When they heard the sharp striking of the guards’ boots on the stone walkway above them, they halted.
“The sick bastid ne’er tires of his games,” a gruff voice said above them.
“Aye. ‘Tis a shame he doesna slip and slit his own wrists,” a man answered.
“Shh. Should anyone hear, we wud be doing the hollerin’.”
“‘Tis time for the changing. I will be right glad to stuff me ears and hug me pillow this night.”
“Drink with me first. I canna sleep till I have downed more than a few.” Their voices grew more distant.
Soon, footsteps clamored on the stairway leading from the ground up to the wall walk, a sign the new guards had arrived. Ranald pointed at Cormac and then to the left. He touched his own chest and then gestured to the right. They inched their heads between merlons and waited. Hearing the new footsteps fade, they peeked out and saw the two guards’ backs going in opposite directions.
Not five breaths later, Ranald’s left arm whipped around a man’s neck, he grasped his head with his right hand and snapped it so quickly the man had no chance to scream. He eased him to the ground and saw Cormac had done the same. They stripped the tunics off the bodies and drew them over their own heads.
Raik and the other three Raptor men joined them. Ranald’s head dipped toward a dark corner and motioned for them to stay. He and Cormac sauntered over to the next two guards, and soon Raik and the next man had the proper tunics. They in turn acquired the guards’ clothing for the last two men.
Ranald and Raik boldly started down the stairway to the bailey. Ranald motioned to Cormac and Dubne to keep to the shadows as they followed him. The last two men were to stay atop the walkway and pretend they were guarding it. He and Raik jostled each other like any other men happy to be at the end of their day’s work.
The hut was no more than ten footsteps away to the right of the stairway, with the postern gate to the left. Anyone looking their way would have seen what appeared to be Baron Rupert’s guards entering the hut, but leaving the door open. Two other men entered and quietly pulled the door closed.
Ranald’s gaze scanned the inside of the hut. The attempts to burn it down the previous night had blackened the walls, but they were still standing. Foul odors assaulted his senses, from burnt wood to the heavy, sickening smell of blood and burnt flesh. A post stood at the center of the room with crosspieces across the top and bottom to secure a man’s arms and legs.
His stomach clenched, for never would he have known Egan. The poor lad barely had strength to moan from what was left of his face.
“Ho, there! Who gave ye leave to enter?” Baron Rupert swung around from where he perched on a stool.
Ranald leapt, his arm swung around the baron’s neck, cutting off his breath. Cormac and Dubne subdued the other two men, whose only purpose must have been to do whatever pleased the baron.
Their blood mingled amidst that already soaking the ground.
Ranald tightened his grip on the struggling Rupert, depriving him of air until he went limp in his arms.
“Gag the bastard afore I release him.”
Raik tore off the bottom of his stolen tunic and stuffed it in Rupert’s mouth before tying a strip to keep it there. Ranald dropped him on the ground and stepped over to Egan.
Though they tried to be gentle, the suffering lad cried out with each touch until they lowered him gently onto a blanket found beside the door.
Ranald removed his helmet and knelt beside Egan, his hands skimming lightly over his body. His sightless face jerked back and forth, for his eyes were gone.
“Egan, lad, it’s me, Ranald. I have come for ye.”
Egan’s throat worked, trying to answer.
Ranald kept speaking in a soft voice as Raik knelt across from him. His eyebrows rose, questioning Ranald. Ranald shook his head, nodding to the rest of Egan’s body.
Egan’s intestines protruded, trying to spring free from a deep gash in his left side. No place on the lad was without a mark. They had mutilated his nether parts as well. The lad was dying with each agonized breath.
Ranald rested his right hand gently on Egan’s forehead and started to pray. He prayed as he had at Kelso when a soul was soon to enter heaven. And, when the formal prayers were done, he prayed with all his heart, asking God’s forgiveness for what he was about to do. Finally, he leaned close, for Egan’s lips moved.
“Please...hel...”
It was all Egan had the strength to whisper.
“Aye, lad.” Tears streamed down Ranald’s face, their paths straight down from his left eye to his chin, but making a jagged course from the right before finally dropping on Egan’s chest.
Ranald’s face twisted in anguish as he reached inside the sleeve of his shirt and drew forth a thin misericord. ‘Twas used by knights to bring a quick and merciful end to a suffering life that couldn’t be saved.
“Go to God, Egan. He waits to hold ye in his arms.”
In a flash, he ended the young man’s suffering.
o0o
Raik watched Ranald rip off the guard’s borrowed tunic, and with one last blessing, he covered the body. Slowly, like a wolf awakening from a long sleep, he stood and turned, moving one foot and hesitating before he moved the next. Raik rose to join him.
Ranald’s face looked as hardened as any bread baked a deep brown and kept for forming into trenchers. His head swung to where Rupert lay trussed on the floor.
“Tie him to the post. We wouldna want the castle to think he tired of playing with Egan.” His nostrils flared, his lip lifted and bared his teeth. Sounds as feral as any maddened beast came from his lips. He waited, his hands slapping his thighs.
If Raik had not known Ranald since they were young lads, he would not have recognized him now. Before him stood, not the monk-turned-man, but a man who looked never to have seen the inside of a chapel.
Ranald’s impatient slaps changed as his hands fisted and drummed against his thighs. Dubne, a knight stronger than most, held Rupert aloft while Cormac and another man tied his arms and legs to the crosspieces.
“If he does aught but scream, stop him.”
Ranald freed the baron’s mouth then stepped back and waited for Rupert to awaken.
“What do ye plan, Ranald?” Raik was truly curious as to what his cousin would do.
“Did I not vow that one day I would do to him what he did to others?”
“Aye. That ye did. But do ye not think death is too easy?” Raik’s mouth set in a grim line.
“Ah, but did I not also say I would make sure he didna die?” A gleam shot through Ranald’s hooded eyes. He reached a hand to pull forth a small object—an oiled cloth tied with a string.
Raik near laughed aloud. What fitting punishment for a man like Rupert. It would be far worse than death, for Ranald had brought what was necessary to keep the man’s wounds from festering and killing him.
Cormac cut and ripped away Rupert’s clothing. He was no sooner done than Rupert’s eyelids fluttered. Ranald moved so close his nose near touched the bound man’s. A scream rose from Rupert, shrill as any lass near scared out of her wits.
“Ah. Ye are a comely man. But yer eyes tell me you find me fascinating. Ye relish my face, do ye? Would ye like yer’s to be like it?”
Rupert screamed when he saw Ranald’s dagger approach his cheek.
Ranald had his answer.
His weapon flashed. Rupert bellowed and blubbered, trying to call for his guards. Cormac slapped a stick between his lips, tied a cloth to each end and then knotted it in back of his head to keep it there. The man could still scream, but he couldn’t utter any intelligible words. The veins in his temple were livid ridges, his neck swelled.
Cormac built up the fire, and held a knife over it, waiting. Ranald worked swiftly on the baron’s face. When done, he held out his hand for the hot blade. He motioned Dubne to hold Rupert’s head still while he sealed each wound with it. The man’s muscles bunched and strained, his body stiffened
.
He moved calmly from Rupert’s face down and around his thrashing body. It would have pleased him to copy every horror Egan had received, and had they been at Raptor, he would have. Even so, he took precious time to stitch an occasional wound that bled too freely or gaped too wide. He didn’t want the man to have ease in death.
Before long, the baron fainted.
Ranald shuddered at what he was doing. Each time he faltered, he envisioned Egan’s young body covered with the bloody tunic and steeled himself to finish. He had but one last thing to do.
He stood back. His jaw jutted, determined. His teeth clamped tight. Waiting.
CHAPTER 22
“I didna think ye could do it.”
Ranald flinched at Raik’s words and drew in a long, slow breath. What he had so feared was happening. He had changed much in these last months.
Raik’s gaze studied Ranald’s hands. When he looked back up, Ranald noted the blue of his eyes had deepened and tinged with dark gray. Ranald answered their unspoken question.
“Aye. Were this any other man, I could not. The bastard deserves no less than he gave.”
Ranald’s skin prickled. Bile threatened to choke him. He stiffened his spine and swallowed. He wished to be leagues away from this place, never to see it again.
“We must be gone afore the sky lightens.” He took a deep breath and stepped forward to finish what he had promised he would do.
Rupert awoke, biting the stick so hard it was a wonder it did not crack in half. Ranald held his bloodied hands close to the man’s eyes, so he could see what Ranald held aloft.
Rupert sucked in a breath and gurgled in disbelief. His eyes told Ranald all he needed to know. He stared with fascinated horror, shaking his head back and forth, trying to convince himself he saw wrong.
“Aye, Baron Rupert. Ye are as ye made Egan and so many other men these past years. But ye should thank me and be grateful I didna take yer tarse, as ye did the old man.”
He waited until Rupert’s garbled sounds quieted. His eyes bulged, reminding Ranald. He held his blade close to the outer tip of Rupert’s left eye. He blubbered and jerked in horror.
“Nay, dinna worry. Ye took young Egan’s eyes, but I want ye to have yer sight. Each day ye live, ye will know the stares of others when they look upon yer face. And, too, ye will wish to admire my handiwork on yer nether parts. I have stitched yer wounds and packed herbs there. The wound will heal nicely.”
“I still think you should slit his throat,” Cormac muttered.
“Too easy.” Ranald tilted his head and stared into Rupert’s eyes. “When yer men find ye, ye are to order this hut burned to the ground. Should ye live to walk again and ever torture another man, I will return when ye least expect it. When I finish with ye, ye will have no eyes, no hands, no tarse.”
Ranald threw what he had in his hands onto the coals. Grimacing with disgust, he wiped his hands on his clothing.
“Dubne, take our poor lad across yer shoulders and let us be gone from this hellish place.”
Raik wrapped Egan in the blanket and helped sling him over the big man’s shoulder. Ranald edged the door open to peer out the crack. He couldn’t believe his luck. It was as if the devil had deserted Rupert. They eased out of the hut and moved to stand in the shadows.
The two Raptor men left on the walkway spied them. One notched an arrow and shot it in the air. They pretended to take their time coming down the stairs.
Raik and Cormac subdued the guards at the postern door and pulled it open. The sound of hooves pounding the earth alerted Rupert’s men patrolling above. Amidst the shouts and clamor of guards racing down the stairs, Ranald and the men raced out the door then slammed it shut behind them.
Seeing two sturdy branches lying close-by, Cormac and Ranald seized them and shoved the edges under the door, seating them so firmly that if anyone tried to open the door they couldn’t without a struggle.
They sprinted as fast as their legs could take them. Six men galloped toward them leading their horses. Arrows whooshed through the air, but none did more than tear a tunic or nick a bit of skin on a man’s arm. ‘Twas a half-hearted response from the confused castle guards. Trained to stop raiders from entering the castle grounds, they were confused on seeing men in Rupert’s colors leaving. Dougald’s archers harried the guards while Ranald’s men leapt into their saddles.
Astride Satan, Ranald slapped Finn’s horse on the rear, making sure the lad went on ahead. At the edge of the clearing, he held back, waiting until each man passed him and entered the woods. Dubne had slung Egan’s body across his lap, and holding him with one arm, he urged his horse to a gallop. As soon as he passed, Ranald spurred Satan and followed.
They rode hard to distance themselves from their pursuers. Little by little, the sounds of drumming hoof beats and shouts of uncertainty faded. Raptor Castle’s men slipped away as if swallowed by the black night.
o0o
Catalin worked hard to avoid Lady Muriele after Ranald left, for the woman seemed determined to have words with her. She was equally determined not to let her near.
At the noon meal, Lady Muriele sat to the right of the Chief Broccin and Lady Joneta. From the corner of her eye, Catalin noted now and again the beauty leaned forward and tried to catch her eye.
She sighed and pushed food around on her trencher. Could it be the babe was draining her good nature? Every time she saw the beautiful woman, she longed to dump a pitcher of sticky mead over her head.
“Do ye not feel well?”
Elyne, sitting beside her, leaned forward to peek at her face.
“Um. Well enough.”
Catalin stabbed a sliver of pork like she needed to kill it before she took a bite, then scooted it from one side of the sopping trencher to the other.
“I thought ye loved pork. It’s why I asked cook to prepare it today.” Elyne’s brows quirked. “Ye have lost yer taste for it?
“I do love pork. Since Sir Giric told you Ranald was riding to that horrid Baron Rupert’s, I have been too angry to eat,” she muttered.
“Angry? But why? Rupert is a cruel man who needs a sample of what he has dealt out. If I read my brother aright, Ranald is the perfect man to teach him.”
Catalin’s unladylike snort turned curious gazes in her direction.
“What was that about?” Elyne grinned at Catalin’s scowling face.
“The perfect man? Saints alive, Elyne. Ranald was a monk. What does a monk know of warfare?”
This whole day, wherever she walked, she overhead someone speaking of the hideous things accredited to Rupert. What if the baron captured Ranald? He wouldn’t be able to defend himself properly.
“Did he not tell ye?”
“Tell me? Must I forever ask ‘what’!?”
Saints help her. She was near ready to scream. Her stomach churned with worry. Ranald had not spent these last years training for battle. He’d been locked away in a dismal abbey, most likely spending his days on his knees. And all because of the hateful wretch seated beside her who called himself Ranald’s father.
Wherever she turned, she felt Broccin stare at where her breasts thrust against the top of her kirtle. Such calculating looks, too. Like he weighed her flesh beneath the cloth. Thank the saints her skirts were loose and he could not see her expanding middle. The gleam in his eyes made her flesh crawl. She wanted to slam her eating knife into his thigh.
She fingered the knife, near tempted to use it. She looked down at the muscular leg so near her own. Humph. The blade would surely break before it pierced his thick skin. Mayhap that stony hide was why he had survived battling the Turks.
“...why they called him The Protector.”
Elyne leaned close to tap Catalin’s nose with her forefinger.
“Ye didna hear a word I said, did ye?”
“Aye, I did. Who is a protector?”
“Was, not is. Ranald.”
“Ranald? He was the protector of what?”
Elyne rolled her
eyes and shook her head.
“If ye want the regard of my brother, ye will have to sharpen yer wits. Now, pay heed to what I say. Border abbeys are favorite targets for raids from across the border. There is always someone ready to risk their life for the riches found in abbeys.”
“Why would a man risk his soul stealing from God’s places?” Catalin shrugged her shoulders.
“Greedy men will do anything to have their hands on the coffers of coins and jewels given to an abbey as gifts, or by men seeking favors from the church. Huh! Father would have sent a goodly amount of coins with Ranald to Kelso.”
“Ranald was not a warrior. He is only now learning to be one. He was a monk. Monks do not wear swords or heft broadswords.”
“Aye, not usually. But did ye expect a monk to have the muscles and hardened body my brother has? He did not get that way by kneeling in prayer or by digging in the gardens. All these past years, he defended Kelso. He is well used to fighting and holding his own with sword and shield.”
Catalin frowned, thinking of Ranald at Kelso.
“Elyne, if Ranald defended Kelso with his fighting skills, is it not likely he could have killed someone? I cannot imagine they would allow him to do such.” Catalin grimaced, wondering what penance they would give a monk in the confessional.
“It’s different. Ranald was defending God by protecting the abbey. Crusaders take lives. It’s not considered the same as murder.” Elyne sighed.
“That is what we believe. I pray God feels the same way.” Catalin, very much worried that mayhap God was not pleased with the way men defended him, shifted uneasily in her seat.
Lady Joneta rose, crooking a finger at the servants, signaling it was time for them to clear the tables. Catalin had been so engrossed in her worries she had not noted the large bowls of fruits and cheeses. Her stomach grumbled, reminding her she had not eaten enough to feed the small babe nestled beneath her heart. She grabbed a pear before a servant could whisk it away.
“Lady Catalin, I have need of words with you.”
Catalin jerked her head to the side, her eyes narrowed. Oh, Saints! Muriele. She had not seen the woman approach. A rush of heat flooded her face. Her hand tightened, her fingers dug into the ripe pear. From the wary look on the lady’s face, was the beauty intent on telling her she also carried a babe? Ranald’s babe?
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