Читать книгу Beauchamp Besieged - Elaine Knighton - Страница 11

“Did you hear that?” Rhys put a finger to his lips and halted his horse on the shadowed forest path.

Ceridwen’s senses sharpened in alarm at the question, even as she shook her head “no.” The remote forest through which they passed bore a tense and forbidding air, as though the mountains only waited to rid themselves of unwanted passersby.

Huge groves of beech trees rustled in the breeze, and even here they held a faint tang of the sea. In barren places, rough fingers of black, lichened stone stuck up at odd angles. The Black Mountains were notorious for the bands of outlaws inhabiting their craggy peaks. Such men had no qualms about murdering travelers, whether Welsh or English.

Rhys headed the dozen men escorting her to Sir Raymond’s keep. The Englishman was supposed to have taken her back with him from Trefynwy. But upon retrieving his dog—and the pledge of her land—he had left as abruptly as he had arrived, without even meeting her. Ceridwen had been relieved at the time to be spared Raymond’s attention, in spite of the insult, but now she feared for her company’s safety.

“There it is again,” Rhys murmured.

Heavily armed with both shortbows and swords, the other men of her guard twisted in their saddles to look about, and quickly flanked her. Ceridwen jumped as a flock of small birds burst from the canopy of the thick woods to their left.

“Wait…”

A whistling thud sounded. The horse between her and the forest screamed and began to go down, collapsing into her palfrey. Her mount lurched and lost its balance. She kicked her feet free of the stirrups as the animal careened onto its side. In a swirl of skirts she tumbled to the ground. Something hard struck her head and flashes of red and white exploded behind her eyes. Men shouted and horses whinnied.

“They have crossbows, Rhys! My lady!” Sir Dylan reached down for her hand, pulled Ceridwen up behind him and raced away. It was all she could do to hold on to him. Though her head spun and her heart was in her throat, she would gladly fight. The fear of waiting to be slain was worse than dying in action.

“Leave me, Dylan, I would rather help you than hide!”

Dylan galloped his horse a long way before he halted near a tangled growth of brambles, well out of sight from the lane.

“Do not be foolish, my lady. Crawl into that thicket. Do not make a sound. Don’t move a muscle until one of us comes for you. Do you swear?” He swung her down and held onto her hand, looking into her eyes. “Swear on your mother’s grave you will not follow me back.”

Ceridwen hesitated and he crushed her hand in his grip. Wincing, she relented. “I swear, Dylan, but—”

Before she could protest, he was pounding back towards the fray. She cursed him for the stubborn man that he was and felt for her dagger, only to find an empty sheath. With a separate twinge of panic, she checked the slim leather case at her waist. Her stomach was queasy and her head hurt, but she breathed easier when her fingers touched the warm ivory of her flute.

Ceridwen crept into the shelter of the brambles and resigned herself to wait. Her legs cramped, but she could not move without thorns poking her in a variety of tender spots. Waves of dizziness swept her. A spider descended on a thread in front of her nose. As time crawled by with no sign of Dylan’s return, worry gnawed deeper. Enough of obedience. She was a woman, not a mouse. Carefully she disentangled herself from the clinging vines. She abruptly stood upright, stars swirled before her eyes, and she pitched forward.

When Ceridwen woke, her head throbbed with a fierce ache. The day had waned. A fly buzzed around her nose, and she waved at it feebly. She had to find Rhys and the others. See that they were all alive. She wove her way back to the roadway. Dusk lay quiet on the forest, lending the air a smoky blue haze. A heavy stillness had settled, in ominous contrast to the faint clashes and shouts she had heard earlier. She walked along, ready to dart among the trees at the slightest sound of men.

Topping a rise, she looked at the site of the ambush. Nothing. Not a horse, nor a man, nor a piece of weaponry. She scrambled down the gentle slope and came to a skidding stop in the middle of the roadway. Frantically she searched the edges of the wood. Against her better judgment she shouted, calling out the names of the missing men, and even those of the horses.

It was as though they had been swallowed up into the fairy world and made invisible. She returned to examine the path, determined not to panic, not to weep. At first glance in the fading light, its muddy center yielded nothing but an unreadable maze of hoofprints. Kneeling, she touched the cold, wet soil. Her fingers were smeared with mud…and dark, red blood.

Ceridwen swallowed hard as the truth sank in. She had been left behind because Dylan was dead, or so badly injured he could not tell Rhys where he had hidden her. Perhaps they had searched for her and she had not heard them calling her name. In any event it was up to her now. But there was only one honorable way. East, towards the marcher lord’s domains.

Days later, Ceridwen sat by the dusty road, her back to a tree. The blisters on her feet stung, but her mind and the rest of her body were numbed by exhaustion. At least the forest had proved itself a friend. She had found berries and nuts enough to survive. A blessed spring had provided sweet, clear water. A hollow chestnut tree had served as haven. But she had walked and stumbled and ridden in oxcarts until she was too tired to weep, much less marry anyone.

Her state of dishevelment had saved her, she supposed. No one had looked twice at her. She had pushed on, determined to finish what her father had charged her to do. Over and over again, she told herself that Rhys and the others were yet alive.

At the sound of hoofbeats and laughter, Ceridwen got to her feet. Cursing her nearsightedness, she squinted as a glittering cavalcade approached. Horses pranced, jewels gleamed, and a banner proclaimed a white stag, symbol of the house of Beauchamp.

An extraordinarily handsome nobleman sat his horse, a hooded falcon upon one fist. His golden hair, cut blunt and short, contrasted with his dark eyebrows and tawny skin. The winered folds of his mantle glowed with the sheen of velvet, and the ermine lining quivered in the gusting wind. He held the reins of his palfrey with casual elegance, not sparing a glance to anyone afoot. Nay, he could not be her betrothed. Could he?

The small crowd of spectators muttered his name as he passed, and crossed themselves. So, this was Alonso the Fair, whose knights routinely slaughtered her people. Ceridwen’s eyes narrowed farther, and she tried to swallow against her dry throat. Alonso. Her future brother-in-law.

The baron and his retinue rode by, unheeding. If this was one of Alonso’s villages, it could not be all that far to Rookhaven, where Sir Raymond was lord. Carrog Dhu, the Black Dragon, as he was known to the Welsh.

Perhaps he did not even expect her. But her only course lay in going to him and throwing herself at his dubious mercy. She must get word to her father that she lived and find out what happened to Rhys and the others.

Ceridwen’s stomach rumbled and panged, interrupting her thoughts. Running her tongue over her lips, she tasted dust and salt. She watched as the villagers dispersed to warm cottages and hot food. A small boy stared up at her, his blue eyes wide. With a smile Ceridwen knelt to his level.

His mother ran to him and swept the boy into her arms. “Get away from decent folk, wanton. Go on with ye. Go!”

More people stopped to stare and whisper. The ill will they had summoned at the sight of Lord Alonso was now directed at her. A youth reached down and gathered a fistful of stones. To proclaim her worth would be a waste of time. These English needed someone to hurt, someone who could not retaliate.

Ceridwen eased her way through the villagers. She could feel their hostile stares, and sensed their restraint would be short-lived. She lengthened her stride, but something whistled past her ear even as a hard object struck her back. She flung her mantle aside, the better to run, and her pursuers might be satisfied with such a fine garment.

Ceridwen left the jeering villagers behind and tore across a fallow field towards the woods. For now, that was the only place to hide. The trees were old, majestic, their trunks thick and gnarled. As she ran scarlet and yellow leaves blew around her feet. Yew and ash, oak and linden rustled in the freshening breeze, beckoning her to take their shelter. A path disappeared into the dense array of trees.

Winded, she slowed and tried to focus on which way to go. But panic still claimed her. All the fear and pain and uncertainty of the past few days surged anew, bursting into a conflagration of emotions Ceridwen could no longer control.

She grabbed up her skirts and ran on. Brambles slapped at her, scratching her face and tearing at the green wool of her overgown. Her trailing hems, already soiled, grew heavy with mud. She raced against the heartbreak threatening to overwhelm her. Nothing mattered but to outdistance the pain.

Her breath rasped, and blood pounded in her aching temples. She would run until her heart burst and she was free of earthly bounds. Perhaps God would then forgive her for still harboring the wicked, unseemly passion of vengeance for Owain.

Ceridwen careened on, blinded by tears and her own shortsightedness. She collided with a solid object that had not been there a moment before. Thick arms engulfed her in a stink of rancid pork fat, sour ale and unwashed humanity.

“Oy! Hold on, what have we here?” A beefy young man swung her around, casually trapping her against a tree trunk.

Breathless, Ceridwen stared up at his sweaty face, too close to her own. Her heart sank. Wild beasts were one thing. Beastly men were quite another. She fought to free herself.

He grinned, snaggletoothed.

The tree bark dug into her back. “Let me go. I—I bear a message for my lady. You will have cause to regret delaying me.” She regretted her lack of skill at telling falsehoods, not to mention her imperfect command of English.

“Your lady, eh? I doubt that, since there ain’t none in these parts. Where’s the message then? Where have ye hid it on yer fine wee person?” His hand plunged between her breasts.

Ceridwen ducked under his arm, but the man caught a fistful of her loose hair and slammed her back against the tree. She gasped in pain as her already sore head bounced on the wood, and for once regretted not cutting her hair short, as did most of her countrywomen.

“Don’t be runnin’ off now, pretty.” His voice was congenial, his touch vicious. One greasy palm slid from her cheek to squeeze her throat. Deftly he pulled up her skirts with the other, climbing her thigh as she choked in his grip. She had the distinct impression he’d done this before.

“Ready for me now, wench? Hmm?”

Thick fingers kneaded her buttock. Pools of black flowed into her vision, spread, and merged. Ceridwen fought desperately to breathe, to knee him. She twisted her head. His hand slipped from her neck to grab at her breast. He laughed.

“Think yer too good fer me? Well, I’ll make ye rue that pride, girl. I’ll humble ye right proper.”

Ceridwen inhaled deeply through her mouth. She lunged and bit down on his wrist. Tendons rolled beneath her teeth. The young man howled and began to throttle her in earnest. Her feet left the ground as he lifted her by the neck. She tried to kick but her legs would not obey. Ceridwen shut her eyes. She would die…she had to breathe…

“Come away, my lord. We have avoided Alonso thus far and there’s no time for sport.”

“Go on, then,” came the curt reply.

The foreign, male voices barely registered as Ceridwen struggled for her life. A rumble of hoofbeats vibrated through the tree at her back. Faintly, through the roaring in her ears, she heard a hideous growl. Then her assailant grunted, and his hands fell from her body.

A searing pain lanced Ceridwen’s abdomen, right below her ribs. She dropped to the ground like a sack of meal. Gratefully, she sucked in lungfuls of air. Never had the simple act of breathing been so sweet. Gulping air until the pain in her middle forced her to stop, Ceridwen lay in a heap and shivered, her eyes clenched shut, forcing back tears.

A hand slipped beneath her neck and gently raised her head. Ceridwen thrashed against it until another hand pressed hard on her stomach, right where it hurt the most. She moaned and opened her eyes to gaze into those of a stranger.

Flinty, cold, and blue. A wave of relief washed over her. It was not the same man who had attacked her. But…the accent of nobility, the hard expression. An Englishman. And no common one at that. She stiffened in renewed fear, and slowly, his features resolved into clarity.

What a face to belong to an enemy, she thought, in spite of her alarm. His hair was hidden beneath his mail coif, but his eyebrows and lashes were thick and dark. The clean line of his jaw was shadowed with stubble. He was blessed with a straight, unbroken nose and smooth skin. His mouth was wide, with a small bunch of muscle at each corner. It was a mouth made for smiling, but remained set in a grim line.

“Forgive me, ’demoiselle, for I have wounded thee.” His voice was deep, rich—and devoid of warmth.

“What…wound? What do you mean?” Ceridwen looked down at herself in horrified disbelief. A dark stain seeped in an ever-widening circle from beneath the leather-gauntleted fingers upon her abdomen. “Oh! Oh, it hurts.”

The knight took her hand and pushed it against the warm, sticky mess on her overgown as he slid his own away. She felt a hole in the fabric and another in herself. This could not be happening. Ceridwen watched in dread as he knelt beside her and unsheathed his dagger. But she refused to cry out at the wave of terror his act induced.

“Nay, do not do it. Not yet,” she implored him in a hoarse whisper, her fingertips barely touching his knee. “I have not yet confessed.”

“What? Speak French. Or English.” He frowned and brushed her hand away with an impatient flick of his fingers. He untied his belt, placed it to one side, then hitched a length of his surcoat up into his lap.

Ceridwen had not realized she’d slipped into Welsh. She tried again, barely able to form intelligible words. “The coup-de-grace. Am I mortally wounded? Will I die slowly unless y-you finish me off?” Rising panic urged her to run, but her head spun and her muscles felt like jelly, as though she had been fevered for days. Each breath moved her abdomen and caused fresh shards of pain. Perhaps he was right to put her out of her misery.

An odd look of sorrow flitted across the knight’s face. But it vanished almost before she caught it, to be replaced by a stony, unreadable expression. With exaggerated care, he held the dagger up for her to see, the blade balanced between his thumb and forefinger. He then proceeded to slice a large piece of linen from the lining of his surcoat.

“You are not skewered nearly so completely as the knave. I misjudged his girth. From behind I thought him fatter than he was.” He folded the cloth neatly and bound it against her wound with the woven belt.

Relief washed over Ceridwen as she realized the knight had not saved her only to kill her himself. “Mayhap the man was going to stab me anyway,” she said, and flinched as the Englishman gave the binding a final tightening twist. Her glance strayed to the body of her attacker, sprawled on the reddened ground, his mouth gaping. Even as she averted her eyes her stomach lurched.

“He wished to run something into you, that is true.” The Englishman unfastened his mantle and draped the thick gray material about her shoulders.

Ceridwen felt uneasy at these words, but their meaning escaped her reeling mind. She could not seem to stop shaking. Gratitude accompanied warmth as the knight enveloped her in the coarse garment. He scooped her up and, stepping around the dead man’s body, carried her towards his horse. Afraid to look, she hid her face in the hollow of the warrior’s sturdy shoulder.

The mail rings bit into her cheek despite his surcoat, which still smelled like the damp wool of his mantle. She touched her throat as she swallowed. It felt raw inside and tender on the outside. Harness jingled, and she heard the restless stamping of several horses. She peeked out of the corner of one eye.

At least five men waited. They did not appear pleased at the delay. She kept her forehead pressed against the Englishman. He was all that stood between her and the others. She hoped he could control his men. If he had wanted her for himself, she reasoned, he would be pawing her already.

“Let me take the wench for you, my lord,” someone said.

Ceridwen trembled involuntarily.

“Nay.” The knight plucked her arm from his neck and made her stand. “Can you ride pillion and hold onto me from behind?”

Clutching her middle, she looked up at him. At least his un-smiling expression did not belittle her weakness. But those eyes…dark blue, like the sea on a sunny day. Cold and glittering. She shivered. The very timbre of his voice increased the wobble of her knees. She didn’t think she could hold on to anything for much longer.

“Right.” Without waiting for her reply, he deftly unsaddled his horse. She realized he meant her to sit before him, for the war saddle would have left no room. Then, to her acute dismay, he reached down between her ankles. Gathering up the bottom of her skirts, he pulled the back towards the front and on upwards. He thrust the wad of fabric into her hand and boosted her onto the sweaty back of the tall, black destrier.

Astride the horse, Ceridwen wanted to double over in pain, but the snug binding the knight had fashioned for her wound prevented it. Her legs were not covered and she could not help but feel exposed before the foreign warriors. But she was in their lord’s debt.

“I owe you thanks. I owe you my life,” she whispered, and huddled miserably, clutching the horse’s mane with both hands as the animal tossed its head.

“You owe me nothing.” He swung up with ease to sit behind her. “Shift forward a bit. Do not expect me to keep you from falling. I may need both hands free, if we find more trouble.” Thankful for his matter-of-fact tone, Ceridwen obeyed. She stifled a moan as the horse lurched into a canter. The knight slowed the eager animal to a brisk walk.

“Wace.” His words carried despite their low pitch.

A young man’s voice replied, “My lord?”

“Ride ahead. Send someone back for my saddle. And tell Alys to prepare for a belly wound.”

The Englishman’s breath disturbed Ceridwen’s hair and warmed her neck. His resonant voice vibrated from his chest through her back, sending a ripple of sensation up her spine. But even as she felt it, he leaned away and broke the contact.

“Aye, milord.” Wace galloped off, his master’s shield bouncing at his back.

Ceridwen glimpsed the coat of arms. A white stag upon a split field of green, a black dragon coiling below. Her heart faltered and with her sudden intake of breath came a fresh stab of agony in her middle. She bit back a moan. God help her, she was already in the possession of men in the service of Alonso. A black dragon…she must know for certain the identity of the one who held her.

“What do I call you?” Painfully, Ceridwen twisted her head around to look at him. At this range, his features were perfectly clear. Glacial eyes stared straight ahead. His compelling face held no expression. He tipped his head to the side and lifted his chin, avoiding touching her. She saw an old scar in the soft area under his jaw.

Apparently he did not want to answer. Whatever his name, he was just another warring border-lord. But she was fooling herself. Deep inside, she knew exactly who he was.

“Raymond.” He growled the name and still did not meet her gaze as he spoke.

Ceridwen’s heart felt as though it curled into a tight, protective ball, and renewed embarrassment leaped to compete with her fright. She represented her people, and she looked like a ragged mendicant. It was shameful. Beauchamp had picked her up under the most undignified of circumstances. Her good intentions of carrying through with the marriage dwindled in the terrifying face of his physical reality.

She was afraid to tell him who she was. No matter what reassurance her father had given, she had no reason to disbelieve the rumors. And she had heard them aplenty. Bards and wayfarers passing through her father’s lands told tales. Lord Raymond’s reputation was that of a ravening wolf, the worst of the pack headed by his elder brother, Alonso. A cursed, dark knight, folk said.

She stole another glance at his face. Stiff and grim. As though it were set in granite. He had barely glanced at her, and she was grateful for his disinterest. He had wed a lovely maid, so the story went, until one cold night her body was found floating among the reeds in his moat. It was said he caught her with a lover, and in his rage hurled her from the top of the keep. The dead girl had probably been close to her own age. A shudder convulsed Ceridwen and she pressed her arm against the rising clamor of her wound as the horse’s motion rocked her to and fro.

Raymond wrapped his woolen mantle more closely about her body. She shrank from his touch and yet relished the warmth. No doubt he could be charming when he chose to be. Charming but so very wicked. When he gathered up the reins, she saw that the fingers of his gauntlets were soggy and dark. Blood-soaked.

Her blood as well as the villein’s. Her heart protested, but there was no escaping the truth. This man had saved her life, and she was beholden to him. She also belonged to him, even if he did not yet realize it. But for a little time, she could pretend freedom.

For hours they wound through the hilly forest, climbing slowly. She tried to avoid resting against him, but it proved impossible. Her head fell back onto his shoulder when she was too tired to hold it up, and after the first few times he stopped shrugging her off. Her fear gradually eased with the soothing rhythm of the horse’s walk, and her own exhaustion. She drifted in and out of wakefulness, watching the bright sky pale above the silhouettes of swaying treetops.

The daylight waned, and the thick smell of damp leaves gave way to a fresher crispness as they traveled higher. The wind sang through the rowans. If she had not been in such pain, or known who held her, it might have been a pleasant journey.

The harsh caw of rooks and the hollow thud of hooves on a drawbridge startled Ceridwen into alertness. Men shouted greetings. She looked up in time to see a corpse gently swaying. It hung in an iron cage from a gibbet on the outer curtain wall of what must be Sir Raymond’s keep—Rookhaven, and well named. A row of ravens perched on the battlements above the body. Ceridwen covered her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut until they were past the gruesome sight. A prenuptial Welsh patriot, perhaps. A fitting adornment to the castle of a Beauchamp.

They passed beneath the spikes of the portcullis and into the main ward of a dark, crumbling edifice. Not what she expected of such a lord. Anxiety mixed with the dread already churning in the pit of her stomach. Like the tower before her, her promise to marry him loomed as an impossible monstrosity.

Men bearing hissing torches hurried to meet them and held the bridle of his restive animal as Raymond dismounted. He caught Ceridwen and carried her with long, rapid strides across the cobbled courtyard and up the narrow stairs of the keep.

Heavy, ironclad doors opened before them as servants and men-at-arms scurried to seek their master’s will. There were bows and murmured welcomes, all of which he ignored. His attention, it seemed, was now fixed upon her alone.

Sir Raymond’s arms were hard beneath her shoulders and knees, his steps sure and silent. A faint smell of roasted fowl lingered in the air above the reek of the hall, and despite her pain and weariness, Ceridwen’s mouth watered. She looked up past Raymond’s face, avoiding his frowning gaze.

The upper reaches of the large hall disappeared into gloom, and though a fire crackled in the center of the floor, it made little impact on either the cold or the dark. A stout, wrinkle-faced woman hurried over and touched Ceridwen’s cheek with the back of her hand. The crone peered at her in the light of the fat candle she held.

“Welcome to Rookhaven, lass. ’Tis Alys am I, and who’ll see ye to bed.” The woman’s gap-toothed smile vanished as she turned her attention to Raymond. “What have ye done? Her neck’s purple. Her face is all bruised. Hmmph!”

The knight exchanged looks with the old woman. Hers was one of disapproval. His was unreadable, except for the unrelenting tightness around his mouth. He swept past her and took Ceridwen into a small chamber, fragrant with mint. Carefully he laid her on a narrow bed, but her relief was short-lived. Raymond threw down his bloodstained gauntlets and began to unbind her wound.

“You are overly familiar, sir. Take your hands from me,” Ceridwen whispered, too drained to meet his eyes. Under the circumstances, he was not likely to believe her if she claimed to be his betrothed. But it was her duty to tell him the truth, and he had no right to manhandle the daughter of Morgan ap Madog.

Raymond paused at her objection, threw her a quelling look as she opened her mouth to reveal her name, then continued with his task. He gave up on her lacings and simply ripped the fabric, using the hole his sword had made as a starting point.

Ceridwen shrieked and tried to pull away.

“Jesu, woman! You’re worse than any eel.” Mercilessly he held her to the position he desired, using his knee on her thighs and his elbow across her chest. “I would see for myself what damage I have done. I do not trust the reports of others.”

Ceridwen gritted her teeth as his fingers probed her wound.

“I am sorry to hurt you. But have no fear for your modesty. I look upon thee as I would any wounded creature.”

“I am not a creature!” She squirmed and bucked in spite of the pain. “I am—”

“Tsk. My lord Raymond. ’Tis but a young lass here ye have. She’ll not be understanding yer ways,” the crone chided, her chins wagging.

“Nor has she any need to understand. Her only duty to me is to lie still.” He directed his last two words to Ceridwen, writhing beneath his hands.

“She has no duty to ye a-tall!”

“Alys, you try my patience.” His eyes gleamed a warning to the old nurse.

She glared back. “Be that as it may, young master Raymond, ye’re not needed here. In fact, ye’re in the way.”

Ceridwen marvelled at the woman’s familiar treatment of her sinister lord. She thought she heard a low growl sounding from Sir Raymond’s throat, but her own pain distracted her. Abruptly his warm hands left her abdomen, and his knee lifted from her legs. The large bulk of Alys overshadowed her, clucking and muttering as she applied a pungent salve to the wound.

Ceridwen turned her head and fixed her gaze on the retreating back of the dark knight. The play of candlelight glanced off the mail covering his arms. The heavy, deep blue fabric of his surcoat rippled dully. As he reached the door, he pulled his coif from his head. With a small shock she saw that he was fair. Thick, brassy hair, with a tawny brown beneath the light outer layers, like an animal’s pelt, tumbled past his shoulders.

Similar to Alonso, yet wholly different. Haughty, aye. But Ceridwen was surprised to sense no vanity in this Beauchamp. He was neither as tall nor as broad as his elder brother. But he commanded a powerful, forbidding presence that had nothing to do with size. A fair-haired knight. A black horse. Bloody hands. She swallowed as her memory stirred. Long ago Owain had told her a story, of a maiden who met just such a man. At the time, she had thought it a tale of his own imagining. But Owain had known of things to come, and saw things hidden—had it been a warning? Now she could not remember how it ended.

Raymond turned and regarded her over his shoulder. Their eyes met, and for an instant Ceridwen thought she felt compassion sing across the room to her. Then his handsome face shuttered, the light extinguished like a candle snuffed out by a cold wind.

She blinked, and Raymond vanished into the darkness beyond the door. Tomorrow. She would tell him her name tomorrow.