by Shari Anton
He picked up the stout, almost sword-length piece of wood he’d found among the ruins and slashed it through the air to again test the weight and balance. Not perfect, but it would serve the purpose.
“Between this and the dagger, I am armed well enough. Are you ready?”
She still looked dubious, but she picked up the harp’s sack and clutched it to her lovely bosom. “You have a care. I will meet you on the other side of the gate.”
With that welcome bit of confidence in their plan, Nicole strode out the door. Rhodri scurried back to the gap in the wall to watch her run toward the gate, the end of her braid bouncing rhythmically against her beautifully shaped rump.
Rhodri hated using Nicole this way but knew no harm would come to her if the plan failed. ’Twould be his neck in a noose if he’d not judged the reactions of the guards rightly.
As expected, every guard watched in wide-eyed wonder as the beautiful woman ran toward them, screeching at them to chase after the cur of a bard who’d audaciously kidnapped her from the tower.
Nicole didn’t bother to hide her nervousness from the guards. She was supposed to be afraid. The guards just needn’t be made aware of what she feared.
She had made her plea for succor to the guard who’d stepped forward, seeming to be in charge. Now she pointed down the road behind her.
“I broke free of him in a building two streets down and around the corner!” she informed her would-be savior. “If you hurry, you can capture the beast!”
As she hoped—or feared, she still had yet to decide—the guard drew his sword from his belt. She need not have worried if several guards would give chase. They all knew a reward would be forthcoming from someone for whoever captured the Welshman. Soon four of the seven guards were following her directions, quickly passing by the building where Rhodri hid.
“Milady,” said the taller of remaining guards, “they will have the cur soon. Shall I take ye to the castle? The earl will be right glad to have ye back.”
Nicole forced a grateful smile. “Oh, I should like that above all else, but my legs are about to fold. Might I rest first, there, in the shade?”
She gave him no time to object, hurrying over to the stone arch and settling beneath it.
The guard rubbed at his beard, not quite knowing what to do with her. Which suited her fine.
“Edgar, stay with the lady,” he told the other guard, who carried a long pike, the sharp iron end a cause for further concern. “I will inform those at the castle of what goes on.”
Edgar nodded his assent and came to stand beside her while the other guard sprinted off to give a report.
Only two guards left. The one hovering over her and the other up on the wall walk. Better odds for Rhodri. Nicole blew out a relieved breath, her part done. So… where the devil was—
“Holy hell!” Edgar spat out. “Get yer ass down here, Odell! Here he be! You stay well back, milady, you hear?”
Nicole didn’t need the command to stay out of range of flying weapons. Any fool knew better. Still, neither could she back away, awed by the sight of Rhodri racing toward the gate.
He was glorious, his stride long and perfectly balanced, his arms pumping in natural rhythm with each footfall. The ominous, intimidating look on his face frightened her silly. A glance at Edgar told her he didn’t like the looks of the Welshman bearing down on him, either.
Edgar raised his pike, swallowed hard, and set his heels.
Nicole slid along the ground to the far side of the archway, covered her face with her hands, and awaited the collision.
Wood struck wood in a sharp clap of thunder. Again. And again. Wood cracked and splintered. A man grunted.
Nicole peeked through her fingers. The pike had broken in two, and the guard lay sprawled facedown on the ground.
Rhodri spun to face the second guard, who’d reached the bottom of the stairs. This guard possessed a sword. Rhodri grasped his board with both hands and used it as a stave to fend off two blows. The guard circled to find a better vantage point; Rhodri didn’t yield one.
The guard feinted left, then swiftly circled the sword to come at Rhodri’s right. Rhodri wasn’t fooled, bringing the board up to block the swinging sword at an angle. The blade bit deep into the board. With a mighty heave, Rhodri sent the board and sword flying, then ducked low and threw a fist toward the guard’s jaw.
Nicole was sure she heard bone crunch before the guard went down in a heap and didn’t again move.
Not until she stood up did she realize she was shaking, but not with fear. The violence had been alarming, but also exciting. Elation that Rhodri had won the day overcame her good sense.
He’d no more than yanked the sword from the board when she hit him breast to chest and tossed her arms around his neck.
“Well done, Rhodri!” she exclaimed, just before she kissed him.
He smelled of sweat and tasted of victory. His free arm came around her and pulled her up onto her tiptoes, saving her from melting into a puddle at his feet.
Heat flowed through her, banishing the delicious tingling with molten desire for more than a kiss.
She mewed a protest when he set her back down on her feet.
“The other guards will return soon,” he said, and Nicole took some satisfaction in his not-so-steady voice. “We must go.”
She said nothing while he tucked the sword under his belt, fetched the harp’s sack, and slung it over a shoulder. Not until then did she realize Rhodri had never drawn the dagger from his boot. He had vanquished two armed soldiers with only a board as his weapon.
Rhodri held out his hand; Nicole slipped her small hand into his large, capable one. Together they ran for the bridge over the Thames, intent on reaching the woodland beyond.
Little Gate came into view, and Aubrey de Vere’s heart fell at the sight of two guards sprawled on the ground, a gaunt man in tattered clothing tugging at one of the guards’ boots!
Vexed, he broke into a run, shouting obscenities at the thief, who quickly decided he didn’t need new boots, after all. The thief sped off into the streets of Oxford’s most notorious area, several of de Chesney’s men hot on his tail.
De Vere bent over the first of the fallen guards, who breathed but couldn’t be awakened. A second guard, supported by de Chesney and another of his men, was now sitting up, his fingers gingerly probing his nose and mouth and coming away bloody.
To his distress, de Vere saw no sign of Lady Nicole or Rhodri ap Dafydd.
The earl bent down and snatched up the wooden remains of a pike. The sharp, pointed end and two hand-spans of shaft lay a few feet away. A quick check of the guards’ scabbards revealed that Rhodri ap Dafydd had absconded with a sword.
De Vere stepped to the outer edge of Little Gate’s stone arch. From here one could see the nearest bridge over the Thames and the countryside beyond. His anger rose upon seeing no hint of a tall Welshman or a lady in a light blue gown. The pair must have already entered the woodland, where they would be damn hard to find.
De Chesney’s men returned, having caught the thief who’d tried to steal the guard’s boots. One of the men grabbed the thief by the scruff of the neck and pushed him down to his knees in front of the earl.
“This one says he knows somewhat of the Welshman, my lord.”
De Vere tapped the now useless shaft of wood against his palm, staring down at the wide-eyed thief with the misshapen hand, two of the fingers obviously broken.
“Does he?”
The thief nodded, now all atremble, as well he should be. “I ’eard ’im and the lady talkin’. Didn’t ’ear all they said, but seemed to me the lady was wont to go to someplace name of Camelen. The Welshman, ’e weren’t havin’ none of it, sayin’ they needed to go to Wales. ’At’s all I know, milord, I swear.”
’Twas no less than de Vere might have guessed. Naturally, Nicole had probably first asked to be returned to the castle and, when refused, begged to be taken to the bosom of her family, as any young woman wo
uld. Her appeals had fallen on deaf ears.
From the moment he’d seen the Welshman at the abbey, de Vere had known something was amiss. Rhodri ap Dafydd might well have brought greetings from Nicole’s Welsh uncle, but more, he’d planned to remove Nicole to Wales.
De Vere flung the pike’s shaft away, knowing he couldn’t go after the Welshman himself. Not even de Chesney knew the messenger he waited for was actually Theobald, Archbishop of Canterbury, the man chosen to negotiate a peace between King Stephen and Duke Henry. Escorting the bishop to Nottingham to meet with Duke Henry took precedence over chasing after ap Dafydd and Lady Nicole.
’Twasn’t often an earl felt powerless against so inconsequential an enemy as a bard, and Aubrey de Vere didn’t like the feeling.
“Take the thief to the castle and rid him of the hand that would have stolen a soldier’s boots.” Ignoring the thief’s panicked pleas for mercy, de Vere turned to de Chesney. “They must be found. If they are indeed headed for Wales, they are likely in the woodland beyond. I want patrols out there now, looking under every bush if needs be.”
From Oxford’s multitude of abbeys and churches, the bells called the clergy to the midafternoon office of none. The earl of Oxford strode back to the castle, praying the Welshman was found before the archbishop arrived so he could personally slip a noose around Rhodri ap Dafydd’s neck.
Nicole was out of breath, low on vigor, and devoid of patience when Rhodri finally allowed her to take what he warned would be a short rest.
She knew patrols would soon be searching the countryside, and Rhodri’s decision to keep to the concealment of the forest was wise. Still, she wished for an easier path at a less hurried pace, knowing neither was possible.
Rhodri, blast his hide, wasn’t short of wind or lacking fortitude, even though he’d covered the same rough ground. While she was grateful he allowed her to gather her vigor, she couldn’t help her vexation that he showed no weakness of his own.
Nicole plopped down at the edge of the trickling stream and filled her scooped hands with cool water.
The first two scoops she drank to ease her thirst. The third scoop she splashed onto her hot, sweated face. Sweet mercy, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d sweated from prolonged exertion. Years, surely. Likely since childhood.
“Better?” Rhodri asked.
“A bit,” she admitted, noting his face wasn’t red. Not one drop of sweat marred his brow.
“We need to put more distance between us and Oxford before nightfall.”
She groaned inwardly, every muscle in her body protesting movement, no matter the urgent necessity to move on.
Rhodri must have sensed her body’s unwillingness to budge. He extended a hand for her to grasp, a lending of the strength he possessed in abundance, which had been so evident and startling when he’d fought with the guards at the gate.
With a sure, warm grip, he pulled her up into an unsteady stance, the muscles in her legs twitching and her knees shaky.
Running again seemed impossible, but if she must then she would, or so she thought until a cramp in her calf nearly sent her back to her knees.
At her wince and sharp intake of breath, Rhodri showed not a dram of contrition for having pushed her to this pitiful condition.
“Legs sore?” he asked.
“I am unaccustomed to leaping over logs and pushing through underbrush!” she snapped at him, peevishly revealing the extent of her agony.
“By the time we reach Wales you will be able to leap logs with ease.”
“You may be assured that after we reach Wales, I have no intention of ever again leaping a log!”
His mouth quirked in amusement as he released her hand, but he said nothing as his muscular legs bent gracefully without strain, allowing him to dip his hand into the stream for his own drink of water.
Droplets glistened on his rugged chin, caressing two days’ growth of dark facial hair, until he wiped the water away with the back of his long-fingered hands.
Forcing herself to look away from the devilishly handsome man she had every right to be wroth with, Nicole walked out the painful cramp. Concentrating on which spots on the forest floor she placed her feet upon so she wouldn’t suffer the indignity of falling on her face, she didn’t realize Rhodri had risen until she almost ran into him.
“Listen,” he ordered, just above a whisper.
Nicole heard the bubbling water in the stream, the chirp of a bird in the breeze-rustled canopy of leaves overhead and, faintly at first, the unmistakable galloping beat of horses’ hooves, coming from the east.
Apprehension coiled in her stomach.
“A patrol,” she said in the same low voice Rhodri used.
“We must have come far enough west to now be near the road that leads to Bristol.”
Nicole reasoned that if she couldn’t see the road, then no one on the road could see her. Still, like hares hoping to go unnoticed by a circling hawk, they stood silently as the sound of hard-ridden horses became louder and more menacing, until at long last the thunder rumbled past them.
Now the patrol was ahead of them, and not behind, but no less a threat.
Not until she let out her held breath did she notice Rhodri’s hand on the hilt of the sword that he’d tucked into his belt. That small action stressed the depth of their jeopardy, even more than the thundering of hooves. More than Rhodri’s violent, bloody fight with the guards at Little Gate.
Nicole inwardly shivered at the remembrance of those few moments. She’d seen men fight before, in the practice yard at Camelen, but never when in earnest for their lives.
At Camelen, she’d observed soldiers spar with staves and swords, but had not seen them leave a victim sprawled on the ground, bleeding and senseless. Before today she hadn’t realized how fast and far a man’s head snapped backward when his jaw was struck with a solid, swift fist.
Truly, she didn’t want to witness what damage Rhodri could do with a sword to someone he considered an enemy.
The violence had upset her, but she also admitted the proof of Rhodri’s prowess was reassuring.
She might be possessed of some intelligence, and despite her current discomfort and petulant mood, she was neither delicate nor weak-willed. But neither was she foolish. A woman did not traverse the roads alone. Even Mother Abbess, her habit and reputation giving her some measure of protection on the road, always hired two or three of the village’s most imposing-looking young men to act as escort, her favorite being the blacksmith’s bulky and coarse son.
Mother Abbess would have loved a man such as Rhodri to serve as her escort. Not only was he wide shouldered and possessed of an intimidating scowl, he had a quick wit and magnificent voice.
Sweet mercy, had it been only yesterday they’d buried Mother Abbess?
Again following Rhodri, at a slower pace this time, Nicole tried not to allow her grief to well up again. But as the forest shadows deepened, from not far ahead came the clang of a bell, ringing terse, the early evening prayer.
At Bledloe Abbey the nuns would be gathering in the chapel to chant the office and then retire to the refectory for a light supper. It probably shouldn’t be surprising that at the moment she longed for the quiet order of abbey life.
And her body fair screamed for a long rest and a bite of bread.
“There must be an abbey or church ahead,” she told Rhodri. “We could beg a night’s hospitality.”
“We cannot chance it so close to Oxford. However, you are right about finding shelter soon. We also cannot risk lighting a campfire to keep away the wolves.”
Nicole shivered at the thought of spending the night in the forest with the wolves, bears, boars, and other dangerous creatures. Just when she could barely see her way in the dark and began to shiver again, this time from the chill of the night air, they came across an unoccupied cottage.
Rhodri kicked at the latch until the lock gave way. The door opened into a large room too well-appointed to have been the home of a peasa
nt farmer.
“Some lord’s hunting lodge,” Rhodri announced with a tone of both surprise and pleasure. “Let us see how well it is provisioned.”
Rhodri found flint and stone on the mantel and used the twigs and split logs in the woodbox to start a small fire in the hearth. With light to see by, Nicole gave silent thanks to whatever lord was supplying unintended hospitality.
While Rhodri went out to the well to draw up a bucket of water, she searched for treasure—like food.
She ignored the bows, arrows, and spears leaning against the wall in favor of rummaging through the crates on the floor. From one she drew out a stout candle, which she lit and placed on the table along with tin cups, wooden bowls, and a small cauldron to hang on the hook in the hearth.
The only food to be found was a sack of oats, enough to provide them with gruel for their supper. ’Twould suffice. And afterward, she planned to curl up on one of the bearskins, toss a woolen blanket over her, and drift into an undisturbed, dreamless sleep.
Rhodri entered with the water bucket. While she set about making the gruel, which they would need to drink from the bowls because she’d found no spoons, he looked through the crates, too.
The more crates he rummaged through, the more it irked her. True, she’d done exactly the same thing not moments before. So why did it bother her that Rhodri did the same?
“What are you looking for?”
“Something we might find of use on the road.”
“Such as?”
From his scrunched position in front of a crate, he turned on the balls of his feet, holding up a length of rope. “Rabbit snare.”
Nicole placed the dipper in the cauldron and stirred the watery, unappealing gruel, doubting that adding bits of rabbit would make it less repulsive.
“’Tis a devilish long way to Wales. We will starve if we must depend upon snaring rabbits. I hope you have some notion of how to live off the land.”
He took immediate offense at her lack of trust in his ability to provide for them. “Believe me, had we been able to retrieve my horse and money pouch I would have done so. But I have had some experience in living off the land. We will not starve, princess.”