by Linda Madl
Garrett nodded again, his gag still in place.
"Did you know? I thought their behavior at the well curious, but I never suspected anything like this."
Garrett shook his head. Impostors or not, that mattered little now. The gag prevented him from telling the good father to shut up and make haste.
"Surely, they won't harm her,” Father John babbled on. “Lord Reginald's bride. The heiress to Lyonesse. Ransom is what they want, I think. This isn't Leofric's doing, is it?"
The leather loosened at last, and Garrett pulled and twisted his raw, bloody wrists free of the bindings, the pain unheeded. He yanked the gag from his mouth.
"Who else's would it be?” he demanded. “Who else threatened her life? Who else made it plain he opposed her betrothal? He could kill her, or he could force her into marriage to him. Either way, I've failed—Lord Reginald and Leandra."
He stopped, his own cold words ringing in his ears. Leandra's trusting expression loomed vividly in his mind. She knew he would come after her. She counted on it. Suddenly his sense of failure seemed of little importance. Getting to Leandra was what mattered.
Garrett launched himself at the door. By the time the wood splintered apart, the Penders and Leandra were gone. Brenna huddled in a weeping heap not far from the fire. He found the hoist tied, with the loose end of the rope lowered down the side of the rock where Pender had left it after lowering himself over the edge. The cart was gone and no sign of the Penders or Leandra remained. Even the fire boy was gone. Taken as a guide?
He flung himself down the narrow steps, shouting for horses all the way.
They found the empty fuel cart abandoned in the valley beyond Roche's Rock. The horse had obviously been ridden away by one of the party.
"This was well-planned,” Wystan said. They stared down at the tracks in the wet moorland. “Someone with more horses must have been waiting here for them."
Garrett agreed. The mist grew thicker with the gathering of darkness, and a light rain began to fall. Behind them the beacon fire burned orange in the fog. The tracks marked the route the mounted group had taken across the moors, a dangerous move unless they had a guide who knew the lay of the land as the fire boy probably did.
"Bring the hermit to me,” Garrett demanded. “He will be our guide."
"You mean to follow them in the dark?” Wystan asked.
"They travel through the night.” Garrett's gaze fixed on the direction he knew they had gone with Leandra. “We will, too."
Wystan gave the orders, and the guards rode back to the camp to carry them out.
The going was slow. The animals picked their way along the stony high ground. The bottomless bogs in the low areas could mire down man and horse and had to be avoided. The wind came up and flung rain in their faces. They nearly lost a man and horse in one bog. Garrett was forced to leave a man with the near-drowned rider and the injured animal.
Mounted atop a mule, the old hermit blustered that he knew little of the moor because he so seldom left his cell. And darkness obscured the kidnappers’ trail. At times, with only torchlight, Garrett's men could find no tracks to follow and could only assume that the pilgrims carried their hostage south and west, away from Tremelyn.
At first light, when they'd reached a river valley near the coast, they found a green tassel from Leandra's cloak caught on a low tree limb beside the narrow track of a road. Until then Garrett had begun to think they were on the wrong trail. At the sight of the frazzled silken tassel he'd seen on Leandra's cloak only the day before, his blood ran cold.
Abruptly he ordered Wystan and a guard to escort the hermit back to his cell. The churchman was of little use now. Then he turned to the last two men who rode with him. They were the best fighters of the lot he'd brought along from Tremelyn.
He held up the tassel for them to see. “I think we're in for an ugly battle."
"We're ready, sir,” the one named Tom said. “'Tis been a quiet trip until now. We could use some action."
To Garrett's satisfaction, the other man agreed.
* * * *
"LOOSEN HER BINDINGS, but if she touches her blindfold, tie her again,” Pender ordered. The sound of his voice grated against Leandra's ears. Then she heard his horse trot on down the road.
Mistress Pender's chapped hands tugged at the ropes that bound her. “Mind what he says, now. We don't have to keep ye tied so tight. By the mass, yer hands are nearly purple. There. Leave the blindfold in place. Hear me?"
"Yes, I hear.” Leandra's eyes had been covered since Pender pulled the bag over her head at Roche's Rock. The ride in the back of the wood cart hadn't lasted long. To her relief, she was now allowed to sit astride her mount with her hands free enough to cling to the saddle bow. Blindfolded, she could only guess who rode near her and where they were headed.
Without warning, her horse started forward again, throwing her off balance. She struggled to stay in the saddle. Her body was numb with cold, and her mind was befuddled with exhaustion. Her cloak and gown hung on her wet and heavy with the rain that had fallen all night. Hard as she tried to understand all that had happened to her in the last hours, nothing made sense. Who was this false pilgrim? Where did he get the money for the horses? The money to hire the men who rode with them? She could tell from the sounds around her that at least two other riders had joined them.
She had no idea how long it would take Sir Garrett to catch up with them, but she knew he would come. He would never let Lord Reginald down. She sighed and thanked heaven once more that Brenna was safe at least. Distractedly she toyed with the braid trim of her surcoat. Until Garrett came, she would have to do the best she could on her own.
"Ride on,” growled the guard behind her, slapping her horse's rump with something. “We haven't far to go now."
Again her horse leaped forward, jostling her. She grabbed the saddle bow to steady herself, but made no protest. She'd save her energy.
"Stop that, you,” Mistress Pender complained to the guard. She held the reins to Leandra's horse and seemed to consider herself on equal footing with the men of the band.
Since dawn both the Penders and Alfred had behaved relieved. The two men rode ahead, apparently at ease. Were they indeed near their destination? Wherever that was.
At the top of a hill the group drew rein again.
"There it is,” Pender called back to them.
She could tell by the directness of his voice that he'd twisted around in the saddle to speak to the riders behind him. “They'll take care of ye there, my lady."
A shiver shook her, and her grasp on the saddle bow slipped. The damp cold seeped painfully into her bones. Water dripped from her curls. In the grip of exhaustion her faith lagged. Where was Garrett? Had he given up the pursuit? Had he decided that Lord Reginald would be better off without her?
She shook her head. No, Sir Garrett would do his duty. She had to believe that. He wouldn't allow his personal feelings to interfere. There must have been other complications. Someone had been hurt. Brenna? Her cousin had been in a heap on the rock when she last saw her.
Leandra heard the men slap one another on the back, congratulating themselves on the reward that would soon jingle in their purses. Who was paying this reward? In the distance she heard the baying of hounds and the thunder of horses’ hooves on the road.
"Is his lordship coming to meet us?” Mistress Pender asked.
"'Twould seem so,” Pender replied.
Leandra could hear suspicion in his voice. She cocked her head, longing to hear more. His lordship, who? Say more, she begged in silence.
"He don't look friendly,” Alfred offered.
"No, he don't,” Pender agreed.
The thunder of hooves was near now.
From a distance someone shouted, “Bandits! Outlaws! Kill them, but spare the lady."
"What's this?” Pender cried. Swords raked against scabbards, and crossbows creaked as they were being cocked.
This was her moment to escape. Experimentally, Leandra pulle
d on her mount's reins. Her mare refused to respond.
"I got ye, me lady,” Mistress Pender warned. “Don't be anxious to ride away."
"I wants me money,” Pender shouted. “I'll fight fer it if I have to."
The galloping horses were close now. Leandra heard the whir of a released crossbow, then the thud of an arrow piercing a body.
Someone cried out, and her horse nickered and shied, leaping away from something, nearly throwing her to the ground. She clutched the saddle bow. She heard a strangled cry. Then something fell to the road, something large and soft, like a dead man.
A terrifying chorus of sharp cries of surprise and pain pierced the air.
Suddenly Leandra could feel that her horse was free. She yanked off her blindfold and bent over the mare's neck to grab the reins. There was no time to take in what was going on around her. The panicked animal bolted away from the melee, taking a stone roadside fence. Without the blindfold, Leandra easily regained her seat. She worked frantically with loosely bound hands to take up the slack in the reins. The mare galloped headlong into the woods. But a runaway horse she could handle.
When she reached a clearing, with a steady hand she drew rein, easing the horse into a wide circle. She drew tighter and tighter until the horse calmed. The mare slowed her gait, and came to a halt, sides heaving. Leandra pulled her hands completely free at last. Then she sat breathless, listening for more sounds from the battle she'd just escaped.
From behind, she heard the tattoo of hooves. More mounted men? Friend or foe? Which way should she ride to safety, to find Garrett and Brenna?
Without warning, a purple-cloaked rider on a black horse broke through the greenery before her.
"My God, can it be? Lady Leandra!"
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Chapter Eleven
"SIR LEOFRIC!” HE was the last person she'd expected to see riding toward her, but the sight of the heir of Casseldorne, her neighbor, sent tentative relief flooding through Leandra. “I am so glad to see an ally. Some men kidnapped me. Then we were attacked, and I broke free. Will you help me?"
"But of course, my lady.” Leofric peered at her closely as he rode up, a genuine expression of concern on his face. “'Twas my men who attacked your kidnappers. I was out hunting with friends, and we could see the men with you were outlaws. Are you hurt? I saw your horse bolt. And you look soaked through."
"I am only chilled.” A shiver shook her.
He took off his cloak. “Here, take this. You are turning positively blue."
Gratefully she pulled the fur-lined garment over her shoulders. The two sat side by side, listening to the distant shouts of fighting, the clang of the swords, the alarmed nicker of horses, and the strangled battle cries.
"These parts have been sorely troubled by outlaws of late,” Leofric said. “My men are only too glad to rid the woods of them."
"These woods are yours?” She thought all the Casseldorne holdings lay to the north of Tremelyn and Lyonesse.
"'Tis but a small manor that belongs to my mother's sister,” Leofric said, reaching for the reins of Leandra's horse. “'Tis fortunate that my men and I came upon you and the outlaws. Come, let's leave the fighting to my men and get you to some warmth and food."
Cold, hungry, and bewildered, she allowed him to lead the way out of the woods and down the road to an ancient round Cornish keep. Apprehension trembled through her when the odd castle and its moat came into view.
Guardianlike, it sat atop a conical mound, windswept, the gate gaping open to make the structure look almost like a giant's head: windows for eyes, the gatekeeper's portal for a nose, and a watery moat for a smile.
In the courtyard Leofric sprang from his mount. His black boots thudded resolutely on the cobbles, and a pleased grin spread across his dark face as he reached for Leandra. Only the absence of his purple cap and the disarray of his black hair gave away that he had just ordered men into battle.
"At last, you arrive at a safe place, my lady.” He seized her around the waist and tried to pull her from her horse before she could free her feet of the stirrups. “'Tis difficult to believe that Bernay could let this happen to you."
"'Twas my fault,” she said, struggling against Leofric to set her feet on the ground. “I insisted on bringing along the pilgrims. But they were outlaws in disguise."
"God's wounds, outlaws disguised as pilgrims,” Leofric echoed, and shook his head at the disgrace.
"We must send someone back to tell Sir Garrett that I'm well and that I'm here.” She shivered again and pushed away Leofric's hands, which had remained pressed against her sides over long. “I don't think he's far behind me. Put me down, please, sir."
Leofric's yellow-brown eyes narrowed, and he abruptly released her. When she dropped to the ground, the impact sent slivers of pain through her numbed feet.
"Bernay is in pursuit? Are you certain?” Leofric demanded. He grasped her by the shoulders and gave her a firm shake. “How would he know where to find you?"
His explosive reaction to the news startled Leandra. She swallowed the answer. No need for Leofric to know everything. “He will find me because he's a good soldier.” She shifted from one painful foot to the other and edged herself away from him. “'Twould be kind to send someone to save his searching."
"Save him searching, indeed,” Leofric said, red-faced and nearly sputtering in anger. “If he can't keep you safe, I'm not going to help him. You're under my protection now."
* * * *
GARRETT PACED THE roadside. “Come on, Tom,” he muttered to himself. “Come on. What have you found? Is there a trail for us to follow?"
His stomach growled with hunger, but he paid no heed. His rain-soaked surcoat clung to his chain mail, and the quilted jerkin beneath was wet and cold, but he didn't care. The only discomfort he would acknowledge was the tightness in his chest, or was it his heart? The kind of pain that came with caring too much.
He'd halted their search only because their horses required rest and his men needed food. Beside the road one man bolted down the bread and cheese that Garrett had purchased in the last village with the only gold he carried on him.
The other man, Tom, he'd sent on foot ahead to look for a trail. Garrett stopped pacing when Tom loped down the road toward him, a grin splitting his weathered face. With glee he held up a piece of green fabric.
"From the hem of Lady Leandra's gown, I think,” he called.
Garrett suppressed a groan and resisted the urge to slap the joy from the idiot's face. The man was pleased with the discovery. “Where did you find it?"
"On a tree limb on the right fork of the road. They're working their way west and south."
Garrett grabbed the precious cloth. He clutched it tightly in his palm, scrutinizing it as if the fibers might tell him what had happened to Leandra, what fear she knew, what pain she suffered. Pender must be pushing them hard for tree limbs to be ripping at her clothes.
"We can't be far behind them now,” the soldier babbled on, apparently thrilled with the find. “With Lady Leandra's help, we haven't taken a wrong turn yet."
Garrett's head came up. “What do you mean with the lady's help?” He almost grabbed the man by his woolen hood, but gripped his shoulders instead and shook him. “Only good fortune kept us from turning east at the last village. If the innkeeper's wife hadn't noticed the heavily hooded lady riding with the pilgrims and brought us the silken cord from the lady's cloak, we would have ridden in the wrong direction."
The man's grin vanished, and he peered at Garrett uncertainly. “Do you think a lady in disguise riding along the highway is so strange these days? You think these things were left by chance? Oh, no. With respect, Sir Garrett, have faith in the lady. She shows us the way. We have but to follow."
Slowly, thoughtfully, Garrett released the soldier.
"Let's ride, sir."
Garrett stared after Tom, astonished. Why was he so muddled? How could he have missed the obvious? Aside from the tassel
, they had been given a piece of trim from her cloak, found by a shepherd at the crossroads near the south fork. Then a hostler at the last village gave them a shred of her surcoat, confirming that she and the Penders had ridden through. Now with a tatter from her gown ... he shook his head. Of course Leandra showed them the way.
With a laugh at his own witlessness and at Pender's carelessness—a laugh that came with a measure of relief—Garrett threw himself onto his mount and led the way down the road. If Leandra had enough wits about her to leave them a trail, then she must be well. Knowing that eased the aching tightness in his chest, in his heart.
At the fork in the road they rode west through the woods. They hadn't ridden far before they came upon a gathering of peasants and a friar tending bodies scattered along the roadside—the outlaws.
"Did anyone see what happened here?” Garrett asked of the friar and the peasants. They shook their heads.
He dismounted and walked among them in the growing darkness: Mistress Pender, Alfred, and two others. He was inured to the carnage; his only fear was that he might find Leandra among them.
A friar bent over the last body, Pender, the false old man with the garlic stench. The outlaw lived, barely, with a sword wound in his gut and a purple knot on his head from Leandra's bow.
The man mumbled his confession to the little friar but croaked when he saw Garrett loom over him. He grasped the arm of the friar and tried to sit up.
"Traitor!” Pender brayed.
Garrett tensed, his hand on the sword hilt, ready to end the misery of one who would call him names.
"Casseldorne a traitor,” Pender cried, obviously eager for him to know more.
Garrett motioned for the friar to leave them and knelt beside the kidnapper. “What about Casseldorne?” he asked, slipping a hand beneath the outlaw's head to support him as he spoke.
Pender's pale eyes were glazed with pain, but he attempted to meet Garrett's gaze. The man knew what he was saying. “He wanted the lady. He promised a reward. A big reward.” Pender closed his eyes, and with his last breath he mumbled, “We got this."
"Where's Lady Leandra?” But the outlaw was dead. Garrett called the friar back to finish his business.