by Janet Lane
Several women screamed.
Robert jumped up, knocking over his stool.
Geoffrey ran to the kitchen, along with Robert, Jone, and Elyas.
Alan and Henry struggled to their feet, disoriented. “What? What is it?”
A woman broke free from the kitchen, her hair and tunic on fire. Her screams echoed in the hall, and she ran out the door.
Male screams joined the female cries from the kitchen, and fire filled the doorway.
Another woman emerged, her lower gown in flames.
Alan chased her around the room. “Stop running. Stop running!” He caught her and pulled her to the floor, stamping out the flames.
The way was clear. Sharai pushed free from the table and ran.
Henry grabbed her.
Sharai screamed and swung at him, putting her body weight behind it, hitting his unprotected throat.
Releasing her, he grabbed his throat, choking, gasping for air.
Geoffrey appeared from the kitchen, his hair and mustache singed, eyes wide, comprehending Aydin’s trick. Seeing Sharai’s attempt to flee, he grabbed her skirt.
Sharai fell on the stone floor. Shards of broken reeds punctured her arms. She rolled away. Her skirt ripped, her careful stitches tearing in a loud hiss.
Taken slightly off balance when his grip on her skirt failed, Geoffrey reeled backward.
Sharai grabbed a small footstool and swung it soundly into Geoffrey’s groin.
Geoffrey cried out and fell to his knees.
Henry, recovered, closed in.
Sharai flung a handful of mud-soaked reeds in his face and ducked behind the fireplace stonework. She jumped up, her feet slipping on a bare spot of stone, and stumbled out of the hall. Her feet, made nimble by months of dancing, flew down the stairs, giving her a good head start.
She lifted her torn skirt and ran through the bailey, taking earth-swallowing strides.
Enraged, Henry loped behind her, his loose chausses clanging.
Pumping her arms, Sharai took the longest strides she could. Not feeling the muddy earth beneath her feet, she panted for air, sucking it desperately into her lungs, willing her legs to carry her faster.
Other men shouted, and she heard more footfalls behind her.
“Pen. Pen.” Aydin’s voice, frantic, calling for Sharai in their language. A horse thundered behind her.
Henry grunted, and the sound of a thud and banging armor came from behind.
Aydin’s horse must have run into the knight, felling him. Sharai kept running.
Aydin extended his hand.
She slowed and grabbed it, jumping toward him.
Aydin pulled her up in back of him.
She swung her leg over the horse’s back, landing with a painful thump behind the saddle. She wrapped her arms around Aydin’s torso.
The powerful destrier rushed forward.
“Stop them.” Geoffrey cried out from behind. Horses stamped and whinnied loudly, skittish and jumpy from the fire.
Aydin kicked the huge horse beneath them. “Hold on.”
She leaned into Aydin and they found the horse’s rhythm, flowing with it, absorbing the punishing impacts of its hooves as it galloped. Twice Ayden reined the horse behind thick stands of trees and waited, hoping the knights would dash past and lose track of where they had last seen them.
Dawn came, giving better vision, but they were spotted as they were crossing a wide meadow. “There!” Sir Geoffrey cried, and he and his knights took fresh chase about two hundred yards behind.
Aydin pushed the destrier with daring, crossing the meadow for cover to slip out of Geoffrey’s sight.
Water splashed in her face. They were following a stream, then a wall of cold air hit her, and the horse slowed. After riding hard for about two miles, they had entered a forest.
Aydin stopped and silence fell around them. An occasional plop-plopping of raindrops penetrated the forest canopy. “We lost them.” His voice came, breathless.
Sharai straightened, her own breath coming hard. “Now Sprig.” She glanced around, trying to find her bearings in the darkness. “Which way is the Roman road where we are to meet her?”
Aydin motioned the horse forward and said nothing.
He continued, deeper into the forest, away from the manor.
She grabbed the collar of his cloak. “What about Kadriya?”
* * * * *
Tabor and Cyrill rode side by side, following the road that lined the outlying fields of his demesne. They had made good time from Bath and would be home before nightfall. Tabor loosed his armor, relieved to be finally free of the Hungerford shadow. He noted the shrubs. “Look at those hedgerows.”
“Aye, well trimmed and healthy.”
“William the hayward tends them well. I shall give him a bounty to reward his faithful service.”
The fields were thick, the air sweet with ripening grain that promised a great harvest.
It all meant hope. The future, however uncertain, would include Coin Forest, his home.
And Sharai.
Coming closer, the green banners Sharai had sewn came into view, and his heart beat faster. He would see her soon. An image of her enchanting eyes and hair, curling past her waist, swept over him, and his body responded with a pulse of desire.
Horns sounded from the watchtowers, and Cyrill answered them. Tabor tapped his horse’s flanks, pressing him to a run.
They crossed the drawbridge, and Tabor searched for Sharai. Her presence worked magic on him, and the touch of her skin on his kindled a hot, smooth hunger that he minded not suffering.
Lady Anne appeared from the castle entrance and ran to meet him, reaching up to grab his arm. “Tabor. Thank the saints. Where did you go?”
Tabor dismounted. “Bath.” He saw no sign of Sharai’s dark skin and shining braids. Nor any sign of Kadriya.
Lady Anne’s eyes became wide. “You saw Gloucester?”
“Aye.” Tabor dropped all pretenses of their conversation and scanned the bailey. “Where’s Sharai?”
Chapter Nineteen
Sharai stood in the forest clearing, glaring at Aydin and regretting she’d trusted him. “We can’t leave Kadriya!”
Ignoring her, he stepped onto a fallen tree, using it as a step, and mounted the destrier. From the saddle he looked down at her.
“She’s a Gypsy—well, at least half. Let her find her own way back to the fair.”
A blade of panic sliced Sharai’s heart. “She’s only seven summers.”
Aydin motioned in front of him and offered his hand. “Let’s go.”
If she hadn’t lost her dagger she would have stabbed him. Fury boiled behind her eyes, but from beyond them came the sound of pounding hooves, closing in. Sir Geoffrey and his knights.
Sharai jumped up, mounting in back of Aydin, and he spurred the horse to a run.
She and Aydin burst from the forest, branches whipping at their faces, and their horse churned through a muddy, fallow field. They dodged under a copse of willows and the ground sloped to a narrow, fast-flowing river.
Aydin uttered a string of Romani curses and reined to a stop.
Geoffrey and the others followed, just fifty yards behind. Sharai shook him. “What are you doing? Let’s go.”
Aydin’s face blanched. “I cannot swim.”
“The horse can. Sharai kicked the horse, sending it plunging down the steep bank into the racing water. “Hold on.”
The river, swollen from the long rains, rushed through her skirts, taking her breath away.
In front of her, Aydin gasped and tensed.
The horse waded to its chest and lost touch with the bottom and they bobbed in the swift-running current that carried them downstream.
Some thirty yards ahead the river made a sharp turn, churning white with unknown obstacles.
Aydin gasped and clung to the saddle.
“Those logs,” Sharai shouted. “Kick them away.”
On shore, racing hooves splashed along the left bank. S
ir Geoffrey and the others in pursuit.
“They’ll trap us at a peaceful stretch.” Desperate, Sharai scanned the right riverbank, looking for an easier exit. “There, Aydin.” She jabbed him on the shoulder to stir him from fear. “Hold on.”
They completed the turn and new portions of the river came into view. The river turned again, falling several feet, tumbling over unseen debris below. “Sweet Mary. Hold on.”
A sickening thrill whirled in her stomach. They tossed in the churning water.
The horse hit a rock. Air rushed out of his lungs, and he squealed.
A huge log bumped Sharai, smashing her leg between the log and the horse.
They dropped into a whirlpool, and the horse lurched onto his left side. Nostrils spewing water, the horse twisted frantically to right itself.
They went under water. Clutching desperately to the saddle, Sharai stayed connected.
The horse righted itself, and Sharai clung to its slippery saddle.
It was empty. “Aydin?”
No answer.
She glanced behind her.
Snared on a gnarly log, Aydin’s elegant red cloak rippled silently on the water’s surface. Its owner was nowhere to be seen.
* * * * *
Kadriya huddled in a grassy ditch under an arch of the old Roman road. It was quiet now, dawn, and she could see. She inched her head out, searching in all directions for the knights who had been thundering down the road. Not a soul in sight. Absence of the knights was a relief, but no sign of Sharai brought shivers of fear. She returned to her hiding place, and the silence hissed in her ears. She hummed the deer song Sharai had always sung to her. Would she be turned into a deer, or would she die here, because she would rather die than be caught by the knights. Beyond the arch, the weak sun rose higher in the sky, and her stomach grumbled. Too much time had passed. She had to do something.
With cautious glances each way, she ventured out to the road. The fields were untended and sorry with tall weeds amid struggling patches of grain. Overhead, the sun had risen to half its height. In two more bells it would be dinnertime. She pushed her stomach to stop the growling. No, Kadriya. Think of anything but food.
The grasses drooped, their seedpods sodden, shedding tears. What if Aydin had lied? What if he was escaping from the knights only to have his way with Sharai? He’d hurt her already, and Kadriya did not believe he was protecting them, as he said. Still, Kadriya had relied on him because she had trusted the desperation in his eyes. Better to trust a Gypsy than a bunch of unknown Gorgio knights. Even if she was wrong, getting rid of the knights would make it easier for her and Sharai to escape from Aydin later.
Her bones ached from the cold and damp. She wanted to be safe in her bed at Coin Forest, with the big stone walls and a warm fire. She wanted to hold her dove, stroke its soft feathers, hear it coo. She wanted Sharai to wrap her arms around her and tell her everything was going to be all right.
She had been reassured when she heard all the shouting and saw Sharai and Aydin in his red cloak, racing away from the knights. But they had not come for her, and none of the knights had returned. Had Sharai and Aydin been caught? Killed?
Kadriya swallowed her panic and blinked her tears away. Something had gone terribly wrong. She must find Sharai.
Kadriya struggled to find her bearings. East and south she would find the fair, but it was at least a whole day’s journey from here. She looked west, from whence they had come. Tabor and Father Bernard would know what to do. She would make her way to Coin Forest.
* * * * *
Rauf lifted the armor that chafed the skin above his left armpit. Inept armorer. He was supposed to have adjusted it for the weight Rauf had gained. He moved through the bailey in the predawn grey, nodding to the knights on guard, those who, before dawn, would leave their posts and depart with him for Coin Forest. The rains had stopped just after midnight, and the sky had cleared. If the weather held, travel would be easier.
He entered the armory, a small, cluttered building fifty yards from the manor house.
Inside, Joseph the swordsmith waited with a collection of weapons. His brown hair was combed neatly off his face, his beard full and well groomed. “Good morn, my lord.”
Rauf looked past him to the worktable where two grey flannel bundles lay. “Are they ready?”
“Aye, and they will please you.” He unwrapped a combat sword.
Rauf held the sword, swinging it to test balance, then lunged, striking the target. The blade flexed on impact and penetrated deeply.
Joseph grinned. “See? Did you see the give? Did you feel a shock?”
“None. Excellent. Show me the new dagger.”
Joseph unrolled the dagger with a flourish. “I thought long about what you wanted, a dagger capable of causing a double wound with each strike.” He offered it to Rauf.
The fifteen-inch dagger had a round pommel and a sturdy handle with a thick cross guard. Nothing worth comment, but the blades—two deadly-looking blades—erupted from the single grip and, two inches from each blade tip, they fanned out to create an inverted V. Rauf whistled. “Very fine.”
Joseph beamed. “Aye. See the slight burrs here, and the way the blade begins single at the tip, then triple, with the side blades, like wings? Short, but effective. The burrs are curved to allow easy entry, then here,” he indicated a point where the blade joined the cross guard, “here, the blade will not only puncture the flesh but spread it outward, and the burrs will grind the flesh like sausage when you jerk it back out. Here. Try it.” He motioned to the right, where he had mounted a squash on the wall, painted with crude eyes, a nose and mouth.
Rauf lifted the clever weapon, cool and smooth in his hand, and faced the painted squash. “That looks a bit like Tabor’s face, does it not?”
Joseph laughed. “Indeed.”
A thrill ran though Rauf, the thrill of power, which made the only sense in this world. All else—friendships, love, alliances—would betray or disappoint, but power granted all. Bracing his legs, he thrust the dagger into the squash. It entered smoothly, then spread the flesh of the vegetable, causing it to crack up the forehead. “Aye.” Rauf jerked the dagger out, and ragged fragments of the flesh came out with the dagger. “Better than tongue slitting.” He plunged the dagger in again. “Die, devil!” The squash splayed, ruptured, and dripped on the floor. Rauf laughed. “Well done.” He handed the weapon to Joseph.
Swirling the dripping dagger in a bucket of water, Joseph dried it, slid it in a leather sheath, and handed it to Rauf.
Rauf unwrapped it, turning it over repeatedly in his hand. His eagerness to get to Coin Forest had just increased tenfold.
* * * * *
Lord Hungerford lifted his head off his pillow. His temples throbbed, and his muscles, though always weak, shook from the small effort.
Cook had prepared a special meal yester eve, galantined chicken, with an exotically seasoned stuffing. In a fine mood, Rauf had entertained more than the minstrels, telling tales of Rouen and miming in lewd fashion the Maid of Orleans, the woman who dared to wear armor when he helped deliver her for trial.
Swept away by the feast and good wine, Hungerford enjoyed Rauf’s lighter mood, and celebrated far more than he should have.
He could feel it now. Hungerford pulled his bed curtain back and blinked in the harsh sunlight. His legs responded like dead logs, but with the help of his cane, he pulled himself up and opened the shutters all the way. The sun was high. Too high. Guards were at their posts, but the garrison was not on the field. He listened. Nor were they in the hall belowstairs.
Out in the bailey, Lucas, his seneschal, hurried from the stables.
“Lucas,” Hungerford called down. “Why are the men not practicing?”
Lucas stopped, holding his palms up in question. “Do you not remember, my lord? You sent Rauf to Fritham.”
“God’s blood. I did no such thing. Get Sir John to my chamber, posthaste.”
Sir John arrived. “My lord
?”
“What the devil is Rauf doing at Fritham? Did you approve this?”
“Nay, my lord. ’Twas your decision, I heard.”
Hungerford studied his knight. His brown hair was disheveled, and his eyes were bloodshot. “You look terrible.”
“I feel poorly. My head is pounding.”
“So is mine. Did you have trouble rising this morn?”
“Aye, forgive me.”
Hungerford waved the apology aside. “I know nothing of Fritham.”
“But Rauf said it was your request.”
“And you thought not to ask me about it?”
John’s brow furrowed. “I overslept, my lord. From the others, I learned that Rauf did not want to wake you.”
“Indeed not. He kept the butler busy filling my goblet last night. Yours as well. And all the while he was scheming. Damn.” Hungerford banged his cane in frustration.
He called forth a half-dozen wives of the absent knights. After some carefully worded threats, a pretty brown-haired lass revealed Rauf’s true purpose, and the others confirmed it.
Coin Forest.
Hungerford ordered them out. Damnation. He checked the sky. “How late is it?”
“Nine bells.”
“When did they leave?”
“Just before dawn.”
“We must stop him. Have the stable boys saddle Shaker, and get the messenger to ride.”
Later in the great hall, Hungerford gathered his most trusted knights. “The messenger will reach Rauf by midday.”
“But what if he defies you?”
Disappointment lodged in Hungerford’s heart. “He will.”
Somewhere in his aching head it became clear to him that Rauf, his strongest son, would never inherit. Though brave and fierce and the picture of Hungerford’s proud father, Rauf’s uncontrollable temper and limited wits made him incapable of fulfilling his destiny. “If he continues to Coin Forest, I vow, I will disinherit him.”
John grimaced. “That won’t set well with him.”
“Aye, but if he attacks Tabor after Gloucester set council to solve this peacefully, Gloucester will have Rauf’s head.” A new thought chilled him. “Sweet saints, he may have mine, as well.”