Angie Arms - Flames series 04

by The Strongest Flames

It wasn’t long ago they abandoned their camp. Marcus moved quickly through the camp, kicking the pot sitting next to the fire toward the tree line. He heard the thin metal crunch as his boot connected with it, and again when it slammed against the nearby rock.

  There wasn’t much point in trying to trail them. If there was any indication in which direction they went, it would vanish as it always did when dealing with these rebels. He felt the blinding anger trying to take hold again. Where was his patience? He never was a man to be ruled by his passions, until he laid eyes on Alena, and knew he had to have her. Now that she was gone from him he was left with the bleak emptiness of the rest of his life, stretching out before him, and that filled him with an anger that was foreign to him. He did many things in his lifetime, taken many lives, but never was he filled with the fury he was now shrouded in daily.

  The anger was what pushed him to meet with the King. It pushed him to take on the duties of the Garrick, when he knew he was not cut out for such a thing. He could follow Garrick through hell and back, but he was not the kind of man to lead there. He felt he stood now at the looming gates. If he continued along the path he requested of the King, he would surely be forever held by them, but he could not turn and walk away, because that uncharted road was the most frightening of all.

  “I found one,” Roland said, panting as he half dragged a middle aged man back to the camp by the grip on his neck. Reluctantly, Marcus turned from the pot lying smashed on the ground. He suddenly did not want to do this, but he realized he stepped through the gate when the King sent him here, and there was no turning back.

  Roland shoved the man down so he stumbled, before landing on his side with a grunt.

  “Stay down,” Roland ordered, as he moved to stand over him.

  “Is this your camp?” Marcus demanded, pointing behind him at the still smoking campfire.

  The man clearly debated telling the truth about his connection to the secluded camp, but in the end nodded reluctantly.

  “Where are the others?”

  “There are no others.” The man looked up at him, his red hair was long, exceedingly so, the lines at his eyes attested to his age, his beard was closely cropped, and there was a scar on his chin where the hair didn’t grow. His blue eyes were full of fear as he stared up at the men.

  “What is your name?” Marcus asked, his voice edged with steel.

  The man looked about himself nervously, licking his lips. “Your name?” Roland asked, kicking him lightly on the leg.

  Marcus spared a glance to his companion, wondering at the man’s gentle handling. The end would be the same, he would die, what did a bruise to the leg matter. It might hurry things along before there was too much time to dwell on the situation, which would only make it more difficult to do what he had to.

  “Lucas FitzRou,” he stammered, swallowing nervously, as his eyes darted from one man to the other.

  “Where are the others?”

  “I am alone.”

  “It’s a big camp for one man,” Roland observed.

  Marcus expected Roland to be different than the man he was coming to know. He first thought the man to be cruel, all indications since his wife was killed pointed in this direction. Marcus saw a man who wanted to be evil and cruel, but whose conscience did not send him too far in that direction. He was a man on the run from himself, and the demons of his past haunted him.

  “I am alone,” the man pleaded, as Marcus pulled his sword from its scabbard.

  “Do you believe him Roland?” Marcus asked the man, who was looking a little bored with the entire situation.

  “I do not,” he replied, but his eyes moved past him, and the look of amusement crossed his face.

  Marcus turned quickly and had to pause in surprise and confusion, as he watched the woman, without a stitch of clothing on, darting from the trees. She ran out into the small clearing, a small tree branch in her hand. She paused, as if she didn’t see them, her bare titties were obviously firm with her youth, yet large enough to move with her, as she bent to lay the branch on the ground, then darted back into the safety of the trees. Within a moment she darted back out, another branch in hand. This time she turned her back to them, looking about nervously, before bending and laying the branch down with the other. The two knights had a wonderful view of her naked buttocks as she bent, baring her flesh lying between her legs in the action. Then she rose, and darted back into the woods.

  “What is she doing?” Roland mumbled, as she appeared again, another branch in hand. This time they got her profile as she bent. She was quite an attractive woman, her titts more than a handful, her ass round. She was not tall, rather short, but her figure was all woman as she darted back to the trees.

  “Should we ask her?” Marcus asked, but neither man took their attention off the spot in the woods where the woman disappeared.

  Again, she reappeared and darted out, this time tripping over something and going down with a gasp and a grunt, and if Marcus was not mistaken, a curse, before she bounced back to her feet and made it to the pile of branches. Bending she placed it on the pile and darted away, a slight limp to her gait now.

  “I’m going to,” Roland stated, taking a step forward when she darted back out of the tree line. He moved a little hesitantly toward the woman. Though one of them could easily overpower her, she obviously carried no weapon, her actions told them she was as a crazy as a bat.

  Roland advanced to within an arm’s length of her as she bent over, her back to them. When she rose she spun about and froze, locking eyes with Roland. The two stood staring at one another for a moment. Marcus expected Roland to grab her, but he only stared at her, as if her eyes held him in some kind of spell. Then her eyes darted from Roland to Marcus, and beyond. She was close enough he saw the lift of her lips as she smiled with genuine humor, before she turned and darted away. Both men turned quickly, but Marcus knew what they would see, or rather what they would not see. Sure enough, the prisoner was gone.

  “Get her!” Marcus yelled, before darting in the direction the man must have gone.

  For hours they searched, but not a trace of them could be found. The only evidence left that the woman was even there, was the pile of branches lying on the ground. Marcus checked them several times to reassure himself he was not going crazy. When Marcus knew for certain the two would not be found, he picked the branches up and slung them about in a fit of rage. They did not crash against anything. They were not destroyed, so he was left with his anger and frustration.

  He did not speak to Roland during the entire ride back to Helthpool, nor during the meal they sat around the outdoor fire and ate. Now Marcus sat at the large table in the main hall, his feet propped on its dusty surface, as he twisted his dagger about in his hand. If only Roland grabbed her when he had the chance, he fumed. It wasn’t because the traitor got away, it was because there was a naked woman standing within an arm’s length of the other man, and he allowed her to get away. For God’s sake, it was Roland.

  The flickering candle made the shadows deeper, darker like his mood. The door to the hall opened and Roland stepped in, leaving the door open, casting the last light of the evening into the large room.

  “I found out who those two are,” Roland announced, as he moved closer.

  All the way to the table he came, unaware Marcus was angry enough to plunge the dagger he held in his hand, into the other man’s heart. Marcus raised the knife and drove it downward, embedding the tip in the top of the table, and pulled his hand away to rest it with the other one in his lap. Where were the dark thoughts coming from? He wasn’t like that. Roland was a friend, as dysfunctional as that relationship was, built on a lack of trust and a deep seeded anger neither were responsible for.

  Marcus only grunted as Roland sat down. He really did not care who the two were. Soon they would be dead, so what did it matter?

  “Emma FitzRou and her uncle. It would seem those two, and Emma’s father, are a part of a group of rebels who have been living i
n these woods for generations.”

  “Generations?” Marcus asked, sitting up straighter so his boots fell with a thump onto the floor. He leaned his elbows on the edge of the table.

  “All the way back to William the Conqueror. They are ancestors of Turstin FitzRou.”

  “Turstin? Why does the name sound familiar?”

  Roland grinned. “He is the man who fought with William at the Battle of Hastings. It is said side by side with him. After the battle, when William was handing out titles to his notable soldiers, he passed Turstin over.”

  “Didn’t he try to lead an uprising against William?” Marcus asked. The details of the story were still vague, but it was a legend everyone heard at least once in some form or another.

  “He did, and as you know was quite unsuccessful. He was forced into hiding because there was a price on his head. However, William admitted his mistake, but could not put Turstin in a title at that point, so he declared his great granddaughter would be granted a title when she married a man of the King’s choosing.”

  Roland paused and a smile crossed his face. “That great granddaughter is none other than Emma.”

  “This is a joke,” Marcus declared. “No one has heard of the FitzRous since Turstin disappeared.” He pulled the dagger from the table, and leaning back in his chair, propped his feet back on the top. He began to use the tip to clean beneath his fingernails.

  “It’s no joke. She insisted it was the truth.”

  “Who insisted?”

  “The accommodating wench I found this afternoon at the village market.”

  “That is where you have been?” Marcus asked, with bitterness in his voice.

  “I have no desire to limit my time to hunting and sitting around this disturbing place,” Roland said, looking around himself.

  Marcus looked across at him from beneath his lashes, before continuing with the cleaning. “There are several very young and lovely women who are quite interested in being violated by robust men of stature such as us. The only problem is, they will come nowhere near this place.”

  Marcus grunted. He could use an accommodating woman, but as he thought about it, the desire left him. His blood boiled for only one. He felt foolish for leaving her, even more so for leaving her to kill, when he should have done it for her. He ruined anything she felt for him. He knew she cared for him in her own way. He put so much time and effort into winning her over she had to, so making her feel it again would not be impossible. Yet, he made it impossible by leaving her behind and offering himself to the King. It wasn’t to save Garrick, he realized now, it was to save himself. Give him somewhere to be, not sitting about pining over Alena, watching her interaction with everyone but him.

  Marcus raised his head to look at Roland, sitting across from him, eating from the small bag of nuts he gathered two days before. He paused in his crunching to look at, him questioningly.

  “How long will you have to run?” Marcus asked him.

  “From what?” he asked, putting another in his mouth.

  “The memories?” Roland’s tranquil blue eyes narrowed, and he worked for a moment to swallow what was in his mouth.

  “I don’t know how long I can stay away from Alena. I thought I could forever, but I feel like I’m falling apart.”

  Roland shot to his feet, slamming the nuts down on the table, and leaning on both hands to bring himself across it, within inches of Marcus. “Do not ever speak to me of such things.” Then the man straightened and angrily walked from the hall, slamming the door closed behind him, and plunging the room into darkness save for the lone candle next to Marcus.

  Was Roland the kind of man he was turning into? He knew Roland during the Crusade, and after he became the Roland he was now. Was this bleak feeling only the beginning of what he had to face? Roland did not have a choice, he did not walk away from his wife, but Alena might as well be dead as far as his heart was concerned. She was not a part of his life, nor would she ever be, if he continued on this journey.

  Angrily he slammed his palm down on the table and standing, quickly kicked his chair backward, halfway across the room. How stupid can one person be, he asked himself. To hell with the King and Garrick too. He hurried across the floor of the hall and to his room. He didn’t have much to pack, but he did need a good night’s rest before he left.

  Chapter 7

  Hawknest Keep

  “Sir Halvor wishes to see you,” Tate said, intercepting Jillian as she entered the hall.

  Fear raced up Jillian’s spine as she nodded absently. She redirected her steps toward the small office both her husbands used. It sat to the side of the hall, next to the hearth. She entered quietly through the door. She could not stop her legs from shaking, or the fear that seized her breath within her chest, and made it ache. The only time she ever stepped foot into the room, was when her husband found displeasure with her. She knew each time she walked through the door, she would receive a beating. She ran once, to avoid Bruce, but of course she had to return some time. It was a badly thought out plan, and only gained her one of the worst beatings of her life. She wondered how she could possibly gage such a thing.

  “I understand you walk alone in the forest, between the keep and the village,” Halvor’s deep voice said, from behind his desk. He did not look up at her, as he continued to study the ledger before him.

  “It is but a short stand of trees,” she replied. Dear God it was something Bruce beat her over, after saying much the same thing, his enquiry in the very same room.

  “Come here.” Bruce’s voice had been deceptively calm, but by then she knew better. He always made her come to him when he was going to beat her, and she saw it in his eyes that day. But if she made him come to her, it was guaranteed to be as humiliating and violent as he could make it on her. Slowly her hesitant steps carried her close to him. He slowly stood and turned to her, looking down on her, before his hand came up and slapped her across the cheek.

  “Never leave these walls without my permission.” He emphasized his words with another smack to her face. “Do you understand me?” he emphasized his words with a punch to her stomach.

  “Yes,” she stammered, as she tried to catch her breath.

  “I don’t think you do,” he said, and his fist landed on her again.

  “I do, I swear it.”

  Blow after blow landed on her, long after she fell into the floor. Only when he kicked her twice did she know the beating was over. He always ended his beatings with at least two hard kicks. “See that you don’t forget it.”

  She grew up exploring the small strip of forest, and the brook that ran through the middle of it. Never did she imagine Bruce would object. No one ever objected. But it was something she found enjoyment in, so of course Bruce would object. It also took her away from the walls, and away from him, should his desire rise while she was away, he would have to wait. Bruce was not a man who liked to wait.

  “Do you feel well?” The question snapped her back to the present, and she immediately shrank back against the door, finding the big man standing over her.

  Jillian nodded her head, but she felt far from well. The memory was so vivid her body ached, and she felt close to tears.

  “Sit down.” His voice was that of a man who was used to giving orders, and having them obeyed. The big hand he placed on the small of her back, pushing her away from the door and toward his chair, helped in her obedience.

  She took the seat, taking a moment to get herself settled into its comforting folds. It was heavenly, the cushioning enveloped her, and she let out a sigh before she could restrain it. The desk groaned beneath Halvor, as he perched himself on the edge. “I fear for your safety. If you would allow a couple of my men to go with you, it would alleviate my fears.”

  Jillian’s mouth fell open as she stared at Halvor. It sounded more like a request than a demand.

  “Not only are there dangerous people who could be lurking about among the trees, waiting for the right person to happen along, but
you are in a delicate condition. I cannot imagine the babe wanting to come when you are out alone.”

  Jillian could not help but stare at him. Bruce never explained anything to her. She was to obey without question. That Halvor would make a request, then go through the trouble of explaining why he was making that request, surprised and excited her. She began to nod but stopped herself. If Halvor could explain why he wanted his men to accompany her, she could explain why she did not.

  “I often visit the village, but there are times I seek the solitude the forest offers.” Her words ended in a near whisper, as she nervously looked to the floor. If her explanation angered him, she did not want to see it on his face. It was better to take the fist, than to expect it, and see it coming.

  “I see your reluctance,” Halvor said gently.

  Jillian raised her head to stare at him.

  “What if my men accompany you to the village but, when you seek solitude, they will go, but remain a distance away, so they can at least hear your calls?”

  Numbly Jillian nodded her head. “Very good,” Halvor replied, obviously content with the outcome of the request. He slipped from the top of the desk and stood beside her. “I am going to the village now. Would you like to accompany me?”

  “No thank you. I have just come from there and have a matter to resolve in the kitchen.”

  “Very well. I will see you at the evening meal.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Halvor did not expect to see two of his men, his best archers, standing in the middle of the path when he rounded the corner of underbrush. He pulled his horse to a stop. The stallion pranced. Halvor wondered how the horse would take to the more sedate life he would have with his owner caring for his own property, instead of fighting, or practicing to fight. The sorrel, with his reddish brown coat and golden main and tail, was a superb horse. Gifted to him from Garrick, he was a prize among Arabs, and all heart. There was never a time the horse faltered beneath him, even with his size and extra weight wearing his armor, the horse was always ready to go. Garrick purchased several of the magnificent animals before returning from the last Crusade. The largest he gave to Halvor, although the horse was still smaller than the destriers he was used to, the agility of the animal was superior to all others.