“Let me put the baby down,” she said hopelessly. “Don’t hurt her and—and I’ll do what you want. Just so you don’t hurt my baby.”
“Thought you might.” He grinned, but he kept his painful grasp on her arm as she turned and carefully placed Lorena in the bole of a hollow tree—he didn’t trust her.
Lenore straightened up and faced him. Her gaze was steady, her jaw clenched. She might have been a woman going to the stake.
His greedy eyes roved over her as if she were a juicy roast he was about to devour. He licked his lips and studied her.
“I’ll take ye here out of sight of the road,” he decided. “And if ye’re nice to me—real nice—I won’t turn ye over to big Tubbs back there. He’ll be meaner’n a bear ’cause he’s been shot, so he’d rough ye up—kill ye, maybe. Me—I won’t do nothin’ ye won’t enjoy!” An uncontrollable shiver went over Lenore. She kept her head high. “Course,” he added on a note of warning, “do ye fight me, I’ll remember how ye give me a kick in the face back there and maybe break yer legs so ye won’t go nowhere and I can take my time with ye.”
Lenore’s knees went weak at this threat.
“Do what you want,” she said dully. “Just so you don’t hurt my baby.”
“Aye, now that’s what I like to see—a docile wench,” he said with satisfaction. “Lay ye down where ye are. Them leaves’ll make a nice nest for us.”
Slowly, wincing as her weight fell on her hurt shoulder, Lenore stretched herself out on the ground. The leaves beneath her were wet and smelled of leaf mould. They wet the back of her dress clean through, and she could feel moisture crawl along her spine. To her wide-staring eyes, it seemed that the devil himself stood above her, tearing open his dirty trousers.
“Ain’t never seen nothin’ like this, have ye?” he crowed. “Nothin’ but weak nubbins of the gentry, I’ll be bound!”
Lenore looked quickly away, and he snickered. At the sound her taut nerves made her muscles jerk and her breasts quivered. She looked back to see him staring at them, beads of perspiration forming on his forehead.
“You don’t have to take your clothes off—now,” he said thickly. “We can do that tonight. We’ll have to run from Tubbs—he’s hard to kill.”
So he meant to take her with him! Her eyes dilated and her lashes were a dark fringe against her chalky skin. Her hair—full of leaves and twigs—had come down and was spread in a tangled shawl, over the wet leaves. In the nearby tree-bole Lorena was wailing. The sound made Lenore feel sick. What would happen to her baby, once this monster had had his fill of her?
Desperation gave her strength. This man whose eyes goggled down at her had a dagger—it was stuck in his belt. She forced herself not to look at it, but to stare up into that lust-filled countenance. If she could but reach that dagger...!
She closed her eyes with an involuntary shudder as Swan lowered himself, chuckling, onto her and clawed up her skirts over her shrinking legs. “Ye’re the prettiest wench I ever had!” he declared in a husky voice, slobbering over her cheek as she turned her head sharply away from him. “Ain’t no need to be afraid,” he cooed ingratiatingly, clutching her hurt shoulder in a grip that made her cry out and left red weals where each finger pressed. Nearly paralyzed with pain, she slumped as he released his grip. “There, that’s better,” he said in a cruel tone. “Relax!” He slid one of his arms under her back, the other beneath her head, and his knee jabbed viciously at her locked legs in an attempt to wrest them apart.
“Lie still, damn ye!” he commanded fiercely—but Lenore, writhing beneath him, had got her right arm free. Now as he ripped at her bodice, exposing her breasts, she craftily worked that hand toward the hilt of his dagger. She cried out again as his lips closed suckingly over her right breast and both his hands violently clasped her bare buttocks, jerking her hips upward toward him. Lenore twisted in his grasp, but her hand was firmly on the dagger’s hilt now. She moaned loudly to distract him—and pulled it out.
“Ye like that, aye?” he chuckled.
Lenore kept her eyes firmly closed that he might not read their murderous expression. By now his knee had wrested her legs apart and as he made to consummate their union she pressed suddenly toward him in simulated passion—to give her arm a better swing. Drawing the dagger back as far as she could, she plunged it hilt deep into his back.
Swan made a sudden strangled sound in his throat and rose up from her, clawing behind him. “Tubbs— damn you!” He staggered to his knees and Lenore managed to jerk her legs free as Swan looked wildly about for his erstwhile companion. His incredulous gaze turned to Lenore, who rolled away from him and gained her feet. “You done it,” he gasped. “You done me in!” He seemed to wilt before her eyes, slipping down into the wet leaf mould. “You got to help me,” he whispered. “If you don’t, I’m done for.”
How long she stood there gazing down at him, she did not know. He was a terrible sight, lying on his stomach with the knife stuck into his back and blood oozing out. Worse, his head was twisted to the side so that he could look up at her out of the corner of one eye. “Help—me!” he gasped.
She stared down at him in revulsion. This monster had been about to violate her and do God knew what to her little Lorena. The memory of big Tubbs’s hamlike fist smashing down on Michael’s unprotected head swam up before her eyes. Once again she heard the snap as his neck broke. And Lorena’s baby skull was so thin and soft.
She had not known her voice could be so cold. “You will live if God wills it,” she said. “But not with my help!”
Swan groaned as she found his horse tethered to a tree and led it past him. Ignoring his cries, she picked up Lorena from the hollow tree where she had deposited her. Soft and warm in her arms, Lorena’s wails subsided to hiccups as Lenore cuddled and petted her. Lorena had never seemed more precious to her than she did at that moment. Closing her eyes, she gave thanks to a merciful heaven that she had been spared to see her through to safety.
Lorena had quieted by the time she found Snowfire and led him back to where the gray mare stood. Carefully she mounted the unfamiliar animal—she could not afford to be bucked off with a baby in her arms.
“Ye can’t take her!” cried Swan piteously. “Ye can’t take my horse! I’ll bleed to death!” He lapsed into a storm of curses.
She did not even give him a backward look. All the pity she had left she gave to Snowfire. His leg was swelling now. “Come along, Snowfire,” she said gently. “We must away from here before the big one comes looking for us.” As if he understood, the white horse—who had begun the day so gaily—limped after her as she set off on the gray mare along the unfamiliar trail that must, she guessed, lead into the Cotswolds.
Twice she changed direction, taking off on stony trails where she’d be hard to track. Sometimes she looked back to give Snowfire a compassionate look and murmur an occasional word of encouragement. His leg must be very painful by now, she knew, but he kept plodding along after her valiantly.
After riding a long while, she felt safer and sat for a moment, silent and listening. Lorena was asleep again. No sound but the wild birds and humming insects of the dusky summer-forest broke the stillness. Nearby she could hear a little stream tinkling, and the last of the light gilded the tree branches to gold.
She drew a deep sighing breath. She must have lost any pursuit by now. Indeed big Tubbs might still be waiting at the crossroads for his confederate to return. She remembered how he had struck Michael, and a sob went through her.
Behind her Snowfire looked very woebegone. His leg was badly swollen now, and she dismounted and found the stream and led both horses over the softest earth she could to its bank. There she laid Lorena down gently and watched Snowfire and the gray mare drink their fill. She tore strips from her petticoat and gently bathed Snowfire’s swollen foreleg and wrapped it carefully. Then she took off her clothes and washed her whole body in ice-cold water, wincing as her scratches hurt with renewed fury and her left shoulder ached.
And then, half-dressed, she sank down and wept for a boy who had loved her and would never drain a tankard with his friends or wear a stylish red cloak again. Michael might be alive had he not dashed madly out of Oxford to follow her.
But she could not afford the luxury of a long weep. There was more to be done. She finished dressing, combed the twigs from her long hair, made a pillow of her saddlebag, ate a little, and fed her baby, crooning as she did so and holding her with a terrible tenderness, for she had been so very close to losing her ... so close.
That night in the tiny copse she slept beneath a tree with Lorena cradled in her arms—at least, she tried to sleep. Her shoulder throbbed dully. Once she dozed and the wild cry of a loon startled her awake. The night sounds of hunting owls, small screeches, and slip-slaps in the water of the gurgling brook brought her to instant alertness. Was big Tubbs nearby? Had he found her? She clutched Lorena to her more than once and muttered a prayer.
Though Lenore did not know it, she had nothing to fear from big Tubbs. The letting of his own blood by Michael’s pistol ball had cleared his angry head, and he quickly realized that he must get rid of Michael’s body. He stuffed a dirty handkerchief into his bleeding wound, which he judged none too bad since the buckle of his baldric had deflected the ball. Systematically he went through Michael’s pockets, pocketed his coins, and finding them too few for his liking, gave Michael’s inert body a kick. Michael did not feel it; he’d been dead for some time. Tubbs yearned to leave him where he was, but this was a crossroads and someone might happen along at any time and raise a hue and cry. Unceremoniously he dragged Michael into a thick clump of bushes nearby and threw a couple of tree branches over him—animals, he thought grimly, would take care of the rest.
From this chore, Tubbs straightened and peered down the road. Michael’s horse and baggage were nowhere in sight—probably halfway back to Oxford by now. Torn with a desire to follow the horse—at least the beast would have value, even if the baggage proved worthless —Tubbs began to curse. He dared not follow the horse, for he half expected Swan to run away with the girl— and she was Worth more than the few coins he’d garnered from the dead lad in the red cloak.
Grimly, he mounted and set off down the track in the direction Swan had disappeared.
“Swan,” he called cautiously as he rode along. And again, “Swan?”
At last he heard a weak voice answer.
“Here. Over here.”
Following the voice, he blundered through the thicket into the little clearing where Lenore had left her attacker. Tubbs came to a surprised halt at the sight of Swan’s body sprawled out with the dagger sticking in his back.
“Help me, Tubbs,” cried Swan desperately. “The wench done me in!”
Tubbs gave a low whistle as he dismounted. “Did a good job on ye, didn’t she?” he marveled admiringly. “Clean to the hilt! How d’ye feel. Swan?”
“Bad,” muttered Swan. “Real bad. Draw the knife out careful, Tubbs. Mind you staunch the wound.”
“Aye.” Tubbs was imperturbable.
He leaned forward and Swan gave a banshee screech as the knife was drawn out of his back. “Staunch it!” he sobbed, seeing Tubbs sit back, wipe off the blade on the leaf mould, and stick the knife in his belt.
“Staunch it!” wailed Swan.
Tubbs pulled out a handkerchief and stuffed it casually into the wound. “Ye’ll be all right,” he said. Squatting on the ground, Tubbs rocked back and forth on his feet and surveyed his injured friend. “Where’s your horse, Swan?”
“She took it,” said Swan vengefully. “Wait’ll I find that wench! Just wait!” He tried to move and gasped with pain. “Here, help me up, Tubbs.”
Tubbs rose. “I can’t take ye up on my horse, Swan. We’d break his bloody back.”
Perspiring with the effort, Swan had managed to rise to a sitting position. “But ye can’t leave me here!” he panted.
“Nay, I can’t—ye’d talk if they found ye,” muttered Tubbs. “Well, I guess ye’ll have to go, Swan.”
Swan was shaking with relief. He’d thought big Tubbs meant to leave him to die in these woods.
“Maybe this stick will help ye—something to lean on.” Idly big Tubbs picked up a heavy tree branch.
Swan saw this primitive cudgel cudgel poised above his head, screeched, and tried vainly to duck. The branch caught him in the temple and he plunged forward with a rattle in his throat. After a moment, he stopped twitching and lay inert.
Tubbs went thoroughly through his friend’s pockets, took everything of value, and was about to depart when a frown crossed his heavy features. He and Swan had been seen together at Banbury—indeed the constable there had warned them both to depart before the fair. If Swan were found dead here, he’d no doubt be held accountable for his murder. He sighed. A man couldn’t be too careful. Reluctantly he dragged Swan’s body back a ways into the woods. Finding a soft spot of earth, he used Swan’s knife to dig him a shallow grave, rolled him in, and covered him up with earth and leaves. Some animal might find him there, ’twasn’t likely people would—at least not until he, John Tubbs, was well out of this part of the country.
He remounted then, headed back to the crossroads, and hurried back along the road to Oxford. On the way he caught up with Michael’s horse, took what he wanted from Michael’s baggage, and sold the horse in Oxford. He laid up there at a brothel until his wound was healed and started out again, for he was uneasy that one or both of the bodies might be found and there’d be questions he’d not care to answer.
He made his way without incident to Bristol—save for cutting a purse or two on the road—and there he was “pressed” into the navy and died from a blow with a marlinspike when he got into a fight with the second mate.
There were none to mourn him, and sullen Tubbs died without confessing any of his crimes. Swan’s grave was never found.
Tubbs had got away with both murders, for he died without being suspected of either. But he’d left Lenore with a sticky problem, although she didn’t know it for some time.
CHAPTER 22
Morning dawned bright and beautiful. A soft stillness enveloped the countryside, and the birds’ songs were muted and sweet. A sky of brilliant blue with soft, floating white clouds could be glimpsed through the canopy of branches overhead. Around her was the chirp and hum of tiny living things going to work with the new day. Lorena gurgled up at her and reached up a tiny hand. Lenore kissed those tiny fingers and got up and washed her face in the ice-cold stream.
In the purity and beauty of the morning she found it hard to believe in the reality of yesterday’s events. Surely they were all a nightmare and would be forgotten soon, melted away by the bright sunshine.
But a limping Snowfire and the gray mare were both grim reminders. As was her shoulder whenever she moved. And she knew that back at the crossroads lay Michael’s body and along that wooded track behind her a wounded man. ... It was a somber-faced woman who nursed her child and soothed it. Afterward she ate an apple and sat and stroked Lorena's pale, downy hair and tried to plan for the future.
Racing at the Banbury fair was impossible now, of course. Snowfire’s leg was hurt, how badly she could not tell, but it would be a long time before he could run again. The gray was a passable riding horse but not built for speed. Mentally assessing her assets, her eyes fell on the gray mare’s saddlebags. She had not thought to look in those; automatically she had thought of them as belonging to somebody else. Now ruthlessly she checked through them, finding several pins—which she promptly used to pin her torn dress together—a dirty pack of cards, a bottle of rum, a dirty shirt, and— something hard. Her heart leaped, hoping it was money. But it was not. The object was wrapped in a small linen cloth, and when she unwrapped it an amethyst ring fell into her hand. Amethysts were highly regarded, and Lenore looked at it speculatively. Stolen, of course, but th
ere was no way she could return it. Perhaps she’d be able to sell it. . . . With a sigh she put the ring in her pocket, kept the bottle of rum, and threw away the rest. It was a thoughtful woman who made ready to begin her journey once more.
The horses were hungry, so as noon approached and she saw a hayfield with only the rooftop of a cottage visible over the rise beyond, she dismounted and walked Snowfire and the gray carefully toward it, keeping a vary eye out for the farmer. Snowfire’s limp was a little better today, but she hated to make him use that leg at all. At the edge of the little field she stopped and let the horses graze on the hay. It was stealing, she knew, and some farmer would no doubt curse her for it—unless he believed a wandering deer had done it—but she was at least careful to keep the horses on the edge of the field so their hooves did not trample down the upstanding hay. Snowfire nuzzled her gently, as if in appreciation of a good meal, as she remounted the docile gray. When she rode away he limped after her.
She no longer feared pursuit by Tubbs, for the crossroads grew farther away all the time, she had changed course several times, and Tubbs was, after all, wounded. Bolder now, following first one sheep trail and then another, she moved deeper into the Cotswolds, and when she sighted a shepherd seated on a hill watching his flock graze, she waved to him and rode up boldly.
The shepherd’s dog came running to meet her and circled her warily, but the shepherd called to him in a low voice and the dog went back to his master. As Lenore rode up, she saw that the shepherd was an old man, stooped, with pale eyes used to studying far distances.
Glad of the company in his lonely vigil, he offered her a bit of stew and as she ate, gratefully, he studied her with those shrewd pale eyes.
“Where are ye bound, mistress?”
“To Twainmere,” said Lenore before she thought. And suddenly she knew that was where she would go, for it was the only place that, without money, she was sure of a roof. Flora would take her in. When Snowfire was well again, she’d take him out on the road and race him at the fairs for a living, just as she’d planned. “I am a widow,” she improvised, “and must return to my people.”
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