At the head of the column, Vadim rode alone, deep in thought. He turned frequently in his saddle, constantly checking that the queen and her family were safely secured within their protective box of armed knights.
The merry banter that had marked the hours of their long journey south was absent. The men were silent and grim-faced, now. Ever watchful.
Their quest had forged many ties of fellowship within their little company, and so the deaths of their friends and comrades had hit everyone hard.
The loss of the princesses, however, had come as an even greater blow.
Queen Hortensia had wept many bitter tears, and neither her children nor her most-trusted companions were able to comfort her. She hadn’t wanted to abandon Catherine and Miriam, insisting that they wait until Anselm and the others had returned. But as much as it pained him to do so, Vadim had overruled her wishes.
Losing the princesses was bad enough, but to lose the queen and her children would be nothing short of catastrophic.
Whatever the cost, however much ill-will the queen now bore him, Vadim’s duty was clear. The remainder of the royal family must be kept safe. They, and they alone, were his priority now.
As he glanced back again, Vadim happened to catch Reynard’s eye, and his old friend took this as an invitation to come forward and keep him company—although in truth,Vadim had never felt less in the mood for conversation. But perhaps it might help pass the interminable hours as they journeyed through this bleak, almost featureless, semi-desert landscape.
“I wonder if your brother plans on joining us anytime soon,” Reynard called, jogging his horse through the ranks toward him. “I understand the men already have a pot going, trying to predict his return.”
Vadim gave a feeble smile. “With Anselm, anything is possible, but I am not hopeful.”
Reynard reached Vadim’s side and reined in his horse to a steady walk. “Did I do the right thing, I wonder, allowing them to ride off like that after the princesses?” he said with a frown. “But to a man they were all determined to go, each and every one of them.”
“Someone had to at least try and rescue the ladies.” Vadim was already dreading the moment when he would have to stand before the king and break the sorry news, that the two princesses had been taken. Although Rodmar’s fury would be great, how much more terrible would his wrath be if no-one had even tried to recover his family?
No matter how futile that rescue attempt might prove to be, there was no better man for the job than Anselm. If he failed, surely no one else would have succeeded?
Although Vadim wished he could have gone with him, the role of Lord Edgeway always had first claim on him. Duty demanded that he protect the queen and her royal brood and got them away to a place of safety.
After so many weeks of desperately wanting to do so, the prospect of returning home now seemed bleak. His hope of reuniting with Martha in time for the winter festival were surely dashed. He would be obliged to spend the darkest, coldest months holed up in the capital, planning a return trip south to deliver a ransom in the following spring.
Vadim felt another sharp pang of yearning for his outlaw days. Although he had not always appreciated it, that life had been true freedom.
“Then let us hope,” Reynard said at last, “that your brother is as skilled as he so frequently boasts he is.”
“Oh, he’s good, Reynard, make no mistake about that. Never have I known a more intuitive tracker.” In the days when Anselm had been Lord Godric’s man, his skills as a hunter had been almost legendary amongst the common folk. “There is nothing lost that Anselm cannot be trusted to find. Eventually.”
“Indeed?” Reynard tilted his head, observing Vadim keenly. “In which case, I wonder why he never managed to find you, then, my friend?”
Over recent months, Vadim had often pondered upon that very same matter. Although his own skills as a woodsman were adequate enough, Anselm had always been slightly better. On more than one occasion, Vadim had often sensed he was being watched, often whilst away in some wild place where he should have been entirely alone. He’d blamed his own restless phantoms for the odd feelings of unrest he had experienced in those forsaken places, but now he wasn’t so sure.
Was it possible? Had Anselm always known where to find him?
If so, then why had his brother never betrayed him?
Chapter Twenty-Six
Cold, exhausted, and miserable beyond measure, Miriam and Catherine huddled together and tried to warm themselves by the mean glow of their little fire. Out in the badlands, the nights were bitterly cold, especially so high up in the hills.
Even their kidnappers were less vocal than usual tonight, but they had the benefit of being fully clothed. A thin shift and a scabby blanket apiece were little protection against the elements.
At least they’d been given footwear. Because the mountain path was so steep, they’d had to dismount and rely on their own feet to get them across the most dangerous parts. Catherine had been given an over-sized pair of leather boots that clumped as she shuffled along. Miriam, meanwhile, had been given a thin, rather battered pair of ladies’ slippers to wear. Although she’d felt every rock and tiny stone, pushing through the well-worn leather of their inadequate soles, at least her shoes were a fairly decent fit.
Where had they come from? One of Fabien’s numerous whores, more than likely. Poor wretches.
Supper was a repeat of the previous night’s pathetic repast, only this time there was water in place of the bitter wine, much to Catherine’s disgust.
“After all the indignities that wretched man has put us through, he might at least have the decency to keep us well supplied in drink,” she muttered crossly.
Catherine had finally started speaking to Miriam again. Thus far, her conversation had mainly consisted of whining and carping, with the occasional remark about how ugly her black eye looked. Still, it was better than having to endure Fabien’s attempts to engage her in conversation.
Speaking of whom.
Quite uninvited, Fabien crouched down beside where they sat perched upon an uncomfortable rock.
“Alas, dear ladies,” he said, “I fear there is no more wine to be had. However, I still have a limited supply of grog, if you’re interested.” Reaching into his tunic, he produced a rather battered leather flask which he expertly uncorked with his teeth. “Perhaps you might do me the honor of partaking of a sip?”
“No, thank you,” Miriam said primly when he offered the flask to her. “I’d rather suck moisture from a snake.” She shuffled along their rock, increasing the distance between her and Fabien.
He shrugged. “Suit yourself.” Undaunted by Miriam’s coldness, he waved the flask at Catherine instead. “What about you, m’lady? Or are you too fine to share a drink with a humble, hard-working fellow like myself?”
To Miriam’s disgust, her sister almost snatched the flask from Fabien’s hand, such was her eagerness. Hastily wiping the neck upon the hem of her shift, she took several deep gulps.
“My!” Catherine gasped as she came up for air, her blue eyes watering. “That’s a rather fiery concoction, Captain.”
Fabien grinned, obviously much impressed by Catherine’s lack of spluttering. “Have another sip if you like. I don’t mind.”
“Catherine, no!” Miriam placed her hand upon her sister’s arm. “Please don’t.”
Without hesitation, Catherine shook her off. “You’re about the last person I’d take advice from, thank you all the same.”
Fabien’s grin broadened, and he leaned in a little closer to Catherine, watching her closely as she took another generous swig. “I’m beginning to think I chose the wrong sister,” he murmured. “You, my golden beauty, have the heart and the constitution of a pirate.”
Miriam rolled her eyes. “Oh, good grief.” Surely Catherine wasn’t stupid enough to be taken in by Fabien’s bl
uster, was she?
Apparently, she was. For with a rather girlish giggle, Catherine playfully patted Fabien upon his chest—much to Miriam’s disgust. “Oh, Captain. I believe you may have rather a bad influence on me.” She leaned in until their faces were indecently close. “And I like it,” she purred.
“Oh, please. That’s quite enough—from both of you.” Miriam shoved Fabien backward, and he fell sprawling and laughing in the dust. “Go away, Fabien. Catherine, let’s get you to bed.”
“I might have done precisely that had you not interfered, Princess,” Fabien said with a chuckle. “Why? Are you jealous, darling?”
Miriam snatched the flask from her sister’s hand and pitched it with reasonable accuracy at Fabien’s head, forcing him to duck. “Kindly point us toward our sleeping arrangements then be gone.” Their situation was already dire enough without Catherine getting herself completely drunk.
“Your sleeping arrangements? Did you hear that, lads?” Fabien turned and called to his crew who were watching the evening’s entertainment with much amusement from the comfort of their own hearth. “The princess here would like to know where they are to sleep.”
There came another burst of the loud raucous laughter—laughter Miriam was fast learning to dread.
“Either one of ’em can sleep right here, Cap’n,” cried a rather leathery-looking man of indeterminate age. He patted his thighs suggestively making his companions laugh all the harder.
Miriam grimaced, feeling slightly ill. Suddenly, any one of Rodmar’s choices of husband seemed an incredibly tempting prospect. An answer to a maiden’s dream, in fact, no matter how old and decrepit.
Thankfully, Catherine unwittingly saved them from more torment for, with a little cough and a feeble, “I don’t feel very well,” she leaned over and noisily evacuated the contents of her stomach onto the sand—narrowly missing Fabien who had to scoot hurriedly backward to avoid getting hit by the violent eruption of sour vomit.
“There, there, dearest.” Holding back her sister’s hair with one hand, Miriam gently massaged Catherine’s spasming back with the other. “Get it all out, there’s a good girl.” Thank goodness Catherine wasn’t accustomed to hard liquor. The amount she’d taken tonight would have surely have poisoned her had she managed to keep it down.
A tense silence blanketed the camp, dousing the high spirits of before. No one was laughing now, especially not Fabien.
“There’s your bed for the night,” he snarled, glaring at them both, and pointing at the vomit-spattered sand. “And much rest and comfort may it bring you both. Sleep well, ladies.” Then, with a stiff little bow, he stalked away and rejoined his men at their campfire.
It was bitterly cold, and their fire was almost out. Only a few paltry embers remained, glowing red like dragon’s eyes in the dark.
Too uncomfortable to sleep, thanks to all the rocks jabbing into her back, Miriam rolled onto her side, carefully adjusting her arm about Catherine who lay snoring peacefully beside her. She snuggled a little closer to her sister, but even sharing body heat, not to mention their two stinking blankets, didn’t help.
Try as she might, Miriam couldn’t get warm. The cold bit too deeply. No matter how much she wriggled them, her fingers and toes were like chips of ice. Only her eyes burned, and that was because she was so tired. She longed to escape into sleep, even for a few minutes, but it was just no use.
The pirates didn’t suffer from insomnia. Perhaps drunk on their own personal supplies of grog, no doubt, they lay sprawled in the sand, sleeping where they’d fallen, snoring loudly and breaking wind. Damn them.
With a heavy sigh, Miriam slowly moved away from her sleeping sister and then rolled over onto her back. Looking up, she stared at the bright constellations twinkling so far above the world locked in their inky-black heaven. What must it be like, to fly amongst the stars?
But Miriam’s thoughts quickly returned to consider more mundane, and vital, matters. Namely, the possibility of escape. Although the pirates were sound asleep, those taciturn mercenaries were still out there. Somewhere. Lurking in the darkness.
She’d put them to the test on a couple of occasions, wandering a little way from camp under the pretext of needing to relieve her bladder. But upon each occasion one of the dour-faced barbarians had stepped out from the shadows, sword drawn, to gruffly challenge her.
However much gold Fabien had promised these men, it was well worth it for they were absolutely professional. Cool-headed and unwavering in the attention they gave the job.
Clearly, Fabien wasn’t taking any chances. He had no intention of letting them escape, that much was apparent—well, not unless he received the mountain of gold he craved so badly. Well, he would certainly need every last coin of plunder if he was ever to settle his accounts with his crew and those grim mercenaries of his. She knew the pirate captain well enough by now to know he wouldn’t have paid them up front, for his own funds were always in rather short supply. Whenever he did have gold, it tended to slip through his fingers like water, such was the life of excess he lived.
Miriam smiled, imagining what those brutal mercenaries might do to a man who had not sufficient funds to pay them for their services. However, her amusement soon faded. If that particular scenario ever should come to pass, it would benefit neither her nor Catherine. Heaven only knew what terrible fate would await them then.
Only half-listening, Miriam heard a quiet groan coming from the vicinity of the bushes. Had someone else overindulged on the captain’s special grog? Good. It would serve them right if they had. Shivering, she shuffled a little closer to Catherine’s sleeping form. Despite Miriam’s best efforts to wash Catherine’s hair—with a bucket of water grudgingly provided by one of the pirates—the scent of stale vomit still clung to her sister.
There it was again. Her eyes snapped open as she heard another low moan. This time coming from a different direction. Someone was definitely unwell. ’Twas hardly surprising really for their rations so far had been appalling, and the pirates had fared little better. Perhaps they were all destined to die out in the wilds for want of decent food.
Then she heard something else. A sound that made her heart almost leap from her chest.
“Psst. Miriam.”
Her own name? Had she imagined it—or dreamed it?
“Miriam!” No. There it was again, and it was coming from that cluster of spindly bushes over yonder. A slightly irritated whisper that was all too familiar.
She sat bolt upright, so quickly it made her head spin. It couldn’t possibly be… could it?
Anselm?
Despite the precariousness of his current situation, on seeing Miriam again, Anselm exhaled properly for the first time in days.
She was pale and bedraggled, and one of her lovely eyes was almost swollen shut. Even so, Anselm could not recall when he had last seen a lovelier or more welcome sight. To his relief, Miriam seemed to be all in one piece.
The tacky stickiness of the dead mercenaries’ blood still coated the handle of his thin dagger he gripped so tightly in his hand. Anselm hurriedly wiped away the worst of the gore upon his trews and slipped the blade back into his belt. Then he beckoned her to him.
To his dismay, Miriam shook her head and glanced down.
Swaddled in a threadbare blanket, Catherine lay asleep in the dirt beside her.
Anselm cast a quick glance over his shoulder hoping to see one of his friends. Hugh and Fergus, however, had not yet returned from dispatching their share of the sentries.
Damnation. There were only three mercenaries left, for heaven sake, for Anselm had disposed of the others himself. What could be taking them so long? They had better not have got themselves killed or he really would be most seriously displeased.
Huffing out a silent cloud of dragon’s breath, Anselm noted that the pirates were still lost in slumber, snoring like mindless hogs, quite
oblivious to what was happening right beside them.
Anselm smiled. The good captain had made a fatal error by placing all his faith in the abilities of his hired thugs. Oh, they were decent enough fighters, to be sure. But unfortunately for them, he was better.
His heart still raced, pounding with the thrill of the hunt followed by a quick silent fight to the death. His blood sang in his veins, intoxicating his senses until he wanted to laugh out loud. Ah, how he’d missed it, the life that had once been his. For too long he’d been kept as a tame hawk. But no more. Once the princesses were safely back in the bosom of their family, he would find a different path to roam, one that led far beyond the civilized confines of Edgeway’s borders.
Miriam regarded him with those incredible eyes of hers, as trustingly as a hand-raised doe looks upon the face of its surrogate parent. Once again, the most treacherous part of his body responded to her nearness. Thankfully, his long tunic concealed the worst of the damage. Was this to be his penance from now on? Had the Great Spirit decreed that Anselm’s cock would rouse itself for no other woman than Miriam?
What a twisted punishment it was. The woman he wanted was the one he could never have. Miriam couldn’t be tupped and set aside like a common whore. She was a princess. An innocent pawn in her brother’s ongoing quest for power and glory; a woman destined to warm the bed of another man. A noble man. A man far mightier than Anselm.
Attracted to her as he was, Miriam definitely wasn’t for him. The wisest course of action would be to force her from his mind before she had time to work her way into his heart rather like a stray splinter of metal, destined never to be removed.
That would not do at all. ’Twas far better to have a hard heart than a permanently hard cock.
Emerging cautiously from the cover of the bushes, Anselm crept over to where Miriam knelt in the dirt trying to rouse her sister by briskly shaking her shoulder.
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