by Kris Kennedy
“’Tisn’t a chance of what the baron will do, Lady Guinevere.” His steel conical helm was closer now, and mist-laden words rose out from beneath it. “’Tis quite certain, if you gainsay him.”
“Only if you bring me back.”
The small group fell silent, standing off in the mists. De Louth guided his men forward carefully, reining to a stop every few paces as if she were a wounded animal they were set to trap. The hooves of the huge warhorses settled in the mud, slid a few inches, then lifted again with sickening, sucking sounds.
A thick stand of trees extended on her left and right, an outcropping of forestland. Looking frantically over her shoulder, she saw only an empty road and darkness. No buildings, no people, no escape.
Wild-eyed, she scooped up a handful of rocks and retreated a pace. They came on. Backing up again, she ran smack into a tree.
“This isn’t going as you planned, is it?” asked the tree.
Fear oozed down her spine. She lifted her face to behold a towering caped figure. Sheer black against the mists, his square-shouldered silhouette with trailing cape was like a mythical beast. She moved her mouth, but no sound came out. From eight inches above, his eyes were fixed on d’Endshire’s men.
“Step behind me, lady.”
“What?”
“Step behind me if you would be safe.” Grey-blue eyes flicked down briefly and she saw the outline of a fixed jaw and straight nose before he lifted his head again. “Why do they want you?”
“Do you know who they are?” she murmured through utterly dry lips.
“I do.” His voice was low, rumbling and unruffled.
She looked at the halted line of soldiers. They were staring in amazement at the sudden apparition and she felt the first inkling of reprieve. A bit of moisture seeped back into her mouth.
With one arm the apparition flung back his cape and stepped in front of her. “Why do they want you?” he prompted calmly.
“They don’t. Lord Endshire does.”
Something flickered in the gaze he dropped to her. “Marcus fitzMiles wants you?”
“Not quite. My money.”
“Ahh,” he said companionably, his eyes on the now-advancing line of knights. “He’s never been one for surprises.”
“Who dares assault my lord’s betrothed?” called out de Louth. The soft hiss of swords sliding from scabbards made a steely-leather hush in the damp darkness, then there was silence.
“I’m not his betrothed!” she shouted over her saviour’s arm, then lowered her voice. “He sent his men to assure me I wished to wed him.”
“Mmm.” Silence except for the sound of back-stepping boots and advancing hooves. “They’ve done a rather poor job of it.”
“The army at my castle was to succeed should they fail.”
“No surprises,” she heard him mutter.
Then, before her mind could register movement, he swung to his right under a giant oak tree and raised the most monstrous-looking longbow she’d ever seen. He tugged one of three arrows from his belt. Sweeping the bow in an arc overhead, he pulled the string taut to his jawline and peered down the length of the weapon.
De Louth flung his arm to the side, halting his men. “We want only the lady, rogue,” he called out. “You’ll not be taken to the sheriff, nor accosted in any way. You have my word on that. Just give us the woman.”
He barked in genuine laughter, the sound startling amidst the deadly, somber scene. “And you have my word on this: you will leave without the lady. If you try to take her, your blood will spill across the false king’s highway. And you will still leave without her. Go, now.”
Gwyn started. False king’s highway?
“Not without the woman.”
The apparition, who was becoming quite real, lowered a square chin and sighted along the arrow shaft. “The lady stays.”
One of de Louth’s men spurred his horse forward, visions of gallant knights brighter in his mind than good sense. An arrow hummed in the air and sliced through his windpipe. He slid off, spinning as he fell. Gwyn caught a glimpse of a wicked tip, bathed red, nuzzling out the other side. A flutter of bloody hands, a strangled cry, and the soldier hunched sideways, dead on the road.
The other four stared in astonishment, but the man at her side already had another arrow notched and ready for flight. Silence descended. The terms were clear: no more arrows would be launched if they left, and they were not leaving.
“Oh my,” she breathed, touching his arm. “You’ve killed one of Marcus’s men. He will not be pleased.”
In the distance, de Louth dropped his foot from the stirrup and kicked the dead man onto his back.
“Endshire’s pleasure has never been my concern.”
She dragged her gaze up to his shadowed face. “You are either foolish or mad. Let me tell you of Marcus’s pleasures. Once he was so enraged by the death of his merlin that he smeared his falconer, d’Aubry, with honey and staked him on an anthill for five days. D’Aubry did not return, at least not all of him.”
He glanced at her.
“Marcus has served honey at every meal since. Warmed over,” she emphasised.
A pair of muscular shoulders shrugged. “As I said, Endshire’s pleasures are not my concern,” he murmured, and something close to comfort pulsed through her heart.
Reaching down, de Louth tugged the arrow free from the dead man and looked at it. A glint of silver flashed across the road as the moon emerged from behind the clouds, then de Louth dropped the arrow. He slid his boot back into the stirrup.
Gwyn wrapped her cape tighter around her shoulders. “I ought to force you to leave this matter to me—or me to it—and take your leave, while your hide is still intact.”
“I would not go.”
“And I would not have you end up as d’Aubry the falconer.”
“My hide is not a matter for Endshire to decide.” He glanced down, one corner of his mouth crooked in an infinitesimal grin. “And I prefer sweeter things than honey, my lady.”
She was about to smile back, could have smiled, wanted to, but didn’t. It simply did not make sense, given the circumstances.
De Louth was straightening in his saddle, turning to his men and speaking in a low voice.
“Well,” she said, squaring her shoulders, “if you’re so determined to see to your death, I won’t be ungrateful.” Neither of them looked away from the line of sword-bearing soldiers as they continued their conference in low voices.
“Have you a weapon?” he asked.
“A rock.”
“A rock? Do you know how to throw one?”
“Know how to throw one? Perdition! You just…throw it.”
He grunted, and the men dropped off their horses. In the length of time it took her to inhale, her rescuer had dropped his bow, unsheathed his sword, and pushed her behind him, away from the circle of soldiers closing in on him.
All bore broadswords and some held falchions and wickedly sharp daggers. They came forward in a jagged arc. The forest hunkered on the other side.
Her liberator swung at legs and arms, desperately outnumbered, but did not appear desperate in the least. He crouched on slightly bent knees, his eyes flitting back and forth with an expert’s care, moving with the grace of years of practice.
One of the soldiers stabbed forward, slicing her saviour’s tunic open before he leapt back. His unmarked surcoat and tunic fell away, revealing the steel rings of a mailcoat. He wore armour. Expensive armour that was well-fitted, and carried a gleaming sword worth a small manor.
Who was this rich rogue who stalked deserted highways and rescued demoiselles in distress, at peril to his own obviously noble neck?
Another clash of steel rang out, more flashing sparks, and another de Louth minion went down, dead on the road. Everyone backed up a few wary steps, and all was quiet except for laboured breathing and the gritty sound of boots on dirt as the men circled one another.
Sheer numbers assured Marcus’s men of their vic
tory, although their eyes flicked occasionally to their slumped comrades with a wary glance. Neither party appeared willing to abandon the fight.
“I think we’ve got them now,” Gwyn observed between pants as she kept her body conspicuously behind her warrior’s rock hard, pounding-heat body.
“You do, eh?”
She gripped several rocks so tightly. “I do.”
He swept his gaze down for a second with a faint smile. Blue-grey eyes, a body packed so solid with muscle it was like a mountain, and that smile. She felt another wild spark of hope. Three against one were not favourable odds.
On the other hand, it used to be five against one.
Another surge of reckless hope. It forced a smile through her fear.
“You’re enjoying this?” he enquired, looking back at their assailants. “There’s a riot by the bridge I can take you to when we’re finished here.”
“This will do nicely, thank you.”
He suddenly pushed her, hard, away from the circle of soldiers closing in on him. De Louth and his minions advanced in a line this time, swords grasped with two hands and swinging before their bodies. They backed her saviour up against the edge of the forest. His boots slopped through the muck.
Gwyn started flinging rocks, trying to distract them, but no one noticed. Perhaps that was because she hadn’t hit anyone. Cursing herself, she scooped up another handful and pelted the men with the small, stinging missiles. One clanged against de Louth’s helm.
As if it mattered. She might be what they were hunting, but she mattered naught anymore. Blood-lust had overtaken their ‘rescue’ mission, and she could hear their soft grunts as they parried closer and closer to their prey, taking no notice that they shoved her out of range as they did so.
Her champion backed up and stumbled. One knee hit the earth.
“Over here!” she screamed.
Three pairs of eyes snapped to her. She started running.
One soldier stumbled to his horse and spurred towards her. De Louth and the other paused, momentarily distracted. In that pause, her saviour took his chance. Dropping to his other knee, he caught up his bow and launched two arrows in rapid succession.
The second hit its mark first, embedding itself deep in de Louth’s thigh. He dropped to the ground, screaming. The first hurtling arrow travelled further.
It punched through the boiled leather armour protecting the chest of the rider just as he leaned sideways to scoop up Gwyn. He jerked backwards, his hands a death grip on the reins. The horse flung its head madly, skidded to its knees, and collapsed. Gwyn tripped and fell.
From nowhere, her rescuer’s hand closed around her wrist.
“Come,” he rasped, pulling her roughly to her feet. At first they didn’t see the dagger wrenched from the last soldier’s belt and flung. There was only the soft whoosh. Everything dropped into slow motion. The iron blade tumbled and flashed through the air. Gwyn loosed a long, slow scream.
Her saviour shoved Gwyn one way and himself another, but the move made him vulnerable to the soldier hurtling towards him, standing over him, raising a sword. He twisted reflexively, taking the blow on his back rather than his chest, from a fisted hilt rather than a whetted blade. Still, it was a thundering impact that knocked him to his knees.
D’Endshire’s mercenary straddled his body and raised his sword again for the death blow.
Gwyn went streaking through the air, without a thought and with the rather dubious weapon of a raised slipper covered in muck.
The soldier glanced over in astonishment and spun to avoid the impact, sending his sword careening harmlessly into the earth. Gwyn nailed his forehead with her slipper, then landed square on his shoulder with the even more doubtable weapon of her belly. The bluntness of the attack was offset by the fury behind it, and the two went flying.
Gwyn groaned as they landed, her lungs crushed by an armoured shoulder. The soldier rolled to his feet, clutching his head with splayed fingers. Blood poured from between them. He stared blearily at his hands, then her, then back to the sticky mess dripping between his fingers.
This time, when he lifted his head, his teeth were bared around a roar that blew her hair back from half a yard away: “Bitch!”
Dropping onto her prone body, he wrapped his gloved hand around her throat. “My lord is a fool for wanting a piece of you, hellion,” he rasped. “I’ll save him the trouble.”
Slow, hard pounding. No breath, only choking. Her chest was raw, her lungs screaming. She resisted the urge to pass out, fighting for her life. Strange images passed through her mind: her beloved Windstalker chomping hay, her father at dinner, the wardrobe where she kept the spices, undone chores.
The surprisingly calm query “Did I remember to freshen the rushes?” wafted through her mind, and it was then she knew her life must be over.
The thudding pain in her head meant nothing beside the pain of knowing she would die with a pounding Ache in her heart and a hundred dirty table linens on her conscience.
Chapter Four
Fading into unconsciousness, Gwyn didn’t realise the weight was gone until the warrior stood above her, sword dangling in hand, blood streaking down the side of his face.
Beside her lay the bloody-headed soldier, rather more bloodied now. His skull was split in two. Already his innards were oozing out, a pulpy mass, mixing with the mud.
Gwyn’s mouth began moving but no sounds came out. In the distance, the sounds of running footsteps faded away. Her saviour spun as if to give chase, then, with a few muffled words, turned back.
“Is he dead?” she whispered, as if someone might hear her and somehow not have noticed the combat of a moment ago. As if the hacked body might still, somehow, hold life and be awakened by her words.
Dark, shadowed eyes flicked to the prone body. “Quite.” He kicked the body away and stretched out a gloved hand. “Come.”
“Completely?”
“All the way.” He held his hand in front of her nose.
“Truly dead?”
“Nay, he’s but half dead, and will haunt you for years to come. Now, come, get up.”
Flat on her back, Gwyn frowned. A gnashing pain crowded into the back of her head. “I am more afraid of being haunted if he is fully dead, sirrah.”
This brought a moment of quiet. “Are you getting up or not?”
“Have you killed so many men, that one more means naught?”
He straightened and glanced around the deserted road. When he turned back, she could see only the gleam of his teeth as he smiled grimly. “And you, lady, have you been on so few highways that you know not the danger of riding on them alone?”
She opened her mouth, shut it again.
“Know you so little of men that you would think one such as he is not better off dead?”
Again he gestured to the man’s body. His smile receded as he ran his fingers through his hair, ruffling the dark locks into damp spikes.
“Know you how weary I am, and that I wish only to be home?”
He towered above her outstretched body but she was not afraid. Certes, he’d just saved her life. Whyfore be affrightened?
Her mind catalogued the various and persuasive reasons: perhaps because he was such an imposing figure, all hard slabs of muscle and piercing eyes? Perhaps because he’d just killed four men in less time that it took to de-feather a chicken? Or perhaps because he held in his hand a sword that still dripped with raw blood.
“Get up.”
“I…I—”
“You—” He reached down and grabbed her hand. “Do not listen well.”
He lifted her clean off the earth, hauling her away from the body. The soldier’s split head lolled to the side and a thin trickle of reddish spittle dribbled from the corner of his mouth. Dropping to one knee, her saviour lifted his chin, as if inspecting his handiwork, then crossed to the other dead men and did the same before dragging them to the side of the road.
Her saviour’s next words came from the dense st
and of trees, where he was depositing the still-warm bodies. “We’ve only a little time. D’Endshire will know as soon as de Louth reaches the gate, and then he’ll be after you.”
“Or you.” She ran her hands over her dress from collar to waist, fluttering. “Happens he might enjoy finding you more, at the moment.”
There were sounds of shuffling and earth moving, then he emerged with a costly steel arrow-tip in his palm. She stared in horror. It could only have been plucked from the dead man.
He picked up his sword. “As I have said, his pleasure is not my concern.” Lodging the arrow-tip in his belt, he walked towards her, sliding his blade back into its sheath with a whispery sound. He retrieved his bow, lying beside the oak tree. Then he whistled.
From nowhere came the sound of a snorting horse, and a raw-boned rampager appeared from between two giant oak trees. He looked like a furry error, all slanting edges and legs. He wore a bitless bridle inlaid with silver, though, a headpiece that would cost more than a bribe for the Nottingham sheriffdom. Costly finery for an error.
The warrior made a gesture with his hand and the horse started picking his way over. She watched as he ran an affectionate hand over his horse’s neck, murmuring in the tongue of the Normans to his obviously beloved mount.
Her gaze drifted aimlessly, then froze. Why, there was her slipper, huddled along the side of the road like a frightened child, half-hidden beneath the muck. She hobbled over and picked it up. By all the saints, how had she thought to save her saviour with that?
And what was she to do now? Her original destination, so swiftly planned as she tripped and ran down the streets of London, was St. Alban’s Abbey. But the monks were twenty miles away, and unhorsed, that had become an insurmountable distance.
She put her hand to her forehead. Everything seemed sinister. The mists, the dark, rutted road, and most especially the sword-bearing stranger who was watching her now with grey-blue eyes, his body motionless. What before had been red-hot fire in her blood became ice-cold fear, and it slid down her back in knife thrusts.