by Betina Krahn
He had come alone. Gasquar was in Mercia, marshaling the people’s resources and implementing their joint plan to defend against what was sure to be a savage attack, once Thera was free and back within Mercia. And he would have to plan his entry carefully and strike swiftly to carry off her rescue by himself.
He shifted to get a better view of the large tent near the edge of the camp. As he watched, there was growing activity around it. The huge black tent had a number of black and crimson banners hanging from its walls, a gold-encrusted pennon flying overhead . . . this Duc de Verville campaigned in luxury. He hoped the duc would see fit to hold Thera within that luxury as well.
His patience was soon rewarded, though in an unsettling way. A sudden flurry around the tent—the sound of alarm, soldiers scrambling, and a blur of white—caught his eye. He watched in complete helplessness as Thera was seized bodily and carried back inside that dark pavilion. The sight of her captive in their sinewy clutches made bile rise up his throat. But at least now he knew where she was . . . and how many guards were posted around her prison.
Planning quickly, he worked his way through the rocks toward the camp, intending to mix with the soldiers and move about as one of them. He had worn his fighting clothes—his skin garments, fur-lined boots, and cross braces—and there was a beard stubble on his face. He stopped along the way to rub dirt over his shoulders and hair; nothing would arouse suspicion faster than a clean barbarian.
Reaching the edge of the camp, he straightened from his crouch, settled a hand on a dagger, and strode casually toward the black tent that loomed over the camp. Slouching to disguise his height, he made it past sentries and around a number of tents and campsites without incident, and turned part of his mind toward how he would contact Thera once he reached the tent.
He might have made it all the way . . . except for one watchful pair of eyes that had seen him stride through Mercia’s city and countryside, and had seen him fight by firelight in Mercia’s hills. Juan the Spaniard’s voice rang out, “Spy! There—” And in a camp of men whose survival depended on quick reactions, the response was to act first and question later.
They came at Saxxe from every direction. He just had time to draw his dagger before he was encircled. He whirled and spun to keep them off guard, but they, too, knew that strategy. Four lunged at once, all from different directions, and he found himself on the ground, fighting with everything in him . . . and losing.
Thera heard the shouting and commotion outside the rear of the tent and ran to lift the edge of the heavy canvas. She got only a glimpse before a guard shoved the tent wall down, sealing her inside again. But that brief glimpse—Saxxe struggling in the grip of half a dozen soldiers—was enough to stop her heart.
She wobbled to the chair and sank into it as that awful image lingered. He had come for her, and they had captured him! The impact of it slowly broadened in her mind. If Saxxe was captured . . . there was no one to rescue her. Worse . . . there was no one to rescue Mercia!
The duc found her there half an hour later, her eyes red-rimmed but her manner controlled. He swooped down on her and pulled her to her feet, insisting that she looked pale and needed fresh air. He seized her wrist in an iron grip and escorted her outside. He walked her around his camp, parading her before his hungry, hard-bitten men and making a point of stroking her hand, her shoulder, her waist possessively . . . in full view of their burning stares. Whenever she resisted, the pressure of his hand increased dangerously. She learned to keep pace, and after a while, she walked unresisting at his side.
They stopped near some tents where large posts had been pounded into the ground. She’d had time to prepare herself, but couldn’t help the gasp that escaped her. Saxxe was bound tightly to one of those posts, his head drooping onto his chest, blood coming from his lip and swollen eye. She could see no other damage, but the sight of his big, handsome body, now bleeding and powerless, sent her into a panic.
“It seems we have had a visitor this morning,” the duc said, watching her reaction keenly. “Perhaps he is familiar to you, Princess?”
There was no point in lying. He knew Saxxe had come for her, else he wouldn’t have made a point of showing him to her. “He is a mercenary I hired to escort me home,” she said. “An insolent, uncouth fellow . . . but a valiant fighter.” It was agonizing to tear her eyes from Saxxe, but she made herself do it and managed to add a shiver of disgust. “Must you beat him so?”
With an instinct as old as Eve, she looked directly into the duc’s dark, hollow eyes and gave him a stroking, feminine look. “He certainly is no threat to you now.” When the duc reacted to that evidence of her feminine warming with a handsome smile, her instinct became intention. And without quite realizing it, she began to develop a plan.
He escorted her back, growing ever more enamored of the sway in her walk and the way she looked up at him through her lashes. By the time they reached his tent, he was quivering with anticipation. He pulled her into his arms and pressed a kiss on her lips . . . which she could not refuse, though she whimpered and pushed to put distance between their bodies. He apparently took her distress as she intended . . . a sign of royal and maidenly sensibilities. He ended the kiss, seeming pleased with their progress.
“I am not used to such things, sir. Mercians are taught . . . quite differently,” she said tightly, turning partway in his arms and swallowing her disgust. Her eyes fell on a pair of blue steel daggers and a heartbreakingly familiar sword which had been placed on the table in their absence. They were Saxxe’s weapons, undoubtedly brought to the duc’s tent because of their renowned Damascus steel. Her stomach slid.
The duc laughed with a mocking edge, pulling her closer. “There are but few ways to take pleasure, Princess, and I can show you all of them in the matter of an hour.”
“I speak not just of passion, Duc. If you would have the union you seek, you must give me time to . . . adjust to you,” she said desperately, “And for my people to accept the marriage, you must fulfill our law . . . including our unusual marriage customs.” She made an artful pause. “We are required to spend seven nights of pleasure together before a true marriage is decreed. Because the heir to the throne will place another on the throne with her or him, it is required that the seven nights be confirmed.”
“Confirmed?” he said with a smirk, guessing what sort of proof was required. In many provinces the first bedding had to be observed to be considered official and proof a true marriage had occurred.
She steeled her nerve and launched into her first lie. “A princess’s seven nights of passion must occur in the palace, where they may be observed by her advisers.” She lowered her eyes as if embarrassed to speak of it, but in reality because she could not bear the ugly joy dawning in his face. “A terrible burden to one born outside Mercia, I know . . . but it must be endured if you would wed me and be king of Mercia.”
“Seven nights of pleasure,” he said with a leer, already savoring it in his mind, “before a hall full of people. . . .” He loosed his hold and led her to a chair. “Tell me more of your lusty little kingdom.”
She thought he would never leave. She talked on and on in an effort to distract him, telling such a web of lies and half-truths that she nearly lost track of them. The tent began to tremble, and when the duc threw back the opening and looked out, the wind was rising and the sky was lowering . . . a storm approached. Scallion came to ask him to secure the camp and review the preparations for the next day’s march into Mercia. And when he left, the weapons still lay on the table unnoticed among the parchments, pitchers, and goblets.
She seized the blades, looked about for a place to hide them, and carried them to the trunk. She knelt with the daggers and sword in her hands and paused, sensing she had just taken her fate into her own hands the moment she picked them up. A strange calm possessed her, a power like none she had ever known as a royal. This was personal and it came from her blood, her sinew, and her own determination. She hid the blades and sat down to wait
for night.
When supper was brought and the tapers were lighted, the duc’s captain brought word that the duc would be delayed. Shortly, the rains began. The duc arrived late and she pretended to be sleeping. When he awakened her, she pleaded that illness peculiar to women . . . and could see him coldly weighing her future value against this present inconvenience. In a sullen, dangerous temper, he withdrew, leaving her to her supposed miseries.
* * *
The rains continued, whipped by the wind into a stinging lash that drove the duc’s men into huddles inside tents and beneath skins and blankets. Even the guards outside the duc’s tent were driven to seek shelter, leaving only two stalwart soldiers guarding the entrance, When the night was fully dark and the rain hard and steady, Thera donned the duc’s black cloak, secured Saxxe’s weapons within a girdle around her waist, and lifted the back edge of the tent.
It was dark and the raindrops splashed mud in her face as she lay close to the ground with only her head sticking out of the bottom of the tent. The rear guards were gone; this was her chance. She crawled out into the mud as quickly as she could, gathered the voluminous cloak about her, and darted for a nearby tent. She stood with her heart pounding . . . blinking against the huge drops and thanking the heavens for that dark, concealing rain.
On their walk about the camp, she had committed as much of the place to memory as she could. Now she slipped from tent to cart to wagon, flattening against them at the slightest sound, making herself small and hiding her face whenever she spotted movement. The rain was disorienting, and it took longer than she had imagined to reach the poles where Saxxe was tied. His guards, like hers, had sought what shelter they could; all but one. She waited, praying that he too would value comfort more than his wretched duty. And moments later, as if in response to her heavenly supplication, he let out a low string of curses and lurched toward the nearest tent. She nearly wept with relief.
Gathering herself for the effort, she waited for a heavy gust of rain and dashed across the open to Saxxe. Mercifully, he was slumped enough against his bonds so that she could get near his ear to speak to him.
“Saxxe! Saxxe—it’s me. Are you all right?”
Saxxe thought he must be hearing things. When he opened his eyes, he saw her face and wondered if he was dreaming . . . or dead. “Thera?”
“I’m here to get you out. Can you move?” she called near his ear. “Do you think you can walk?” When he nodded, she sagged with relief. “I’m going to cut you free. Can you stand straighter?”
He nodded and shifted more of his weight to his feet to relieve the pressure on his bonds. She disappeared and he could feel her sawing frantically at the ropes that held him. Twice they heard someone coming and twice she darted to the side of a nearby wagon as forms materialized briefly out of the dark, then disappeared back into it. Her third effort managed to free his arms, and he seized the dagger to make short work of the ropes on his legs and feet. She helped him to the shelter of the wagon, where she threw her arms around him before giving him back his blades and helping him rub some of the feeling back into his constricted limbs.
“Are you all right?” she whispered against his battered mouth, feeling his face with her fingers.
“This is nothing,” he said, going for a kiss and groaning at the pain it caused. “Why, once in Damascus, when the Turks overran our garrison—”
She kissed him fully on the mouth, despite his wincing. It was the quickest way to shut him up. “Now quiet,” she ordered, taking his hand. “Horses are this way.”
The next part of the journey was just as difficult: finding the horses and getting away without being detected. But with Saxxe’s big hand in hers, she felt more confident. She knew the general direction of the tie lines and corrals, and soon they were slogging through deepening mud and dodging tents and pole structures and carts that loomed up in their path.
It seemed to take forever to reach the horses. They selected two near the end of one long line and stealthily untied them. “Can you ride without a saddle?” Saxxe whispered as they led the horses away from the others. He saw her nod and realized he was seeing all of her much better; the rain had slackened. And if visibility was better for them, it was also better for the sentries around the perimeter of the camp. “Once you’re up, dig in and ride—don’t wait for me,” Saxxe whispered forcefully.
“See here, Rouen, who’s rescuing whom?” she hissed, scowling at him.
He flashed a grin with the uninjured side of his mouth, gave her a quick hard kiss, and boosted her onto the horse’s back. “Ride—dammit!” She dug her heels in and when she shot off along the trail up the mountain, he wasn’t far behind.
At the sound of the hoofbeats two soldiers emerged from a makeshift tent. It took them a moment to locate the riders. Their figures were blurred and not visible for long in the rain; the guards weren’t sure whether to sound an alarm or not. But it truly didn’t matter. In the main part of camp, the Duc de Verville had just returned to his tent, steeped in strong wine and determined to have some pleasure of his captive bride. And he had found her missing.
“Damn her treacherous soul to Hell!” he raged, wild-eyed with humiliation at having been cozened by a mere female. He lashed out with boots and fists, overturning the chair and table, sending silver clattering. “I’ll make her rue the day she was born!” he roared. “Scallion—go after her! I want that little bitch!”
Thera and Saxxe heard the low drum of hoofbeats behind them and rode as fast as the steepening, rocky trail would allow. Thera’s knowledge of the trail bought them some time, but the others were still too close for comfort. As they rode higher, above the narrow breaks in the rock, they could hear more than see the soldiers beginning to gain on them.
Hearts pounding amid the crash of hooves, they pushed their mounts, scanning the darkness for the rock cliff high above. And suddenly, the pale stone appeared and the slope became loose gravel everywhere but on one path. Thera found the solid footing, called to Saxxe to follow her, and raced for the pass.
An odd whirring sound came from the darkness to her left and then another on her right. Confused, she looked up and heard another low, singing vibration . . . something shooting past her. Saxxe shouted from behind: “They’re firing at us—your cloak . . . take it off! Show them your white gown!”
Ducking close to her mount, she pried one hand from its mane and jerked the ties of the cloak, shoving it frantically from her shoulders. The whirring stopped and they dug their heels in and rode hard for that dark slash in the rocks that meant safety. Once inside, Saxxe pulled up and shouted to the archers poised above them to fire at will.
The duc’s men came charging up the slope into a hail of arrows pelting them unexpectedly out of the darkness. Two men and one horse fell, and the others reined up in confusion, then wheeled and rode back out of range. A sudden, eerie stillness settled over the pass. All that could be heard were the echo of hooves against the narrow stone passage and the quiet patter of the rain.
They continued through the pass and emerged onto the slope. Thera slid from her horse and staggered, weak with afterfright, and Saxxe joined her on the ground an instant later, engulfing her with all his strength and warmth. Tears mingled with the rain on her face as she hugged him with all her might.
“They’re going! We turned them back!” came a call from above, and a chorus of cheers rolled down on them. They looked up to make out arms waving in the dimness. Saxxe called “Well done!” then turned back to hold her as if he’d never let her go.
When her heartbeat had slowed to a bearable pace, Thera pushed back in his arms and ran her hands anxiously over him, searching every part of him. “Are you all right?”
“Never better. And I can prove it.” He kissed her with a force that spoke of a great release. She laughed and wrapped her hands around the cross braces on his back and pulled him tighter against her.
“You owe me, Rouen,” she said with a triumphant grin. “I saved your blessed hide tonig
ht . . . and I don’t do anything without a reward.” Her eyes glinted in the dimness. “Now what do you have that’s worth your handsome skin?”
“Naught but the clothes on my back, Princess,” he said, relishing this reversal of their roles. She looked him over with a critical eye and made a tsk sound.
“Not to my taste,” she said with a sniff. “There is one thing I might accept . . .” She gave him a look sultry enough to dry his skin breeches. “Give me a night of pleasure with you and we’ll call your debt even.”
He threw back his head and laughed, sweeping her against him and swinging her back and forth with his cheek pressed against her hair.
“It’s yours, Princess. Whenever you say.”
That was where Gasquar, Lillith, Cedric, and half of the council found them . . . on the slope beneath the pass, wrapped in each other’s arms, standing in the gentle rain. With whoops and hugs and shouts of joy, they escorted them back to the city, where the people turned out of their houses with sputtering torches to greet them.
On the way to the palace Saxxe recounted for Gasquar, Lillith, and the councilors a rather colorful version of Thera’s rescue of him . . . dramatizing it, embroidering her deeds until Thera sounded like warrior queen Boadicea, of the Old Ones. And when he informed them that she’d had the gall to demand payment for her noble deed, they were deliciously scandalized . . . especially when the nature of the payment she demanded was revealed. Another night. This would make seven. Thera was declaring her intention to wed Saxxe Rouen as soon as another night could be arranged.
By the time Thera and Saxxe were ushered to their quarters to bathe and rest, there were precious few hours left in that night. And the people of Mercia, too excited to sleep, continued the vigil they had kept outside the palace . . . adding prayers for blessings on Thera and Saxxe’s marriage to their prayers for Mercia’s safety.