behind and drew her wrists back before lashing her hands together. He whipped off the sack and she saw that the other riders, still masked with crude cloth coverings, were all around her.
“Who are you?”
He refused to answer, and picked her up by the arm and forced her astride a horse before lashing her legs to the stirrup straps. For all her fear, Sefare used the time to look around and study them, to peer behind and see when Fulco entered with Isola and her guards, disarmed and having their legs lashed to the mounts.
The male slapped the steed’s flank causing it to shoot forward, and the men closed in on both sides and before, putting her in the center.
She said, “If you are Guardi’s men, you will not go unpunished by King Henry for this. I am now wed to his Knight and under the protection and laws of this land.”
“You are an assassin and a murderer!” The knight to her left barked.
“I am not. Neither was my brother. I—”
“Quiet.” The other knight reached out and slapped her hard on the lips.
Sefare’s eyes watered and she tasted blood. Licking it off, her lips instantly swelled, the sting distracting her from her aching arms for a bit. For hours afterwards, she stared ahead and rode, hearing Isola also cursing and threatening. Apparently, giving her captors a hard time of it, until there was a grunt, and silence, save for the chink of spur and creak of leather, the sounds of the riders. She could guess her friend had likewise been muffled.
Sometime during the evening, and just before night, a rain began. She asked that her hood be put up and the knight did so, if roughly. From then onward the fog and mud, the wetness and her aches preoccupied her mind.
When the horses were rested, she heard two arguing that they could ransom her instead of delivering her….At some point, she and Isola, her guards taken separate, were allowed to get down and take shelter under a tree from the worst rain.
Hunched in her cloak, breath misting in the humid rain, Sefare murmured past her bruised lips, “Are you all right.”
“Aye. A bit battered, but these swine had best kill me if they intend. I am going to gut that Fulco when this is done.”
“I think ‘tis Guardi who ordered this. Fulco has obviously been a spy from the time we fled.”
“Aye. Like as not all the attacks, the village too, was to draw Ronan out. Or for Fulco to get you out.”
Sefare winced, seeing the captive guards rise to kick a passing male and get his head bashed into a tree for his troubles. She knew Ronan’s men were quick and skilled, but there were at least thirty here in masks. Fulco, she could not find.
“Know you where we are?”
Isola grunted. “I would gues
s they are headed for the sea and a waiting ship.”
“We can’t let that happen.”
“No. Attend the forests. See that fork in the road there? Just past where those men are gathered. Cart tracks, and there is—”
“Quiet!” A guard kicked out at Isola, and then Sefare.
She pressed against the tree. Quieting until all that was heard was a beat of rain in the forests and the low voices of the men.
It was scarcely light, no rain, but thick misted and foggy, when she was roused with Isola and put back on her horse. Sefare saw the yawning valley ahead and chanced a look back at the Smith. Her leather cloak soaked and dirty, body hurting and mouth now a constant sting, Sefare still managed a subtle message.
Isola nodded slowly under the guise of shaking her hood back and off, those green eyes looking left. Sefare knew they were both going to make a break for it in the valley. If she leaned down on the mount, she could guide it with her knees and come back to the woods. Here she stood a chance of escaping. Either way, she was not going back to Italy. They would have to take her dead body.
The valley opened before them, more a field with a hill at the far end. Sefare thanked God as the sky lit brighter. She twisted her body suddenly, digging her heels hard into the mount and grabbing its mane. It rammed the startled rider beside her, and even while she heard some chaos, some other yelling, she assumed was men after Isola—she kept her eyes on the woods, and her heels beating on the sides of the steed who carried her there.
Curses and yells, screams too sounded, but her heart was in her throat and the heat of the lathered mount, its breathing as she lay nearly on its neck, was all she heard.
They crashed into the woods. She leaned again, heading off the road to that fork before seeing Isola beside her, riding much the same and both horses going at such speeds that all was a blur. They flew down the cart road, side by side, until Isola sat up and looked behind them.
“Sefare!”
Rising too, just seeing the end of the woods and some overgrown and forgotten cottages, Sefare called to the horse, struggling for calm to slow it until it stood under her, quivering and steaming, breathing as hard winded as she.