Becca St.John

by Seonaid

  “Don’t be daft. I’ll go with you.”

  “You’re smilin’, lass.”

  Aye, she was. “Of course, I’m smilin’. You’re a man, so daft comes easy.”

  “Ah, you wound me.” He was close enough for her to see him clutch his heart.

  She snorted. “You wound too easy.”

  “Oh, lass, your words are smilin’ again. Twice in a row. Not bad for a lass who takes on the world with grim determination.”

  “Aye,” she sighed, “and I’m about to again. I don’t know where Deian is, but he wasna’ there when I was taken. Do you know how many they sent out?”

  “One in each direction. He should be fine. He may already be inside Eriboll keep.”

  “Thank the good Lord.” She looked to the heavens, silently whispered her gratitude. “Will you cut my wrists free now?”

  Padraig rose.

  “Padraig?”

  “I think it best you stay here, while I go to the beach.”

  “Oh no, you don’t, you’re not leaving me here, tied up next to a dead man. There will be beasties coming for his carcass, foul as it is.”

  Ah, she’d stopped him with that, heard the crunch of rocks as he turned back.

  “You need my help,” she argued.

  “No, lass, I need you alive and well.”

  “Not if you don’t survive.”

  Silence as thick as the night sat between them. “Are you saying you love me?”

  How could she answer that? Of course she loved him, she always had, but she couldn’t let him near, to see the tortured darkness within, to feel the pain of losing him when he got too close, to face his pity when she wanted so much more.

  “Didn’t I say you were daft?”

  “Seonaid, one day you will tell me.”

  She felt his approach as much as heard it. She felt his warmth and strength and love, as he crossed to her, knelt before her, grabbed her chin, and kissed her. Only this was not the short, sweet kiss of before. This was a gentle brush, a taste; such soft lips for such a hard man.

  Her whimper, when he stopped, surprised her.

  “Ah, lass,” he rested his forehead to hers. “What can I do to keep you here?”

  “I’m not here by choice, but I’m here by the Lord’s will. That speaks loud enough for me. Untie me.”

  “Damn this carcass. If not for him, I’d leave you here to wait,” he grumbled, as he sliced the leather bindings.

  “Thank you, thank you,” she breathed, as she rolled her shoulders, rubbed her wrists. “Where are you?”

  “Want another kiss?” he teased.

  “Where’s your face?”

  She reached out in the darkness until his large calloused hand covered hers, and guided it to his cheek. She chuckled, stroked the coarse hair that covered his chin, then pulled away to come back with a resounding whack.

  “Ouch! What was that for?” He rubbed his jaw.

  “For even thinking to leave me here, tied up next to the pulp of a dead man.” She stood. “I canna’ believe you would do that.”

  Guided by the glint of Peregrine’s eyes, she found her mount, grabbed his reins.

  “Where’s Tarvos? And the other mount? Can you find them in this pitch?”

  “Aye, and we can move them closer. They’ll ne’er see us without some light.”

  She squealed as Padraig lifted her, put her on her mount’s back. He whistled, his own peculiar call, for Tarvos.

  “They’ve not lit the beach.” From her vantage point she could tell that much.

  “They won’t want to risk that. I’m hoping they’re waiting for this man—” he gestured to the body, “—before they set sail.”

  “Do you know much about this loch?”

  “It pulls to the west. If they aren’t careful, they’ll be pulled onto the far beach.”

  “I hope that happens.”

  “I hope young Deian made it to Eriboll.”

  “Oh, please God, let him be safe within the walls of Eriboll.”

  CHAPTER 10 ~ OUTNUMBERED

  “How many do you see?” Padraig asked, voice pitched lower than the patter of rain hitting the earth. They lay on their bellies on the wet ground, the bandits' camp below. Peregrine, Tarvos and the other horse were tied just behind the hillock, south of them.

  They’d use those horses to outdistance their enemy, who only had one donkey among the lot of them. But not until they’d robbed the camp of its captives who were huddled together, away from the light of the one small fire. Only one guard stood between Padraig and Seonaid and their target. The trick was to get him out without a sound being made. None of them were so far apart that they wouldn’t hear a scuffle or the fall of a body.

  “Twenty, counting the guard.”

  Words kept to a minimum, neither bothered to acknowledge twenty-one if they’d counted the man Peregrine trampled. Twenty on oars, one coxswain. No need for the sails.

  There were too many to try to ride in on horses, untether three people, grab them and ride without someone downing them with an arrow, spear, or battle mace.

  They would have to use stealth. Remove the one guard, when no one was looking, without being heard or seen. That was their greatest challenge. The men were starting to pay attention to the women, kept looking over, shouting out crude promises and laughing at ugly humor.

  Padraig tossed a stone toward their target, gained his attention, waited to the count of ten before the man turned away.

  “Will they settle on land tonight?” Seonaid whispered in Padraig’s ear.

  He shook his head. There was no telling. He’d already picked out the leader in deep conversation with two of his men. They stood away from the others, closer to the water.

  “Padraig,” Seonaid hissed, “the women are getting to their feet.”

  Aye, bracing each other, back to back, all three captives rose, started to topple as the priest buckled, but the other two leaned to take more of his weight. Staff raised, the guard stomped over to them. “Hey, now, what do you think you’re about?”

  Seonaid couldn’t hear the response, but had no trouble hearing the guard shout out to the other men. “One of the ladies has to piss. Who wants to watch her?”

  An explosion of responses filled the air.

  “Oh, I’ll go.”

  “No, let me.”

  “Get off you, I found them!”

  Seonaid curled into herself, moaning. “Oh no, no, no.” Insides turned to ice, hands over her ears, she shut out the world.

  Padraig jostled her, urged her to pay attention. “Look at this,” he hissed, for her ears alone and jostled her, breaking up the encroaching frost. She resisted the tug at her shoulder, kept her eyes closed, hands over her ears, but he directed her face toward the front, toward the captives.

  How dare he? She’d been strong through so much. Did he have no compassion?

  “Look!”

  Fine, she would—and then when she really broke, let him pick up the pieces. Still glaring, she turned to see the leader striding through his camp, slapping the backs of heads, punching at shoulders, but not in brotherhood, och no, in a rage.

  She’d thought the lack of calls had been the men, acting on their threats, but no, it was the men being shamed.

  Seonaid started to thaw, the last remnants of ice shattering when the leader’s shout echoed over her.

  “Leave them be! Those are healers! Never been with a man. Virgins.” He stopped between the captives and his men. “Can you get that through your thick skulls? We’ll get a good price for them if you don’t foul them.”

  “I thought they were witches,” one man bellowed.

  “Same thing,” the leader bellowed back.

  “Witches do anything they want,” another argued. “How do you know they’re pure?”

  The man flew toward the fire, propelled by the leader’s fist.

  “These aren’t any healers, these are the ones from St. Michael’s Mount, the ones they call the Women of the Woods. No
man would dare go near them. And they have the priest.”

  “You could be wrong,” the man spat.

  “And you could be a prince, you bugger. Leave them be, is that clear?”

  “You said there’d be a load of women waiting on Loch Hope, but they weren’t there.”

  “Aye, and men get ambushed and ships sink. But tell me, Ned, are you questioning my authority for a bit of skirt?”

  “No, sir.” Ned’s sneer did not match his response.

  “I see.” The captain moved in closer. “You’re thinking mutiny, just for a leg over.”

  “Long time since a port with ladies, sir.”

  “Ah, yes, there is that,” the captain purred, and faster than Seonaid could react, he’d drawn his sword, stuck it through Ned’s stomach. “Anyone else feel the need for a lass tonight?”

  The men backed down, backed away, to the fire.

  “Rudd, take the lady to where she can piss. Brock, you go see if you can’t find Aldwin. He went east and north.”

  Seonaid felt Padraig’s lips against her ear. “You take the man watching her. I’ll get the other one.”

  “They’re the healers,” Seonaid explained, needlessly.

  “Aye, I heard,” Padraig acknowledged. “You’ll have time to ask questions later. He’s going to take her to our left.”

  She could do something, make a difference, get the lasses free, if she didn’t get captured herself. Seonaid pushed back, crawled lower down the slope, until she was sure it was dark enough and she was far enough to run without getting caught. Like a streak, she was off, stretching her legs, closing the distance.

  A Healer, one of the Women of the Woods, the women Seonaid had set off to protect. They were here. She’d best save them now, or forever forget joining them.

  Parallel to where her target had been led, Seonaid climbed the hillock. Using the dark for cover, she eased over the rise, slowly making her way right up behind the squatting woman. Only it wasn’t a woman, but a lass of maybe fifteen or sixteen. She faced downhill, away from Seonaid, doing what nature called her to do.

  This was no time for modesty or comfort, Seonaid’s only real worry, the sound of a body crashing to the ground and the woman’s scream. She decided to deal with the scream.

  “Psst,” Seonaid hissed. The lass, God bless her soul, gasped rather than shouted, but she did whisper, “You’re no man.” Her words brought her guard’s head around. Prepared, Seonaid’s arrow lanced his throat. He fell to his knees, swayed, trying to call out, as blood gurgled from his mouth. Seonaid caught him before his body could fall to the earth with a thud.

  “Who are you?” the healer asked.

  “No time,” Seonaid warned. “Go over that hill, there are horses. We’ll have your friends.” She prayed to God the lass would listen and go, but there was no time to check, to see, to follow, or explain. She had to get to Padraig, be certain he was safe.

  He’d propped the second guard against the hillside, was slashing the captives’ bindings. Perfect, except the one lass was rigid as death, eyes wide with fear. The priest murmured to her, “They’ve come to free us, Angelica, but you must run now, you must go.”

  She didn’t go; she shook worse than a pebble on a drum.

  “Come on, you.” Padraig hauled her over his shoulder. Her scream erupted from deep in her belly, filling the night air.

  “Shite!” Padraig shouted, and started to run. “Can you shut her up?”

  Seonaid untied the cloth she wore at her neck and tried to push it into the lass’s mouth, but between the woman’s fight and Padraig’s loping run, it proved impossible.

  “Angelica, stop,” the friar pleaded, as he ran alongside. “Quiet, you’ll bring them after us.” Which, of course, had already happened. The men on the beach were after them, not more than a few feet behind.

  “Drop her!” Seonaid ordered. “And you, priest, run with her or drag her or do whatever you want, but get over that hill.”

  “No, you mustna’. Don’t leave her.”

  She felt Padraig’s eyes on her as they hauled toward the horses. “Aye, we have to. Padraig can’t fight with her over his shoulder.” Even as she explained, Padraig dropped the screaming girl and turned to face their followers.

  “Twenty to two, did ya say, lass?” he asked, as he pulled his bow from his shoulder.

  “Aye,” she nodded as she notched her arrow.

  “Go!” he bellowed over his shoulder. The woman had stopped screaming, but neither she nor the priest moved.

  In all fairness, the priest was not idle; he begged and cajoled, but the lass was not there, she just wasn’t present, her body as heavy and obstinate as a dead woman’s.

  “Go!” Seonaid shouted. “Or I’ll shoot you!” She turned, aimed at the lass, hoping it would set her in motion, but something sparked in the girl’s eyes, welcoming the death.

  What had she been through?

  Padraig cursed, but responded to Seonaid’s curt nod and ran up the hill, grabbed the lass under one arm, as Seonaid took the other. They hauled her up the hill until they knew they had to confront their enemy.

  Odd as it may seem, the sight of the men gaining on them did more than anything else for the girl. She rose, screaming again, and would have charged at the men, but the friar grabbed her around the middle and pushed her toward the peak of the hill.

  Seonaid stood her ground, alongside Padraig. Their enemies didn’t fire a shot, they didn’t want to harm the girls; but soon they would be close enough to single out Padraig and Seonaid, who were loading their bows.

  “So you wanted to protect the healers,” Padraig gritted out as an arrow sung from his bow.

  “Aye, well,” she huffed. “Tonight’s proof enough they need me.”

  Despite approaching danger, Seonaid turned to find a wistful Padraig looking at her.

  “Och, Padraig…” She didn’t want tears to weaken her own smile. “How many hearts have you broken with that handsome face of yours?”

  That brightened him. “Oh, lass,” he drawled, “are you saying you love me?”

  An arrow hit the earth two paces in front of them. They stepped back, knowing they couldn’t go much further until they knew the others were gone.

  Seonaid’s breath came in quick short bursts, building a warrior’s whoop. Chances of survival were nil, but there was one thing she wanted to say before she died. She wanted the truth out. It couldn’t hurt her now.

  “Aye!” she shouted, as she prepared to rain arrows down on the men approaching. “I love ya, ya big oaf.”

  CHAPTER 11 ~ FACING THE ENEMY

  She loved him.

  He could weep. She loved him, told him so, and here they stood at death’s door. He should have insisted she leave. Wasted effort, that. She wouldn’t do so without a fight, no matter how desperate the outcome, and there was no time for argument.

  All they could do was create a distraction, so the women and the priest could ride away. The odds didn’t offer more than that, yet she stood firm, as he knew she would if the going got tough. It couldn’t be any tougher.

  Her panic earlier, when the lasses faced a bleak outcome, had naught to do with her. No fear there. No, it was for the lasses, knowing they’d suffer worse than Seonaid herself had endured. And she’d endured too much at the hands of her brother.

  They’d managed to get further up the hill, stopping long enough to shoot arrows down at the men gaining on them, though they didn’t waste many arrows at that. Too far to reach their mark, but soon they would be in range.

  They needed to stop at least a few men, before it got to hand-to-hand combat. Once the priest and lasses were mounted and riding, the men wouldn’t be able to reach them.

  The only fear was the one lass. She’d frozen. He prayed to Seonaid’s God that the girl was on a horse and riding. He feared she wasn’t, for they didn’t hear the priest’s call, signaling they could let up the guard.

  Jesus, Mary and Joseph, if Seonaid was right and there was a God, he
was pleading to him now. Just whistle, you old friar, let us get out of this before it’s too late.

  He wanted Seonaid to run for it.

  He strained for the sound of horses, but heard nothing. He saw the tension in Seonaid, lunged to the side and kissed her with every ounce of his heart. And she kissed him back, fierce and proud, and so full of love he’d die happy, only he had to pull back, their faces a breath apart.

  “I love you, lass…to the depth of my soul, I love you.”

  He forced himself to let go, to face the danger, ready now for whatever came.

  Nostrils flared, on great drafts of air, he stood, armed and steady, ready to do whatever he could to give the women time, and to protect Seonaid so she, too, could get away.

  Muscles so tense they shivered, as the stomp of hooves sounded behind them.

  “Shite! They’re supposed to ride away!” he bellowed, even as he marveled that they would come to save Seonaid, get her to safety.

  Only it wasn’t the women.

  Deian, mounted on Snip, charged over the hill, Tarvos in tow.

  “Run, Seonaid!” he bellowed, even as he saw her race toward Deian, jump on Tarvos.

  Good thinking. If Snip had just ridden to Eriboll and back, he didn’t need a second rider. Tarvos could handle two. Padraig ran, jumped, swinging around to land on his mount’s rump, right behind Seonaid.

  His victory cry rang through the night, in concert with Seonaid’s call. Deian chimed in, a sweet, blended, partnering to success.

  But they weren’t finished yet.

  Arrows rained on them as they heeled their mounts, pushing them through the blind night, willing them not to trip or fall. Padraig lunged forward, before he could stop himself, sending Seonaid sprawling along Tarvos’s neck.

  Snip bucked, reared, an arrow in his haunch. Deian was whipped, fore and aft, over and over, as he clung to the beast’s neck, and then the two were gone, racing out of sight.

  Seonaid turned in her seat. “You’ve been shot.” Padraig looked down at the arrow protruding from his shoulder.

  Pain would hit—he knew that—but not yet, not while his muscles bunched with strength. He drew breath like fire into his lungs, his nostrils flaring with the effort.