“Are you seeking vindication from those who called you a whore? Are you seeking power as the king’s mother? Or are you simply seeking the court life you lost and miss?”
Steel flashed in the moonlight, and she found the haft of her knife in her free hand. She pressed the tip against his chest, so hurt and enraged she would gladly cut out his heart.
“Go ahead.” He loosed her and spread his arms wide. “Drive your knife deep. But do it only if I’ve lied.”
She pressed harder.
“Do it, and know the truth has died this night.”
Griffith felt each mighty thump of his heart, each pulse of blood through his veins, as he crawled along the ground, and he thanked God for ongoing service of that uninjured organ.
Griffith had always known he might end as a piece of meat on a skewer, but he’d thought it would be in battle. He’d never considered his own wife would be the butcher.
But it had been close. Too close. Marian had pressed on that knife until he’d felt the threads in his doublet give way.
Then she’d pulled back. Without a word, she’d put her knife in its sheath at her waist and had lain down. He hadn’t had to wake her for their raid on the mercenaries—she’d never slept, and he wondered if it was guilt or fury that had kept her awake.
Marian. Why had God given him Marian? Was it some celestial jest on Griffith, who had sworn to have a domestic woman, content to stay home? For if he now had that woman, she would not be creeping around to the far side of the mercenary camp as he prepared an attack from the near side. She would collapse at the suggestion of fighting, and he would be alone in the dark.
With Marian, he knew he wasn’t alone. He had a partner he could depend on, and depend on her he did.
Taking care to remain behind a sandstone slab, for the protection of his leather armor was not enough, he rose to his feet and surveyed the area. The mercenaries had chosen their camp well. A ring of rock towered above them in the shape of a horseshoe, with Dolan and Lionel tucked in the deepest part beneath the sandstone overhang. The fire had been built ten paces in front, and four men lay wrapped in rugs around it. It couldn’t have been comfortable, for the ground sloped away beneath them, but it served as protection for the child, and that, no doubt, was their intention. One man was missing—a lookout? Or simply a visitor to the bushes?
Griffith waited for his return, measuring the distance between the overhang above Lionel and the ground. They had planned that Marian would drop between Lionel and the fire and get Lionel, regardless of the cost.
He looked again, then turned his head away. It was easier, he found, to engage in battle than to contemplate your mate in battle, and he observed her escape route with care. Ringing the front of the camp was a brook that cut deep into the sandstone, a natural defense, but also the escape route Marian would use. He would earn her the time she needed. He knew she had the courage. Now, if only her strength proved great enough and her luck proved shield enough, his lady falcon would fly away from this place.
Alert in every sense, Griffith watched the camp as he notched his arrow in the yew longbow. The missing man had not returned, but the minutes were slipping by and the moon was sinking toward its resting place in the mountains. The raid could wait no longer. He lifted the bow and pulled the bowstring taut, then took aim at one sleeping figure.
The arrow flew straight and true, burying itself deep into the body. With a shriek, the mercenary died. The other mercenaries revealed their training as they rolled away from the fire and to their feet. Griffith picked off another as he ran toward the concealing woods, but in his hurry his shot faltered, and he could hear curses as the man plucked the arrow from his leg.
He waited only long enough to see Marian jump from the overhang above Lionel, and then he raced to a new position.
The slippery sandstone gravel around the overhang served as its own protection against marauders, as Marian found when she landed and her feet slid out from under her. Knife in hand, she tumbled a few feet down the slope, panicked by her clumsiness and hoping Dolan hadn’t heard.
Madness. He would have had to be deaf to miss it. Gripping her knife between her teeth, she clawed her way up the few feet to the overhang and realized Dolan was not deaf, but gone. Lionel lay tucked back into the crack of the rock, wide-eyed and unguarded, and Marian’s heart sang.
Her son was alive, safe, and unharmed, and never had she thought to seize him so easily.
“Lionel,” she coaxed. “Come to Mama.”
He only scooted tighter into the overhang.
“Lionel, please.” She glanced around, but no one appeared. “Sweeting, ’tis Mama. Come with me, and we’ll go away from here.”
She could hear his rapid breathing and knew that for him, abruptly wakened from sleep, her appearance was nothing more than another part of this continuous nightmare. With another glance behind her, she crawled under the overhang and reached for her son.
Before she could touch him, another hand whipped out and caught her wrist.
It came from a dark and empty place—only it wasn’t empty. Dolan unfolded himself from his hiding place and pushed her farther back into the rock. “M’lady,” he said. “Ye came at last. What are yer plans?”
“I’m going to take Lionel.” She whipped out her knife and pointed it at him.
“Don’t wave yer spur at me, or I’ll show ye how t’ use it,” he growled. “Have ye a horse? Fer ye’ll not get far without one.”
Confused by what sounded like benevolence, she stammered, “I don’t…aye, I have a horse. Two horses.”
“Griffith wi’ ye?”
“Aye.”
“Then ye’ve got a chance.” He picked Lionel up and wrapped him tighter in the blanket, then led her to the edge of the overhang. He peered around. “Keep low until ye reach th’ steed, then spur him ’til ye’re well away. Go fer Castle Wenthaven, I guess, fer these dickweeds aren’t Wenthaven’s men no more. They’re renegades, seekin’ t’ make a fortune sellin’ th’ poor lad t’ his grandfather. There now”—they heard an explosion of screams—“yer Griffith got another one. Go now!”
He handed Lionel to her, but she said, “Why should I trust you? You’re one of them.”
“Don’t be such a damned stupid twit. Who th’ hell did ye think was carin’ fer th’ lad? I had t’ join ’em, or they’da not let me take him.”
Looking at his gnarled face, she believed him.
And he knew it. Pushing at her, he commanded, “Run!”
She did, and he served as a shield as she slithered into the trees. She heard Griffith shout, then Dolan urged, “Keep goin’. Don’t look back!”
She skidded to a stop, and he skidded into her.
“Go on,” he said again, but she couldn’t.
Regardless of the precious burden in her arms, she had to know. Through a gap in the trees, she saw them, face to face in the moonlight.
Griffith and Harbottle.
Harbottle held one of the dueling swords Griffith so despised.
Griffith held a war hammer.
“Oh, God,” Marian whispered. “Harbottle’s going to kill him.”
“Don’t be so sure, m’lady.” But Dolan’s usual cockiness failed.
From across the clearing, Harbottle glowed with health, with beauty, with the certainty of victory. Next to him, Griffith looked large, solemn, and slow, a bear or beast too simple to embrace his fate with grace.
A yell from the woods opposite startled Marian. “Get ’im!”
But for whom was the encouragement intended?
Dolan plucked at her sleeve. “M’lady, we must go. Th’ other mercenaries are loose. They can find us”—he glanced around as if puzzled—“if they choose.”
The silver blade sliced the air toward Griffith’s face. Griffith stepped back—far enough? Marian stifled her cry, braced herself for the shower of blood that would follow the stroke.
Nothing. Even Harbottle frowned. For a brief moment Griffith had transformed
himself from a lumbering beast into a skilled warrior. But the moment passed as Griffith clumsily swung his hammer toward Harbottle’s shoulder. The powerful blow whistled as it missed him in a clean sweep.
Raucous laughter sounded from the woods.
Griffith sidled closer to the ravine.
“Give me th’ child,” Dolan instructed. “Ye’re squeezin’ him.”
She handed Lionel to Dolan, unwilling to turn her gaze away from the horrible scene unfolding. For she knew, as Griffith did, that if by chance or skill he won the contest, he was still the target of bolts and arrows wielded by unseen watchers.
“Come, you coward,” Harbottle taunted. “Meet my steel and know I’ll have my way with your woman ere the night is through.” Before he had finished speaking, the sword stabbed at Griffith’s stomach. It struck—and stuck.
“Ooh, leather armor,” observed a mercenary.
Suddenly the situation raged out of Harbottle’s control. He lunged for the sword. He retrieved it with outstretched hand, and the war hammer crashed down on the bones of his arm. The crunch of bones and his shriek of pain made Marian squeeze her eyes shut, as if that would keep out the sound.
It didn’t. She heard the hammer fall, heard the burst of the skull as Harbottle lost his last battle. She would have turned away without looking, but Dolan burst out, “Th’ dirty dickweed! He’s goin’ t’ get him.”
Opening her eyes, she saw Griffith dashing for the chasm that wrapped itself around the camp.
“Run, man!” Dolan urged.
Following Dolan’s line of vision, she stepped from behind an oak’s wide trunk to observe Cledwyn perched on one of the lofty sandstone pillars, aiming a crossbow at Griffith.
She screamed a warning even as Cledwyn let fly. On the edge of the ravine, Griffith jerked, then tumbled out of sight.
Like a ravaging wolf who has brought down his prey, Cledwyn lifted his head and howled to the moon, and from the nearby woods two howls joined the primitive chorus.
Swept from nightmare to nightmare, Marian staggered when Dolan gave her a push. “We’ve got t’ save th’ child,” he growled.
As Marian fled toward the horses, a stitch started in her side and spread to her heart—or was it the other way around?
Griffith was wounded—or dead. Fallen, with no one to tend to him. Laid flat in the dirt of the ravine…
She mounted and received Lionel from Dolan.
Into the ravine…
“I’ll take his horse an’ ride at yer back,” Dolan said.
Into the ravine…
Facing the east, she spurred her horse toward Wenthaven, hoping for sanctuary where before she had hoped for support.
She’d been taken in by Griffith’s acting. He hadn’t really been hit. He’d done as Art had done so many years before, pretended death to fool his enemies.
But why didn’t her spirits lighten?
And she knew the answer.
Because Griffith had been convincing. Sweet Jesus, he had been convincing.
Teetering on the edge of the precipice, Cledwyn shrieked his victory at the still body lying below. “I got him. I got th’ Welsh traitor!” He turned and beamed at the mercenaries creeping out of the trees. “’Twas a good night’s work, wi’ Griffith ap Powel killed an’ Harbottle smashed like th’ bug he is, an’ Lady Marian takin’ th’ brat back t’ Wenthaven as fast as she can go. Let’s chase her a bit, lads. ’Twill be great entertainment, an’ th’ earl’s waiting wi’ a fine reward.”
“I can scarce walk, much less chase th’ wench,” the limping mercenary said.
“Buck up, Bryce. Ye’re alive, aren’t ye? An’ I killed th’ Judas what shot ye, an’ he killed Harbottle an’ saved us th’ trouble.”
“Aye, but what about that Billy? I’d be sittin’ easier if he hadn’t left us t’ visit th’ bushes an’ never returned.”
Cledwyn kicked out and landed a telling blow to Bryce’s wounded ankle. Collapsing with a profane curse, Bryce ducked when Cledwyn swung again. “Don’t ye mention it t’ anyone, especially not th’ earl o’ Wenthaven. If anyone asks, Billy was killed on th’ trail. Hear me?” He aimed another kick at Bryce, and Bryce rolled away, crying his assent. “Hear me?” He aimed a blow at the remaining mercenary.
“Aye, we’ll do it,” he said.
Still raving, Cledwyn looked for another chance to vent his fury, and his gaze fell on Harbottle. With a savage grin, he rolled the body over, and the mark of the hammer showed clearly in the moonlight. “Ain’t so pretty now, is he?” With his foot, Cledwyn wiggled the limp head, then rolled the body over and over until it reached the precipice. “Think we ought to say a prayer?” Cledwyn cackled and raised his arms to the heavens. “We consecrate this Englishman t’ th’ depths o’ hell. May he roast there forever.”
The mercenaries shrank back from the blasphemy, but the ravine seized Harbottle with an already whetted appetite, and the sound of his tumbling body hung in the air like a threat softly uttered.
Gloating at his mercenaries Cledwyn asked, “What say ye? Will ye follow me fer th’ gold? Or will ye stay an’ rot wi’ Harbottle?”
“Horses,” Dolan called. “Comin’ fast behind.”
Griffith hadn’t managed to scatter all the mercenaries’ steeds, Marian realized, and although she used every shortcut she remembered and a few she made up, the fighters had no child to slow their pace.
Riding east toward Wenthaven, she urged her gelding to greater speeds. The moon lit the way like an obliging torch, while the sun tinted with its first hint of gold. The wind whistled in Marian’s ears and plucked at the dark veil tied tightly around her bright hair.
“Still gainin’, m’lady.”
Ahead she heard another sound, the faint sound of barking. Of spaniels.
“The dogs have heard us,” she whispered.
The horse surged beneath her, and she realized they would make it to Wenthaven before the mercenaries. If the gate were open, they would be safe.
If.
It should have been exhilarating, but it was not. Lionel stared about him with eyes too big for his thin face. What the mercenaries had done to him, she didn’t know, but he didn’t speak—couldn’t speak?—and she longed to hear one defiant “Nay!” She cradled him tightly, trying to cushion him with her body from the worst of the jolts.
Straining to see Wenthaven’s curtain walls, she was rewarded with a glimmer of water.
The lake that protected Wenthaven lay just ahead. Breaking into the cleared land that surrounded it, she galloped fiercely for the drawbridge, crying her name to the guards. Dolan fell behind, crisscrossing behind her, trying to draw any stray bolts from the crossbow. The drawbridge slid down, slow and majestic, and it hadn’t touched the ground when she jumped her horse onto it. The clatter of hooves on board sounded like liberation. The sight of her father with his yipping spaniels looked like deliverance. With Dolan at her back, she shouted, “Pull it up. Pull the bridge up, the Welsh are after us!” She skidded to a stop in front of Wenthaven. “Cledwyn’s on his way with his men, and he’s gone mad with money lust.”
“Cledwyn? How delightful.” Wenthaven looked fresh and alert, and her news seemed to pique his interest. To his men he said, “Keep the drawbridge down.”
“Listen to me, Wenthaven! He kidnapped Lionel!”
“He’s my man.” Wenthaven snapped his fingers at the mercenaries. “Hurry, we mustn’t keep Cledwyn waiting.”
Exasperated and not a little frightened, Marian said, “He was going to hold Lionel for ransom.”
“He took his orders from me.”
He was so calm, so sure, she observed him with a keen eye. He was dressed in a clean doublet, with ruffles at the neck and stylish slashes at the sleeve. His hair was cut and combed as thoroughly as the coat of any of his spaniels. In fact, he looked as fine as any London gentleman attending a city entertainment.
It struck her then. He’d been awake at this hour of the morning. He’d been expecting her.
She’d been betrayed. Betrayed by the one man she ought to be able to trust.
Betrayed by her own father.
19
Griffith panted as he pushed Harbottle’s body off of his and groaned when he stood. He’d been grateful for the swordsman’s protection, unknowing though it was, for he’d feared Cledwyn or one of his mercenaries might take a final, finishing shot at him. But his imitation of a man struck by a crossbow bolt must have been masterly, convincing the mercenaries of his death.
Grimly he clawed his way out of the ravine. As he expected, his horse was gone. He had no way of getting to Wenthaven this day. The weight of hopelessness settled on him, and he staggered, going down on one knee. He dug his hand into the dirt and lifted a handful to heaven.
“Keep her alive until I can get there. Keep her alive…” He faltered.
If she would just stay alive, he would make sure she continued to live to the fullness of her years. He would make sure if he had to bind her and drag her all the way to Castle Powel. It wasn’t a pretty plan—imprisoning your wife could lead to ugly whispers. But he’d heard Cledwyn’s exaltation at the success of his mission. He realized the extent of Wenthaven’s genius. He realized, too, that should Wenthaven set his plan in motion and lead a rebellion in Lionel’s name, Lionel was doomed.
Henry would perceive his mercy to Lambert Simnel, the previous pretender, as weakness, and he’d resolve not to be so weak again. He’d put Lionel to death. He’d put Wenthaven to death. He’d put Marian to death and probably Griffith and every member of the Powel family.
A bleak ending to a new marriage, to a vigorous family, and to a blameless lad. Griffith alone could stop the disaster—if he could reach Wenthaven in time.
Again he dug his fingers into the dirt, the sand scraping as it filled beneath his fingernails, the mulch of years past a ready reminder of the fleeing seasons.
A faint nicker floated on the air. He lifted his head, suddenly intent and determined.
A farm, perhaps? Unlikely in the wilderness, but…He rose and followed the faint scent of horse. It led him along a winding track to a meadow, lush with spring grass, and he almost laughed aloud at the sight of a horse, grazing without a care in the world.
Outrageous Page 29